Poems tagged ‘West Ham again’
Leyton Orient
We always had a soft spot for
Leyton Orient
Claret and blue neighbours
Do come in for an amiable chat
Banter over the garden fence
West Ham and Leyton Orient
Derby by close proximity
But always with plenty
Of time for each other
Sit down please
Make yourself at home
And away
You’re more than welcome
Hospitable hosts
But the Os were never on the
Same page and chapter as
Us
Sadly, although once divisions
Apart, still buddies and allies
Fate and destiny
Just unfairly conspiring
To keep claret and blue
At arms length from each other
The Os red and white
Army from Brisbane Road
Where once you witnessed
Your introduction to the
Beautiful Game
The initiation ceremony
The first day at school
Even now on reflection
You can still hear the
Frantic stamping
The polite and genteel
East End roars
The Brisbane Road
Choirs drifting from
The highest steeple
From the five or six
Thousands
Gently pulsing
There goes the young
And deeply missed
Laurie Cunningham
Lightning fast, lithe
Athleticism in every
Darting, probing run
Even then a breathtaking
Nugget of gold,
The complete article
Bill Roffey,
Derek Possee,
Gerry Queen
Knights in shining armour
Dignity and chivalry
In their blood and
Presentation
But Leyton Orient
Were always beneath
Us, never intentionally
You understand
We longed for equality
With you
But you were never there
And yet for a couple of seasons
At the end of the 1970s
Our paths did cross
Quite romantically
When least expected
Your thoughts turn to
A Boxing Day meeting
Of great minds
Thinking alike
West Ham still haunted
By eight goal thumping
In 1963 by Blackburn
But this was Leyton Orient
Our friendly relations
From around the corner to us
Springing a shock, an unexpected
Bolt from the claret and blue
Taking an astonishing lead
Against the happy Hammers
Upton Park reduced to library
Silence, please
Some of us are trying to read
Then Boxing Day lost all of its
Festive lustre
When John Chiedozie
Or was it Laurie Cunningham?
Barely out of their childhood
Games of footloose exuberance
Sprinted the length of the pitch
Hurtled towards Mervyn Day
Before slotting home the second
Goal and decisive winner
The tectonic plates shifted
Alarmingly at that moment
A red and white revolution
What a cheek, the audacity
Of it all
West Ham against Leyton Orient
Or simply Orient way back then
A local derby perhaps
But never any malice or animosity
Geographical rivals
Perhaps
But never Arsenal against Spurs
Liverpool against Everton
United pitting their wits against
City, Manchester style
Just contrasting fortunes
Never in the same place
As each other or time
But the Hammers were aware
Of your good deeds
And benevolent face
On the rest of the world
In the same neighbourhood
But never quite on
Level playing grounds
Playing your games
Spiced with goodness
Correctness
Even though you were in
The old Second, Third Division
Fourth Division and then
Briefly, thankfully the non- League
Orient, West Ham we salute you
Leyton Orient, hugely respected
And respectable
Our comrades and
Kindred spirits
But Boxing Day 1978
Or it may have been
The year before
Deserving winners, but
It was a shock to our system
We’re just glad you’re here.
