Football Poets

Appened Kinda Fast…

Peeling spuds, washing glasses
Using knives n forks, serviettes and plates
With us…t’was greasy mitts in a chicken box,
Blue shirt proclaiming; “Gian-Franco Zola. God!”
Quaffing Stella by a mega aqueous telly with his mates.

Then this right blinding sort moved in
Inspired an immediate change in him
Why… he even pressed the whistle worn for work?
Away games and the mighty craic?
She put a bleeding stop to all o’ that
Perspiring down the gym, most Saturdays with her.

We caught a whiff things weren’t right
When instead of poker Friday nights
He’d be home indoors preparing her risotto
Risotto? That’s like a glutinous boiled rice?
Reminded us, of an absolutely blinding night
Shared, a Munich classic (a ruby) under Di Matteo.

Things went from bad to ten times worse
Heard he visited Father Hadfields (local church)
Talking to a priest about getting hitched
Even went round to meet her folks
A rumour spread was he’d proposed
Made us hastily check that seasons fixture list.

Then…the nuptials front went quite
Turned up at poker, one Friday night
Asking us enthused about the team?
“Read the papers, don’t yer mate?”,
“Nah, haven’t done of late
Mind on parquet flooring it would seem?

I’m glad to say that’s all over now
When are we away to Ipswich Town?”,
He asked with a cheeky smile, pondering each card
Well. What a Friday night we had that day
Seemed like he’d never been away
Welcomed back with open arms, we partied hard.

Anyways, a week or two goes by
Instead of sleeping dogs being left to lie
We asked (as nosy gits) what caused the split?
Well. His boat turned a vivid crimson red
Had a bit of trouble catching breath
Then with utter vitriol spat it out, and this it….

“She was gorgeous, really cute
Even showed me how to press me suit
Problem came, I asked her dad could I wed his daughter?
Said I could, on a condition bordering on bleeding farce
Expected me over The Emptiness, cheering on The Esra*
Told him. Ain’t jumping ship, for no team from, “over the water?”.

Which called for a magnum o’ chilled shampoo
To the clinking o’ crystal flutes we knew
Our mate had obviously settled his relationship conundrum
See. A fella might Love a beautiful sort whom he adores…
Tis mere dalliance, a paramour to his l’amour since days o’ yore
Whom resides along The Fulham Road, in South West London.

Peace…in Eastern Europe, and The Middle East.

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