Football Poets

Ken Aston- My primary school headmaster

¶ 1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 It’s World Cup year
But this time at a
Time bizarrely close
To mince pie, turkey
And brussel sprout
Family gatherings
And bibulous booze
Festivities
The wine of the day
The lager of the afternoon
Sandwiches curling in
Meek acceptance of their fate
It was never too late for sleep
Dad and uncle deep in the land
Of nod, that merry band who now
Dream the dream, snoring, contented
With their station in life
Amid the fork and knife
But some of us remember
Our Ken. Ken Aston
A footballing man in
Lung, heart, soul
Every fibre of his being
Always pleading for order
Ken Aston was the World
Cup referee, who rose
Above the chaos and consternation
When there was no need for complication
A towering gentleman through
And through,
Never blue
Mr Aston for this
Football poet was our
School headmaster
Never a newscaster
Presiding over Newbury Park
Not once did he bark. He was our
Primary school beacon of authority
A powerhouse of seniority
And yet when the pressure almost
Reached boiling point
And the world became a demon
Ken Aston stood apart
From the intolerable burden
A wonderful human being
The man in black and the middle
A strenuous chore when managers
And players became a bore
He was unquestionably the man
In charge.
When Rattin threw his toys out of the
Pram and Argentina were full of flim
Flam.
Our Ken Aston became the official
For this was never beneficial
To the health of the 1966 World Cup
Rattin ordered off for an early bath
When tensions exploded onto another path
And then Sir Alf’s blue bloods
Did indeed win, above the floods
Of sweat, Bobby Moore’s young
Lions wet behind the ears
Above the purgatory and tears
But victorious and only once
Sadly.
Lest we forget four years before
In Santiago, Chile and Italy
Went to war
In the authentic Battle of
Santiago.
That day Ken Aston
Cut through the bureaucratic
Mumbo jumbo and took no
Prisoners, a World Cup referee
Supreme, who’d taken enough
The rough and the tough
Stern and unyielding,
The man in the middle
Charged over towards
Violent and combustible
South America, Chile
Frozen in time, fuming,
Now overheating, fists
Flying, threatening blue
Murder with tempers of Latin
Intent while the blue of Italy
Fought fire with fire
But never in the mire
My headmaster though intervened
In the nick of time
Game stopped, match over
Tall with splendid diplomacy
Then with the raucous cheers
In his ears and the players had
Left the field and the managers
Had expressed too far
You suddenly discovered that
the World Cup referee
Had been comfortably ensconced
In the school hall, away from the chants
From football’s joyous rants on terraces
Ablaze with the fiery eruptions of hate
Never too late for vulgar outpourings
The outrageous scoldings
But hey who cared
Because Ken Aston
Was Newbury Park’s primary
School finest, gleaming with
Integrity, modesty at times
In all climes
He was the one who set up our lunchtime
Chess club, so caring and sensitive to
Parents and children alike, listening and
Understanding, like the Sunday vicar
Above the noisy bicker
And the jolly, comforting bike
Always charming over and over again
Over heather and glen
At school assemblies before yellowing
Hymn chants he smiled radiantly before
You certainly knew the score
He would never deplore
Thankyou Ken Aston
Our headmaster from Ilford
Certainly not from Guildford
Born in Colchester but he
He must have known Manchester
City and then United
When Sir Matt Busby led
His Sixties stars to victory
In the 1963 Cup Final
Against Leicester
Distinguished World Cup referee
Oh what glee
Mr Aston you were the best
Commanding over the rest

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