I dream of a seat in the posh bit
On the other side of clear glass
A remote control stuck in me hot mitt
Recording the prose of green grass.
A valet would serve me chilled bovril
Out dated pies, luke warm chips
I’d sit in me box churning out doggerel
As those gifted ran out on the pitch.
I’d look down my nose at the masses
Who travelled by bus or train to the game
Then note they seem avidly happy
Just to be there’s the reason they came.
The valet would go through team changes
In a quaint voice that is bordering on cute
See I’m not really one who is good at such games
That’s the trouble with being ….a suit?
I’d bet on the game by computer
Take luncheon with toffs and their molls
Then politely abuse our best shooter
Of “Damnation! Do try better next time near the goal”.
In the interval I’d look to the valet
To advise me of half time decorum
Just what is that song about celery for
And who instigates all that roaring?
In that hot bed of fraught entertainment
Us punters have christened ‘the game’
I’d invite me best pals, to come join my arrangement
Take umbrage when none of them came.
See, real fans don’t sit in the posh bit
No full blooded passion, no cheering or songs
So maybe I’ll stay in the reality of match day
Up in the stands, amongst people with whom I belong!