Another fruitless night for Hammers at Anfield
The deja vu mentality
At Anfield, yet never
Felt like singing the blues
For claret and blue
Choristers, resignation
Mapped on their faces
Like the last spots of pink
Of the empire,
West Ham denied by
Nunez’s goal
And to think he might have
Been flaunting an East End
Shirt of honour
Always clinging though on to life
Rafts of hope and yet not
Tonight, sadly but predictably
Another defeat on
Merseyside for
The valiant and valour
Of the plucky and spirited
Hammers devoted hordes
But far from horrendous
A clumsy stumble on the road
We can only wish higher
Plains will be reached
Downcast tonight
And yet this has always
Been the case
The familiar narrative
Of fine margins
A wretched, single goal defeat
Loss, reduced to
What might have been
Not since 2016 and
Before the medieval age
Of 1963 have the Irons
Forged victory at the furnace
Of our delusional dreams
Floating down the Albert dock
Sinking without trace
Soucek, Bowen, sub
Benrahma, Rice
And Scamacca no more
Than those whistling in the wind
Desolate as Stanley Park
At midnight, still as
The peaceful flow of the
River that no longer
Recognised the subdued
Muttering of Blowing
Bubbles
One day, one year
The Hammers will
Indeed
Return from their yearly
Merseyside pilgrimage
With cheerful confections
Of sugar sweet victories
Shall we take bets
As to the next date,
Decade or even century
When the Hammers will
Conquer first night nerves
The hoodoo, the bad vibes
The heavy burdens of
Ominous omens
Liverpool barely breaking sweat
Orchestras in perfect pitch and tone
Magisterial once again
Undeniable, a class above
West Ham sent packing
At Anfield
But the Kop had that
Singular
Premonition, a prior
Knowledge that West
Ham were easy targets
For their ridicule
And derision, tumbling
Down uncontrollably
From the Liverpool
Gallery of the great
And good
They told us before
We should have known
It was never in any doubt
Sounds of euphonious terraces
In musical union, always there
Hammers were warned
Beware of the overwhelming,
All encompassing, majestic
Anfield, swallowing up goals
In pretty patterns of lacework
Bathed in the luxuriant
Waters of another Premier League
Title challenge,
Highly unlikely now
But October is not May
And trophies have yet
To be delivered on any
Podium of our imagining
But West Ham
Head back to East London with
Empty pockets,
Scarred briefly
And bruised again
But dauntless
Carry on forward
Rally towards another
Day in the autumnal sun
Defeated tonight
Yet the show has to go on
West Ham blow your
Bubbles towards
Effervescent destinations
Let the season unfold
Liverpool, poised and ready
To go
West Ham, dropping stitches
And notes, melancholy as
The Upton Park loyalists
Who may have seen this before
The Stratford escutcheon
Stained, threadbare
Torn at the edges
But still upbeat
The London Stadium
Symphony of colour and
Triumphant noise
Now
West Ham go again
Sunday, Sunday
Oh, Sunday, Sunday
Used to be the day of the week
When players used to be meek
Ever so sleek
But tough as teak
Then West Ham discovered
Although never recovered
From their fourth consecutive
Sunday
It had to be this day
This time at Villa Park
Ready to be on the mark
I’ve never been one to complain
About late summer sun poised to wane
First there was City at home
Leave your grievances alone
Then Forest found a sun dappled spot
Hammers beaten, surely not
And then to make matters worse
When most of us thought
There had been a curse
Brighton visited the East End
How were we driven around the bend
Sunday, Sunday
Please refrain from this day
Sundays were days of rest
After the week provided the
Ultimate test
When the tools of labour
Prompted our neighbour
To take sympathy and pity
West Ham now away from
The City
2.00 in yet more fields
Brandishing yet more shields
Of claret and blue
When David Moyes and you
Will wonder why they can
Please, please no longer
There has to be a ban
Eat your roast
Make a toast
For Sundays when
Sir Geoff once mowed
His grass in his den
After 66 World Cup glory
That perfect story
But Villa it is on the
Sabbath day of recreation
Across the nation
Noisy neighbours Spurs
Next weekend
On Saturday perhaps
Please send
Some welcome respite
No more spite
Just a 3.00 kick off
Tomorrow
No more sorrow
Just tradition and conflict
Don’t inflict
Sunday lunchtime
Yorkshire pudding
And wine
Football be kind
Make sure the Irons
Don’t fall behind
Propping up the top
Flight
Every single night
On the hour
Singularly lacking
In fire power
Through to
The group stage
On the next page
Of Euro Conference
Now here’s a reference
To misquote the Stranglers
No more wranglers
On Sunday anymore
Just Saturday for a while
With considerable style
Another West Ham Italian striker
At long last another
Claret and blue striker
West Ham strike gold
With another Italian stallion
Ladies and Gentlemen
