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Poems tagged ‘Humour’

Politics and football

joe morris

Thursday, July 4th, 2024

So here we stand by
The gates of political history
Keys clanking and jingling
On Thursdays, every five years
Portcullis and drawbridge
Ready to open,
Quite possibly to new Labour
But to misquote Baddiel and Skinner
Three parties on our chest
Never stopped me dreaming
Labour, Tory and Lib Dems
14 years of hurt
Never stopped me voting
You decide
Will it be Rishi Sunak
He, of Saintly virtue?
Southampton but none know why
Would it have been
The windmill arms of
Mick Channon, David Peach,
Peter Rodrigues
The late and much loved Bobby Stokes
Racing onto that exquisite through ball
And slamming home the FA Cup winner
Against United in 1976
The highly esteemed bosses
Ted Bates and Lawrie McMenemy
Managerial legends secure
And eternal
In Saints hearts
Or in the red corner
Sir Keir Starmer
A Gooner through and through
Pinning his colours
To yet more
Red breastplates
Of the Gunners
Shield
Will he be waking up
To the dulcet strains
Of things getting better?
As once Tony Blair
Insisted in black and white
Stripes of Newcastle
Unquestionable loyalty
Blaydon Races themes
The Gallowgate End roar
Driving Blair into
10, Downing Street
Remembering Malcolm Macdonald,
Alan Shearer, Terry Mcdermott,
Chris Waddle, Kevin Keegan
Of course, the Robledo brothers,
Bobby Mitchell from long ago
And then there’s the meek cry
Of Ed Davey
Falling comically into great lakes
Never trust a politician
Who stands on paddleboards
Or larks around on Bungee Jumps
Ed could support anybody
Maybe the yellow Hornets
Of Watford
You can feel a Sir Elton classic
Surging through your bloodstream
But the Lib Dems are just
A busted flush
Surely a wasted vote
But Ed could always point
To Lloyd George from
Many decades and over
A century ago
Football though,
Loves its
Prime Ministers
Besotted with
The Beautiful Game
Dear Harold Wilson
Sucking on the reliable
Pipe and blowing out
The tobacco, while
Thinking of his beloved
Huddersfield, who once
Swept all comers aside
With conveyor belts of
League Championship titles
Huddersfield, the Terriers
Who snapped into tackles
And beat the very best
So Ladies and Gentlemen
Please go out and vote
For political heavyweights
Cabinet ministers to be
New faces, familiar or just
Same old talking heads
Football still at the back
Of their minds
Sunak and Starmer
Still pre-occupied
With transfer windows,
Transfer gossip a plenty
Will the Saints go marching on
For Sunak’s Southampton
Back in the Premier League?
And will Arsenal clinch
The Premier League title
At the third time of asking?
It’s possible, you know.
Sir Keir, your Gunners
Never let you down
Once Invincibles
But now it can be done
Again, he must believe
His loving dad once had
The tools of labour
Yes Labour as well
Working class through and through
Football’s General Election
Today
How we’ve all looked forward
To sitting on that
Seat of democracy
Bring it on

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Locking horns

Clik The Mouse

Friday, June 24th, 2022

There’s a lot going on, out on the pitch
To-ing and fro-ing
Scenting and marking
A multitude of personal battles
As they hunt the ball

Look at this pair –
Chasing down the line
Shoulder to shoulder
Arms linked
Eventually, dead-ended into the corner, with
Thighs and butts buffeting – as if duetting on a pommel-horse

They reach an impassé
Old-school
Neither will relent
Neither will go down
Neither will dive –
At it…
Like harrumphing rhinoceri

And as for the ball?
Largely forgotten

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The Best Match I Ever Saw

Joe Williams

Saturday, January 22nd, 2022

Ross County v Aberdeen,
Victoria Park,
1999, or thereabouts.

County won 3-0.
Amazing display of football.
You wouldn’t think it possible,
but he’s quite a player,
is Ross.

To be fair, Aberdeen
had an early red card
(well deserved, I might add),
so for most of the match
he was playing against ten men.

But still, quite remarkable
to win so comprehensively.
Never gets the credit he deserves,
does Ross.

Same goes for Patrick Thistle.

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Penalty Shootout in Zero Gravity

Joe Williams

Tuesday, January 4th, 2022

It was Barry’s idea, so
he only has himself to blame.
For all the thrill of orbital flight,
of seeing the Earth from space,
those journeys are so damn boring.

I admit to sneaking the ball in,
and that Barry was winding me up.
The running commentary didn’t help,
calling me Gareth Southgate,
him being Andreas Köpke.

No one could have predicted
the ball would hit the airlock button,
just when Barry was leaping up,
trying to stop my rocket blast,
straight to the top left corner.

Perhaps he’ll be a hero yet,
get a glove to an asteroid
hurtling towards the Earth.
The slightest of deflections,
nudging it over the bar.

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Granddad

Patrick B. Osada

Monday, March 1st, 2021

GRANDDAD

My Granddad is a weird old man,
he calls me Harry Kane —
every time I visit
he calls me by that name.

I thought you were a footballer,
I thought you were a 9…
“Please listen, I am 6,” I said,
“and I’m Isaac all the time.”

