And as it grew closer to Christmas in Chelsea
and all across the land
the crowds did gather
before the not quite Master of the English Language…
and there they did stand in Armani and Versace
rubbing their lap tops on their knees to keep warm
blowing their noses in the cold on fifty pound notes
and discarding them like Leeds defences
and there as one
from the warmth of their hospitality lounge opulence
from their windy Shed End hundred- pound a ticket seats
from on-line in their homes
and from English bars in Cape Town and Azerbijan
they did cry text and e-mail as one
and this ..
who-ever they supported…
was their Christmas question..
“o master…you are different from other managers and teachers..
you have loads and we have none..
you have a job (well sort of)
and we have but mere mortal day to day existence with the little people..
speak then to us
and where goest it
in these dark and devilish un-United times?”
and the master did look away from the South
across London and back again
and then he did look to the North and back again
far from the bubbly and prawn sarnies
far from the meat pies and bovril
far from the big city floodlights
to the not so big ones at Acrrington Stanley –
gor-bless ‘m and gor bless Robin Hood too..
far from Trafford’s crumbling temple spires
far from Highbury’s soon to vanish portal halls
far from Anfield’s not quite so fearful anymore and hallowed home
and far from all other ‘fifteen- points-behind’ clubs
and he did ponder long on the long-time reign
of the football sons of Manchester, and Arsenal and Liverpool
and how it might one day finally begin to shift away..
and the master spoketh thus…
“Friends,City and Country-men
Roman did not build this in a day…
well a couple of weeks possibly..
but know this well my bambinos
as the mist cannot settle on the Italian hills for too long
before the sun of poetic football inspiration eventually shines thru..
evry region doth have its day
que sera.. bonjourno and really deep stuff like that…
for when you play (apparently)
you play not for yourselves – or for each other
you playeth for the money
and in larger quantities
than players of yester-year
could every have imaginedeth…
and know this well o football lovers
it’s not about taking part
it’s about taking every thing you can
in as short a time as possible
and putting nothing back for the children
yes..my brothers and sisters of the magic sphere
injuries will come.and memory loss
over dope test appointments
and fights in dodgy bars will go..
but remember well this holiday..when upon St Boxing’s Day
the homeley Charlton doth enterain
the lovely humble Chelsea
and the lesser clubs struggle to raise £20 in some raffle ..
feel not the pity..
for football is not just for Christmas
tis for Pancake Day, Easter, ,The Street and
Chase the Elves Round the Lord Of The Rings Day too
it is also the school holidays
and the whole of the summer to follow
if we’re lucky…
so go ye…out into the World (Cup)
be lucky in the year of the two thousand of the four.
and fear not that England are in the same group
as Poland, Wales and Northern Ireland and some far flung country
or that you are some little lightweight club with no dosh
be not jealous…
for remember well
how in the world of writing for kicks
a little football poetry web-site
grew like wild-fire from nothing
to give hope to all (even crap football poets!)..
and seek you out those wise and poetic ones at this time
wax lyrical ,satirical and hysterical then
upon your game
and spare a thought at this time
for those humble innovative explorers
who dwell forever on-line – here at www.footballpoets.org
who did like football pioneers
so bravely and selflessy and completely bonker’d-ly
originate the flipping site in the first place
sorting out all your spelling mistakes and stuff like that..
and that some of them dwell in Dublin which is still in Ireland,
and also in Stroud just offeth the M5 where artists, poets
and quite weird soccer writers do liveth in abundenth…
who contend to this day – somehow –
with Barbour- jacketed
and Range Rover’d hoy-polloys & hooray henries …
where people like Elizabeth Hurley switch on Christmas lights
and princes shake hands with Jilly Cooper
and play polo instead of sucking them ..
think of them now my firends
those woolly- hatted and yoghurt-woven bicyclist football poets
with girl-friends and possibly boy-friends
called Krishna or Honey-Vibe ..
who cannot fathom this football poetry obsession..of their sad partners
these anti-war campaigners in solar-powered rainbow Citroens
who .here upon these snow clad Cotwold Hills..
far from a decent ground..
apart from Forest Green Rovers and Cheltenham..
go forth each day with pen or mouse or dogs called Basil
or keyboard firmly in hand
and beg you..to be inspired
to writeth football poems not just of your own team
but of every team in evry land..and of this great game itself
and to send them inneth to www.footballpoets.org in reams ..
but if possible in languages we can understand….
or with a translation..
and that our only wish be this
may every word and every goal
you set or score on land or paper …in 2004 and beyond
be an act of love and charity..
and keep the one dream real….
WORLD PEACE AND FREEDOM
THROUGH FOOTBAL POETRY NOW!
may all your goals be not just realised
but also video’d if possible…and dvd’d too
when they finally suss out how to DVD stuff off the tele ..
i mean they’ve got the technology..
and maybe later transferred
and digitally re-enhanced onto crystal balls
above all have a peaceful New Year
this is my Chritmas wish for all
and a very merry Crespo