Gianluca Scamacca
Now they say that
After a wholesome plate
Of pasta and spaghetti
The land which once gave
The world, the prolific
Paolo Rossi, by World
Cup assignment, a natural
Goal scorer with a ravenous
Appetite and a modern satnav
For the location of goals, goals
goals
But now in the simmering
And sweltering heat of a
British July summer
West Ham land
Their very own Italian job
Scamacca from Sassuolo
You’ll have to forgive
The geographical ignorance
But enlightenment required
Sassuolo? Somewhere on the
Heel of Italy but not its ankle
Unknown and unheralded
But 23, ready and prepared
Hungry for London Stadium
Approval, accepted by
Those with a homage to
Pie and mash, a reception to remember
Italian international but
Wet behind the ears
If he has any of Paolo
Di Canio’s endowments
But without the temperamental
Eruptions. It could be
An East End season to
Admire on any claret and blue
Mantelpiece
A fortnight before we kick off
Once again
And bodies are trickling into
The Hammers academy
Joining the club which
Next week, now 56 years
Ago so we are now painfully reminded
Provided the vertebrae
Of England’s only World Cup
Representation as outright winners
When Mooro, Sir Geoff and Sir Martin
Once gilded the lily, crowned
World champions with Trafalgar
Square fountains of praise and rapture
Flooding the nation’s streets and beaches
Seaside esplanades
How good to be patriotically English
Oh what a night that must have been
But now West Ham give us our first Italian
For a while, a saint and angel
We hope, goals from every hypotenuse,
Every compass point
Pythagoras Theorem
Inside frenetic penalty areas
From the half way line
As long as the new Italian East Ender
Makes his emphatic presence felt
Volleyed goals with violent vehemence
Bulging opposition’s nets with addictive
Frequency, Gianluca the stage is yours
We can hardly wait
Accompanied perhaps by Filip Kostic
From Frankfurt, overlapping wing back
Or excitingly, brilliantly what a scoop
Lozano, a Mexican from the land
Of melodious mariachi,
It all sounds like preposterous
Wishful thinking but
West Ham
Allow us this moment
Of picturesque Premier League
Landscapes where fortunes fly
And even Manchester City cry
While the Hammers dreamers
Continue to aspire
Hammers need another Euro comeback
For a moment you thought
Back to the jubilation of 1976
When Sir Trev and Keith Robson
Were lavished with triumphant
Garlands, victory against Frankfurt
From the vintage claret and blue
When all seemed lost in Germany
So the wines could yet assume
An altogether sweeter piquancy
Grapes finely trodden.
Allow the bottles to mature
In the East End cellars ready
To be poured down the discerning throats
Of West Ham’s fervent traditionalists
Who were there on the night of 1976
When the Euro Cup Winners Cup
Was still a child of nature
In your teenage pomp
Tonight though must have felt like
German retribution
A lingering reminder of
Their genetic discipline
Sticklers for perfection
Fastidious in matters
Of attention to detail
You’ve always known
That German football
Can still remind you
Of their World Cup winning
Factory of fluency, correctness
In their blood
Once again it might have been
For West Ham but sadly the
Hammers were sadly lacking
The cutting edge, the bludgeon
And rapier, behind after 51 seconds
Never really the team
Who overcame the French legions
Of Lyon.
The story of their lives really
Claret and blue idealism but
Then the harsh realism of defeat
In the first leg
Promising omens since
In 1976, the East Enders
Were narrowly trailing
From first leg escapades
In Germany
So maybe your visions
Of paradise may yet flourish
In brightly colourful eucalyptus
And the happy hibiscus of the
the vividly memorable night
46 years ago, when Keith
Robson struck a lethal and
Stunning rocket at Upton Park
And Anderlecht awaited with
Belgium lace and taffeta
Far too good for the East End
Troubadours, West Ham
Lose quite heartbreakingly
In the final. Oh the floods of tears
The fountain of lachrymose weeping
From tired, claret and blue eye lashes
Splashing down on the Green Street
Thoroughfares
In the Cup Winners Cup edition
Of the year that preceded
Britain’s sultry, astonishing
Heatwave that seemed to last
For ever
First though, Knauff shock the London
Stadium customers, surely too
Early for panic but then, as if
By the wave of the magic wand
The home side scramble home
Equaliser from the human dynamo
Who has been Antonio, always
Available for comment and goal scoring
But then the second half arrived
And then the season’s fading
Chapters seem to fizzle out
Into a less than dramatic denouement
The pages of this fairy tale now
Tattered and drained of energy
Oh West Ham it could have been your
Season to remember, smudges of ink
In the margins, but not entirely marginalised
Since Germany could yet be West Ham’s
Dunkirk.
