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Remember the old days, when your team
And every other kicked off at three o’clock.
On a Saturday afternoon, of course; it was
The done thing, taken for granted. Little did
We know what lay ahead – a battered and
Bruised fixture list, twisted around to suit TV
Or the police – or both. Twisted to suit all but
The fans. They don’t matter, they’re just gullible
Punters coughing up cash match after match.
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The days when you got up, looked out the
Window, decided to go to one of your local
Grounds – they belong to the past. Now we’re
Segregated, allocated; seats booked weeks ago
Controlled, regimented; our modest measure of
Independence stifled by the clubs we support.
The pleasure in watching a hard-fought contest
Is still there, but now it’s filtered through noisy
PA systems and fluorescent jobsworth stewards.
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So cherish your memories – if you have them, of
A pint outside, a push through the turnstile, a place
On the familiar terraces. It was draughty, it was cold;
You got pushed around a lot. You missed the action,
Even goals, sometimes (no action replay videowalls).
But above all that, you were a part of it – for better,
Or worse – win, lose or draw. That fantastic, mystical
Saturday world, where local people watched local lads
Playing for pride, and a few extra quid; days of wonder.