Football Poets

Now ~ Swindon Town v Forest Green Rovers

Now I’m not sure if there’s a debate here
About determinism and free will,
Or whether there’s just some sort of reflection
On 60 years spent going to the match,
That LS Lowry feeling of being lost in a crowd,
That loss of sense of self that meant strangers were friends
And friends were never strangers,
For all was empathy and understanding,
And the boot was never on the other foot.
And you can talk as much Sociology,
Psychology or Philosophy as you like,
But the reason you trudged fortnightly to the game
Was because you enjoyed it and because, really,
How could you do anything else?
Who would do anything else?
You went because you loved the game,
And because you had loyalty to your mates,
And because you had a loyalty to your home town,
And because you had loyalty to your team,
And because the team was your town and your town was your team,
And because you were your town and your town was you,
In a syllogistic spiral that counted
For nothing when you put your scarf on –
For the minute wage differences that existed in a one-industry town,
And the fact that footballers didn’t earn much more than anyone else,
Meant that a happy commonality and solidarity
Suffused the town of Swindon!
And so you never imagined that your
Carefully choreographed movement
To and from the ground through the red-brick
Terrace streets of England
Was like some sort of scene from The Wasteland,
Nor did you see it as some sort of extension
Of typical male industrial working class historic traditions,
So that even when you were wearing the height of mod fashion,
You were in fact an anachronism,
For who would think like that?
Nor did you think, when you carefully read
Your programmes at half time,
Or when you re-read them at home,
Or swopped them, or used them,
So as to build up a store house
Of memory and fact and knowledge
About every facet and aspect of the game of Football
That you were, in fact, following i
In the footsteps of working class autodidacts,
The people who caught a glance at the classics
Within the rhythm of the pistons,
Or studied art or poetry or philosophy
Behind the foreman’s back,
Or beneath the chief clerk’s nose or by the ganger’s shovel,
Or by the candle in the attic;
And now just think, how many brilliant minds there were,
In that faceless crowd of so-called untutored intellect,
Living lives that The News Of The World
Never ever dreamed of,
There, in Swindon,
Richard Jefferies’
‘Chicago of the West.’

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Get Me To The Match on Time

The day started well enough: a walk to town
In the soft light of soft autumnal sunshine,
Ridge and furrow with kine in the fields;
Drunken Swindon fans trying to walk straight,
Whilst Lord John bantering with the Old Bill;
Stroud’s farmers’ market full of season harvest,
Sundry chats about the match with passers-by.

But then! Chaos at Merrywalks bus stop!
Too many wound up young men, youths and boys,
All chanting, singing, provoking and taunting,
For a double decker number 63,
Let alone the paltry single decker
That belatedly hove into view,
Bound for Nailsworth and Forest Green.

Alas!
All normal rules of patient queuing
Went right out the window in a manic surge
(As Bob and I were addressed by an elderly woman:
‘Is there a football match on?
Do you remember Jimmy Johnstone?
Celtic and the European Cup?
I went to school with him.’),
We became mere spectators, mouths agape,
Politely listening to this memory,
As the queue behind us rapidly filled the bus.

And so, we decided to retrace steps and hail a taxi.
A lone driver shook his head; the other ranks were bare.

And so, we decided to walk up Rodborough Hill,
And so, to my home to jump on bicycles,
To arrive at the match in good time.

As we climbed the hill, a number 40
Cotswold Green bus, Stroud to Wotton under Edge,
Was coughing on its circuitous way;
We waved it down. It stopped. We paid five pounds:
‘Cash only on this service, my friend.’

The bus inched its way forward between two lorries,
One with scaffolding poles protruding
Into the very tight passageway.
The right-side back window got smashed to bits;
The bus got stuck. The driver got on his phone.
We waited and waited and waited.
Then plucked up courage and asked for our money back,
After the shortest bus journey of my life,
Perhaps twenty metres in total –
But full of considerable incident.

We ran up the hill and to my house
In Coronation Road; a quick word with Trish,
(‘You haven’t got your helmets on.’)
And then biked hell for leather along the A46,
(My red and white scarf tied to the panniers
Attracting the attention of car drivers:
‘Forest Green! Swindon wankers!’ etc,),
To ascend Star Hill, past the once Jolly Forester,
Once home of Forest Green Rovers,
To reach the haven of the car park and the bike racks.
We carefully locked our bicycles.

We then climbed the hill past the traffic jams
And seeming gridlock of coaches and cars,
To take our place in a serpentine queue,
The clock ticking madly,
Players already on the pitch,
Frustration rising with the turnstile deadlock:
‘Sorry’, said one solicitous steward,
‘We’ve only got two turnstiles on today.’
Another, less solicitous:
‘You shouldn’t all arrive at the same time.’
I pondered on the nature of free will,
And temporal-spatial coincidence –
But thought it best not to mention that
As my bag was searched,
Instead I plaintively replied:
‘Honestly, if it wasn’t for mutiny on the buses,
No taxis and then a bus crash,
We wouldn’t have done, mate.’

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Why I must support Swindon Town at Forest Green

Now I’m not sure if there’s a debate here
About determinism and free will,
Or whether there’s just some sort of reflection
On 50 years spent going to the match,
That LS Lowry feeling of being lost in a crowd,
That loss of sense of self that meant strangers were friends
And friends were never strangers,
For all was empathy and understanding,
And the boot was never on the other foot.
And you can talk as much Sociology,
Psychology or Philosophy as you like,
But the reason you trudged fortnightly to the game
Was because you enjoyed it and because, really,
How could you do anything else?
Who would do anything else?
You went because you loved the game,
And because you had loyalty to your mates,
And because you had a loyalty to your home town,
And because you had loyalty to your team,
And because the team was your town and your town was your team,
And because you were your town and your town was you,
In a syllogistic spiral that counted
For nothing when you put your scarf on –
For the minute wage differences that existed in a one-industry town,
And the fact that footballers didn’t earn much more than anyone else,
Meant that a happy commonality and solidarity
Suffused the town of Swindon!
And so you never imagined that your
Carefully choreographed movement
To and from the ground through the red-brick
Terrace streets of England
Was like some sort of scene from The Wasteland,
Nor did you see it as some sort of extension
Of typical male industrial working class historic traditions,
So that even when you were wearing the height of mod fashion,
You were in fact an anachronism,
For who would think like that?
Nor did you think, when you carefully read
Your programmes at half time,
Or when you re-read them at home,
Or swopped them, or used them,
So as to build up a store house
Of memory and fact and knowledge
About every facet and aspect of the game of Football
That you were, in fact, following i
In the footsteps of working class autodidacts,
The people who caught a glance at the classics
Within the rhythm of the pistons,
Or studied art or poetry or philosophy
Behind the foreman’s back,
Or beneath the chief clerk’s nose or by the ganger’s shovel,
Or by the candle in the attic;
And now just think, how many brilliant minds there were,
In that faceless crowd of so-called untutored intellect,
Living lives that The News Of The World
Never ever dreamed of,
There, in Swindon,
Richard Jefferies’
‘Chicago of the West.’

Be the first to leave a comment »