The Berlin wall fell
And maybe Frankfurt will
Yet feel the full force of
The West Ham sting in the tail
Kamada looks as though the
Germans have carved a niche
In Seville final but you can never
Be sure when there are fluctuating
Bubbles in the first week of May
May yet be effervescent again
But your heart tells you that
That East End story tellers
Will not be able to their grandchildren
Of favourable fortunes in 2022
Still, a Euro trophy could be snatched
From the jaws of defeat
But your gut feeling says no
Not this year
And yet we’ve been this way
Before.
Keep the faith, West Ham
Stung by the Bees
Oh for the gargantuan anti climax of it all
Claret and blue painfully stung by the Bees
Again, Double for West London
Premier League debutants
It felt like deja vu, but please
Refrain from French references
After the Lyon Europa League
Collision of thought, deed and instinct
Nerve jangling draw, though
All to play for on Thursday
For Euro showdown
But today the claret and blue
Family had important preoccupations
On their mind
Brentford climbing safely
Towards the luxury suites
Of Premiership security
Brentford who once boasted
Legendary Tommy Lawton
In their modest repertoire
And the priceless grit, graft
And tigerish tenacity
Of Terry Hurlock, now
There was hardness in the tackle
Personified
Today, Toney and Eriksen
Gel together like lost friends
Seeking reunion, meeting of
Great minds
Slicing and chopping open
A West Ham defence
Like tree surgeons felling
Authoritative beech trees
But leaving the pines to simply
Pine. West Ham absent without leave
Conspicuous by their gaping absence
Leaking like the kitchen sieve
Porous , poorly, never really
Paying attention to the admirable
Tuition of David Moyes
Demanding discipline but then downed
By a red and white stripe blizzard
Of spit and polish, Danish expertise
And late season embroideries
Or Brentford Nylons
No longer are the Bees
Home to thirsty throats
With four pubs on every
Corner, an alcoholic haven
Of beer and lager scented
Celebratory voices
Where the Griffin at
Griffin Park, gazed
Judgmentally across
The lower divisions
Then found the
Brentford Community Centre
Now a colourful cornucopia
In the week before the Easter
Parade and the Jewish Passover
Or Pesach dawns on those final
Burning embers of the League season
Brentford snug in the land of
Respectability, what a relief
For those heavenly Danish
Pastries of Tomas Frank,
That’s saved his bacon
A season for the Bees to
Remember, still feeling the buzz
The pumping adrenaline of the
Premier League heartbeat,
The blood pouring through its
Chambers of ridiculous wealth
Its chromosomes, its hormones
Of character,
Brentford welcome to the
Premier League club
Take a seat and thankyou
For your stunning introduction
To the big time
Enjoy the scenic delights
Hammers 1-1 after Euro League battle royale.