Now Kane’s a 10 for Tottenham,
he’s never been a 6 —
so come on Harry, tell the truth
and no more of your tricks.

“Oh! Granddad! Please behave yourself,
you really are a pain!
Why do you have to tease so much
and call me Harry Kane?”

“But I saw you at WEM-BER-LEE!
You were leading out the team;
we know that Harry does that job…
Perhaps it was a dream?

“Yes it’s true I went to Wembley
dressed in my England kit,
but if you think I’m Harry Kane
you must be losing it!”

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Maine Road Matchday ’69

steve mingle

Saturday, February 13th, 2021

Maine Road Matchday 69

A week at school wished away
Until at last it’s Saturday
Matchday
Maine road matchday
Solemn commitment to worried mum
“I’ll be ok, I’m meeting a schoolchum”
Usually a lie, sometimes true
Most times I don’t, now and then I do

Bus to Piccadilly, the 219
Passing by the Courtaulds sign
Straight to Lewis’s department store
TV showroom, fourth floor
An array of tellies for sale or for rent
A small crowd gathers, all male, one intent
To watch football previews – in colour! A proper treat
Then through the gardens to Aytoun Street
For the football special, a red routemaster
Though some days you could walk it faster

Unshaven men with unwashed hands
Wait for custom at burger stands
Stained white overalls define their style
Not seen Persil for quite a while
Grubby nails on nicotine fingers
Haven for germs to thrive and linger
Burgers stacked in a tepid lake
Laced with fag ash, almost opaque
Not exactly items to savour
Like soggy cardboard, with slightly less flavour
Vegans hadn’t been invented yet
But if they had you can bet
They could have dined here safely
(Other than the obligatory tummy upset)

Floodlight pylons, an arresting sight
Frame Moss Side drizzle in vibrant light
Fumble in pocket for half a crown
Through creaking turnstiles, put the money down
Programme seller, refreshment stand
Last few coppers clasped in hand
Flat capped men clutch cups of Bovril
Repulsive odour fills the nostrils
Not a drink for little boys
Kia-Ora orange, that’s my choice
Money less than wisely spent
Real fruit content zero percent

Now time to spend another penny
But so few facilities for so many
Cascading rivers of metabolised booze
Fag ends hurtling along like canoes
Shooting the rapids, though this water’s not white
The stench unspeakable, that can’t be right
Is this what it’s like in a man’s world?

All set to ascend the stairway to heaven
To watch my heroes, one to eleven
Hordes of eager trampling feet
Pound on steps of crumbling concrete
Disintegration into rubble
Can only mean impending trouble
Paint peels on rusting railings,
Glaring health and safety failings
Never properly put to the test
Fingers crossed and hope for the best
Ibrox, two years on, 66 die
There, but for the grace of god, go I

Out come the teams to do their worst
Opponents first, always opponents first
“Bring on the champions” the Kippax boys roar
Even though we’re not champions any more
But we are still pretty damn good
Even on a pitch awash with mud
No names on the back of those shirts of sky blue
But I don’t even need numbers to tell who’s who
Bell’s athletic, imperious stride,
Lee chest out, bursting with pride,
Young floating with balletic grace
Book’s hunched gait and unlikely pace
I gaze out in awe, mesmerised
Precious images forever prized

Crowd disturbance, a sudden buzz
Rival fans on the loose, here come the fuzz
For those around me a huge distraction
But my eyes stay fixed on the action
People lean across for a better view
And I just think “what’s wrong with you?”
Our games aren’t on telly, well hardly ever
So blink and you’ll have missed it, forever
Giving morons the oxygen of attention
Even then well beyond my comprehension

Final whistle, don’t see me for dust
Sprinting away to run for the bus
At speed through dithering crowds I go
Sit next to someone with a radio
Final scores and reports from familiar voices
If United have lost the whole bus rejoices
At last Piccadilly, will the Pinks have arrived?
Was that first goal offside? Will they say Franny dived?

Read the Pink on the bus, cover to cover
Even the letters page, why do these people bother?
Relentless banality, always the same
From armchair experts, never been to a game

Walk home from the bus station, knock at the door
Mum’s there to meet me, she knows the score
Mood wholly dependent on how well we’ve done
Tea always tastes that much better if we’ve won
Then The Avengers and Match of the Day
Followed by Sunday grisly Sunday
The looming grim spectre of school on Monday
But Wednesday evening we’re at home again
Another trip to Maine Road’s my week’s only aim
Planting the seeds, night after night
Please mum, it’ll be alright
Some lads from school are going…

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Colleen x 4. Please Dont Block Me Out On Instagram.*

kevin raymond

Sunday, October 13th, 2019

After the lack-lustre performance by our chaps,
During Friday evenings qualifying match,
I blame on a drought of Marks and Spencer’s waist-coats?
It’s nice to see a bit of real commitment I suppose?
From a pair of WAGs (who out there can remember those?)
Publicly going hell for leather at each other throats.

Colleen, and Becky Vardy are
As I’m aware m’lud thus far
Merely slinging mud at this juncture in their on-going, frenetic social media mystery
While Wayne Rooney’s more than savvy trouble an strife,
and I hope this will cheer fans up after Friday night?,
Has, due to her prowess as an on-line sleuth, been likened to a Scouse Wagatha Christie!

Peace.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/humour/