Football Poets

Friday in the Mediterranean

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 So here we are back
In Berlin
On Sunday evening
Not a sign of a divisive wall
That stopped dialogue
For so many years
Political childishness
Between West and East Germany
Meanwhile in the bodegas
Of Benidorm and Majorca
Wines of timeless vintage
Will be poured freely
Into glasses called Rioja
Men of maturity
Who have seen it all
Will play Baccarat
Deeply thoughtful chess
But no longer for pesetas
Rattling dice
Just for fun
Now Poker faces for Euros
Cashew nuts for company
Cracking most convivially
Over a lager called discretion
In case Spain are beaten
Carefully now
It’s only a game
No time to drown sorrows
Then along the Costas
Brava, Blanca and the
Oranges of Seville
Kids of all ages
Nut brown from the intense heat
Chase footballs
Because that’s what they do
The sinking red sunset
Of a Spanish evening
Where cats curl up next to
Paella scented trattorias
Football on Sunday
For Spain, though
Time to bury the
Horrors of Franco and his
Murderous henchmen
Spain, now seasoned serial
Winners of Euros and World Cups
But look at who’s on the
Other side of the fence?
It’s Gareth Southgate’s
England of valour and
Stout hearted bravery
Once again, it’s the
Iberian peninsula against
English beefy belligerence
But watch out for the Spanish Armada
Three years ago England
Fell by the wayside against
The Italian stallions in
The Final frontier at Wembley
And now Spain again
Yet more scores to settle
After penalty heartbreak
In Euro 1996
Spain, vengeful and still
Vivacious as the flamenco
Dancer who throws roses
To all and sundry
Espana, European Champions?
Toreadors flourishing capes
Like badges of honour
Thousands of bullish bullfighters
Insisting that Spain
Will beat England
Since those tourists from
Taunton, Twickenham and Tadcaster
Will regret their perennial
Summer holidays
Keep your Daddy Sauce, Robertsons jam
And tomato sauce from Sainsburys
England will never win
On Sunday, they may think
But of course
Spain have won far more
Than England last
Won anything of note
Weren’t the Troggs and
Manfred Mann presiding on
The top of pop music charts?
But this is a major tournament Final
For England
And 58 years is just a humiliating
Hollow hiatus, nothing but
Sunday games at Hackney Marshes
With no trophies to
Celebrate in playground playtimes
Just tumbleweed
Only the fading photos
Of Sir Geoff in 1966
Puffing out cheeks and
Then the blasted fourth goal
That left psychedelic memories
To cheer on countless Saturday
Afternoons
It’s Spain against England
On Sunday and Europe will
Decide its football monarchy
The neutrals tell us
That there will be
No more Spanish inquisitions
Just the red of Spain
Ruling the roost for
For another term of office
And yet Englishmen and women
Still have a hunch
That this is their year
For their Euro trophy
It’s been far too long now
Just one more time dear England
60 years, it’ll be just a lifetime
Since we were children of nature
And some of us have forgotten
What it’s like for England to win
Something era defining and
Deeply memorable to tell our
Grandchildren who may also
Have fallen into the Land of Nod

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