Half time in Europa League
Battle royale
Quater- Final hanging
By the slenderest cotton thread
For West Ham
The smell of the French revolution
Re-enacted in an East End stockade
Digging in the trenches
But Lyon at the height of French
Fashion, jumping onto a Gallic
Passing carousel,
A bewildering fairground
Of flashing, flickering lights
One arm bandits of one touch
And two touch spinning noughts
And crosses, Lyon passing
Handsome as the Palace of the Versailles
But West Ham prepared for the French
Post Impressionist arty Lyon students
A joyous lesson in neatness and precision
Rather like the most advanced engineering
Declan Rice, Tomas Soucek, Said Benrahma
And above all Jarred Bowen
Chivalrous knights in armour
Until Cresswell who stunned on Sunday
Against Everton gets his rudest of awakenings
Sent off when the mists of uncertainty
Hung heavy over the London Stadium
Like cold blankets that fell abruptly
Across the East End like the early rains
Of spring, a chill air of foreboding
Lingers in Lyon next week
Yet even 10 men can still muster
Dutch courage if that makes any sense
Bowen, still buoyant as ever, a winner
On Sunday and once again the back
Page headline grabber, a giant of a goal
Towering over the two legged tie
Then a horrible dull thud and sinister
Sounding clump, when Dembele
Pulls back an equaliser from the precipice
When the French threatened to swarm
All over the Irons battlements
And ramparts, crushing the Hammers
With their proverbial French resistance
Now here’s the story so far
Let’s equip ourselves with stereotypical
Baguettes, appetising croissants on
Cross ferry voyages across the Channel
Be prepared for Proustian lyricism
Wondrous passages of footballing
Grandiloquence from the East End
Cradle of football, the arts and sciences
Of the Upton Park academy
Nicely cooked and ready to be served
To the discerning followers
Of the West Ham way
Half time in the East End
And it could still be the right
Time for French cuisine
To be devoured with ravenous
Appetite the Lyon main course
Drinking the finest Chablis
Oh West Ham
You’ll never disappoint us
Where the bubbles flight
Will be launched on next Thursday
On the night
You never know
West Ham, beaten in local derby
Oh well you can’t always win them
Since the heady, dizzy euphoria of
Europa League conquests
Over Sevilla, brings claret and blue
West Ham infantry plummeting
Down to earth
Spurs, yes Spurs
It had to be their early
Springtime pageantry
Showing cherry blossom
Along the Seven Sisters Road
Tottenham, parading their
Peacock plumage, roses
Around the cottage
Spurs flaunting their North London
Feathers against their good natured
Enemies West Ham, admittedly on a
High, after European expeditions
Still wearing their Sunday shirt
And bow tie, occasionally revealing
Their breeding and status but then
Stumbling towards exhaustion
At the end
Benhrama volleys in his goal
But by now Spurs are in seventh heaven
Surely not Harry Kane again
But two up within minutes
Game, seemingly gone
Extinct, defunct, emphatic zero
Not a day for claret and blue jousting
And sparring, provoking Spurs into
Submission but not today
Maybe a match too far
But no plausible excuses
Last Thursday must have
Felt like the equivalent of
FA Cup Final days at Wembley
And yet the beauty of the game’s art
Found chinks in the East End armour
Kinks, marginal deficiencies blowing
Hot and cold and then breathing heavily
Even Zouma and Dawson have off
Days at the office when the photocopier
Refuses to work, pens and pencils
Go missing, taking early holidays to
Costa sanctuaries, perhaps
Rest your weary limbs West Ham
Take a break, don’t forget the natty
Beach shirts and shorts,
Garish displays of rainbow colours
Blending unmistakably into the
Iberian peninsula
Now though the Premier League
Settles down for the Swiss
At Wembley next week
Away from the chaotic jam
Of the domestic grind
Swiss rolls forward towards
North London stages of
Friendly fire
But West Ham beaten
By neighbours who never
Return cups of sugar and
Milk, since the rivalry
Between Spurs and West Ham
Is a fiery furnace of bragging rights
Smouldering with the hot tar
Of local, gripping cut and thrust
Ferocity, matchless and priceless
Spurs on another high though
Son Heung Min and Kane
Whose citizenship reminds
The Hammers of a three goal
Salvo, victory complete but Spurs
Please leave the building quietly
Since you are nowhere near
Europe. You win this squabble
But Lyon are not on your radar
Remember Spurs, look at the
Bigger picture. Touche.
West Ham- what a team.
