Football Poets

A Futile Resolution

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 I said: “I’ve had it up to here. Enough is enough.
The camel’s back is broken, the vase overflowing.
Third consecutive home defeat. I ain’t coming here no more.
Never again shall I fork out hard-earned spondoolicks
For the dubious privilege of watching this bunch of no-hopers,
Who can’t string two passes together, that couldn’t hit a barn door.
Indeed, as of today, my love-affair with this so-called Beautiful Game is terminated.
It shall hold me spellbound no longer. My TV screen shall remain blank, my tranny silent, my Pools Coupon unfilled.
I shall seek some other form of entertainment, a fresh way to occupy my spare hours:
I shall dabble in watercolour, potter in the garden, try my hand at DIY, collect stamps.
And like some disgraced Cabinet Member, forced to tender his resignation,
I shall, henceforth, be spending more time with my family…”

¶ 2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 I made my exit from the Ground, took one last, lingering look,
Turned, and set off towards my New Life.

¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 ‘EreIamagain. Same team, same stadium, same spot.
Garden, paints, brushes, stamps all forgot.
I can explain…Hard on heels of third consecutive home defeat
Came surprise away win against League Leaders.
So, two weeks after my abjuration, footielust in Phoenix-fashion reborn, I’m back.

¶ 4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Marriages are made in Heaven. And unmade in the Courts.
Life sentences are, on occasion, commuted.
Convicted crooks can clutch at the straw of release on parole for good behaviour.
No such hope for me and my like.
In our case, Life means Life.
We and our Team are in wedlock more tightly bound than any Man and Wife.
When was this knot tied? When this bond forged?
In your mother’s womb? Not quite, but almost.
You were a bawling, snot-nosed brat.
Were you yet potty-trained? Could you do your own shoelaces?
No matter. A bobble-hat was plonked on your bonce.
A rosette stuck to your bib. A scarf wrapped round your neck.
And you were ushered into the Place of Worship to receive Baptism.
To join the Fellowship of True Believers.
Your Holy Water was a few drops of coke some clot spilt over you.
You smelt no incense, only the odour of fried onions and stale pee.
You embraced the Faith. The Faith embraced you.
You signed a contract more binding than Faust’s blood-sealed pact with Mephisto:
For forty weeks a year, every fifteen days, you, the undersigned, undertook to watch this lot.
Thick and thin, sun and rain. Your woe, your weal, your joy, your pain.
Your fate, your doom, from cot to tomb.

¶ 5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 “Never coming here again”? Such resolutions are in vain.
Speak not of Free Will, talk not of Choice.
When breeding time once more has come around,
Upstream the salmon strives to force his way.
And, magnet-like, The Lads exert their pull,
On you, who as that fish, are slave to drives.

¶ 6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 So when next time your Side at home gets thrashed,
Swear no more within that Ground your feet to set.
Tear up your Season Ticket, discard your scarf, divest yourself of your Replica Shirt.
Head back to your wife, your dreams of a new, free life.
Yet know that while you such noble intentions formulate,
Goddesses and their consorts are looking down from on high and smiling wryly…

¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 26/8/05
Denys E. W. Jones

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