The stars were aligned
The moon was in the right
Position, Venus and Mercury
Were the perfect planets
Now football galaxies
And West Ham were through
To the last eight of
The Europa League
It hardly seems possible
Everything was compatible
Symmetrically correct
You were here
They were there
The London Stadium
More Palladium
But without the revolving
Stage
Oh joyous, joyful
Nights of gold dust
None can surely overcome
Claret and blue fortresses
West Ham tip toeing daintily
Through Spanish lands
Of orange, Sevilla now
Reduced to the sweetest
Tasting juice, it’s been said
Over and over again
Sevilla, a classical victory
Carved out with delicate chisel
This could be the year of years
When the Hammers met their
Special rendezvous. Two matches
From a Final collision with delectable
Fate, Anybody for Barcelona next
Or shall we reserve judgment
One match at a time
Then some of us noticed
Eintracht Frankfurt
Are back again
The 1976 coincidence
When the Hammers of Brooking,
Lampard and Bonds
Obliterated the German advances
On a night of spectacular in so many
Triumphs. It was the semi final of them
All. Claret and blue of vintage maturity
With subtle hints of champagne
Fulfilment. Then Anderlecht was
The last staging post. A match too
Far for your claret and blue, woe
And defeat,
Still, last night
The East End
Conquistadors, not Spanish
But hearty pie and mash diners
Satisfied as the grinning Cheshire cat
The Irons now made of steel
East End cockles and whelks
Over half time ruminations
Lavish helping of seconds
More gastronomic analogies
It would be stupid not to
Mention, stomachs full
Of claret and blue splendour
And hue, the rosiest complexion
Where fan fares and fantasies live
Then in the second half
The Irons consume with relish
Evenings of taste and discrimination
What a menu, what a victory
The finest and greatest of
Nights at the Stratford
Empire of dreams
And the London Stadium
Decibels and speakers
Cranked up to full volume
It had to be Yarmolenko
The fans darling and poster boy
Music and poetry on our lips
Our Ukranian warrior
Scoring the winner and
Then the Final. You never
Know. The complete vision
David Moyes, remember the
Glow left behind by
Greenwood and Lyall
Then Ron and John, thanks but
Now
It could be your season
Of seasons, David Moyes
Woe West Ham never on Boxing Day
Oh woe West Ham
Never on Boxing Day
Always seemingly the
Worse for wear
Under the influence
Of the demon drink
Far too many brandies
Or whiskies, temptations
Of turkeys, again
But surely not
And yet
Beaten by the Saints
Just angelic, maybe
A paragon of virtue
Playing the harps
Of harmony
Far too many
Strings to their bow
Against the sloppy,
Slovenly negligence
Of the Hammers
For Southampton
Today read
Boxing Day 1963
When punch drunk
Claret and blue
Consumed far too
Much claret for
Their good,
Barmy incompetence
Lost 8-2 against
Blackburn Rovers
Many decades before
Since the crown of
The Premier League
Was theirs
Under Kenny Dalglish
Back then
Bryan Douglas
Andy McEvoy
And Fred Pickering
Plundered, looted
And pillaged all before
At the muddy birthday
Cake of Upton Park
Eight, yes eight
On the day 66 others
Billowed windswept
Nets in the old First
Division,
But now West Ham
Hit a Boxing Day
Brick wall
Against Southampton
In a sense we should
Have known somehow
A horrible foreboding
The Irons should have
Been prepared
Rather like vigilant
Scouts, looking
Over their shoulder
As opposed to blinking
For just 90 minutes
Or simply not reading
The writing on the wall
West Ham don’t do
Christmas, a team
With a deep seated
Aversion to Boxing
Day
For as long as we
Can remember, a
Loathing for end
Of end of year
Festivities,
Forget it
Never even
Remotely interested
Now sixth and stuck
In that predictable rut
A predicament
That may feel like
A kick in the ribs
That temporary
Standstill we hope
But 2022 beckons
And those who keep
The faith now long
For a winter of
Content, no more
References to
Boxing Day 1963,
Simply a modest
Recovery
Simply mid
Table stability
Anything that
Resembles the
West Ham of
Victories over
Chelsea and Liverpool
And early season
Fruit picking and
Glorious harvests
When August seemed
To last until late
Autumn and then
The threshold of winter
But now tiring legs
Seek renewed vigour
Petrol in the proverbial
Tank
Another lease of life
Oh woe West Ham
Please remember your
August, September script
It was easily legible
A pleasure to watch
Replace the light bulb
Power on
Come on West Ham
A renaissance for us
All.
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Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
7th June 2025 at 5:57 pm
Very well put! My recent favourite came when visiting Chesterfield. They have the ‘LMD Vacuum Excavation Stand’.
May be if you’re in the vacuum excavation business, it’s a beautiful sounding name.
See in context
24th May 2025 at 7:19 am
Hi Steve
I’ve come across you before on the live poetry circuit…something I’ve also been involved in since the late 90s at slams, gigs and festivals. Did you ever get to Glasto?
I was also at Swindon when José subbed and berated Kevin in a League Cup game for Chelsea….
Salah as you point out went the same way…
Be interesting to see Kev’s next move?
Best
Crispin
See in context
24th April 2025 at 1:05 pm
Hey Denys..love this
“You may be a miner working down a pit.
You may be a rock star playing sold out gigs.
You may be a fireman putting out a blaze.
You may be an inmate chalking off the days. ”
Not just Dylan but maybe an unintentional nod to and shades of Ian Dury’s enigmatic ‘What A Waste’ rhythmic scanning..eg:
I could be the driver in an articulated lorry
I could be a poet I wouldn’t need to worry
I could be a teacher in a classroom full of scholars
I could be the sergeant in a squadron full of wallahs
What a waste
What a waste
Was lucky enough to meet and interview him twice.
Best wishes from Forest Green to Genoa C
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8th March 2025 at 2:34 pm
Thanks Crispin
I’ve been to FGR a couple of times in the past – great food! Barnet look like they have the NL sewn up for this season, but I wish you well for promotion next season.
Regards, Beth
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11th January 2025 at 8:13 am
TO ADD THIS TO THIS POEM’S COMMENT:WELCOME BACK DAVID MOYES!!!
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27th November 2024 at 5:55 am
‘You’re Supposed To Be At Home’ is an excellent and moving poem Denys.
You start off thinking it’s just about another oft-sung chant, one we personally heard a lot last season throughout our second relegation in a row here at Forest Green(FGR) ! I always love poems where you think they are saying one thing and then they suddenly pull you deeper to somewhere or something else else.
I’m currently helping in a local school for FGR in a voluntary capacity using football to help young students with reading. At an upcoming session we will tackle racism, just like we did in workshops at football schools and grounds when we first started this site 24 years ago. I’m gonna try and weave your poem into a session.
We’ve added it to the Anti- Racism/Kick It Out section under Crispin’s Corner.
Best C
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26th November 2024 at 1:59 pm
Great poem and great to see you back Wyn.
Don’t leave it so long next time my friend!
More please.
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13th September 2024 at 6:14 pm
Welcome to Football Poets Beth
Great evocative poem Beth….
More please !
Haiku always welcome.
Hope we (FGR) get to play you again soon
Best
Crispin
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26th July 2024 at 6:25 pm
Great poem Mike Bartram. Eddie was a legend, affectionately known in Liverpool as, “the first hooligan.” Even the hoolies were well dressed in those days. The amazing thing was he was only 26 when that picture was taken. He’d played for Everton youth team and was well known to the players. He never got arrested. They threw him out and he climbed back in, just in time for Derek Temples winner.
I used the picture of him being tackled to the ground on the front cover of my book, “Once Upon a rhyme in Football.” It’s worth looking on youtube and finding the re-enactment of the Wembley scene. Frank Skinner and Baddiel went around to Eddies home in the 1990’s and acted it out on the green outside. It’s hilarious, especially all the effort they put in to get Eddie sober enough to shoot the scene.
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