Nine-O-Clock Of A Sunday Morning. West London.

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Thick swirling fog on Wormwood Scrubs
Greets thirty blokes, just left some club
En route to play a game, they think they’ll canter in their stupor
Whilst fags and cans are handed out
“I’ve lost me hip flask” goes the shout
As a wobbly captain leads those half cut, out to hoop up.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Opposing team look pretty fit
Why? They’re even wearing matching kit
With pristine shiny boots aglow with dubbing.
As full back heaves chestily aloud
Some nubile richard from the crowd
Rushes out to give his a chest, a fierce Vick rubbing.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 As attacking team take that first kick
Defending goalie throws up sick
Then cracks a can to to restore his equilibrium
He see’s two ball’s, two centre forwards
Two blurry team-mates who look awkward
Chased across the pitch, by Aphrodite’s and her mangy dog that bit him.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 There’s flying tackles, sly left hooks
Knees in the groin, and knowing looks
Bravado promises of “a straightener” or “some afters”
There’s calm it downs, berated refs
“Yer think yer hard? Yer just a jess”
As neutrals on the touchline, fall about and clutch their sides in laughter.

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 The halftime whistle signals…. peace
There’s lager tops and cans of Guinness
And oranges? Nah I don’t think they were there that day
Aforementioned captains almost sober
So after a rousing rendition of “The Wild Rover”
The players chip their fags and head back to the fray.

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 Goalkeepers eyes? Are back in focus
Aphrodite’s dog? Was somewhat bogus
So the game takes on an earnest element
Flowing passes, neat one two’s
Whilst other team in pristine boots
Stood back and admired revitalized amazement.

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Actions fraught and somewhat fast
Touchline crowd have ceased to laugh
As team of drunks at last slip in to top gear.
As winning goal caress’s net
And wins the game for drunken gets
Loyal followers spray their hero’s shirts with beer.

8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 Pandemonium reigned on fin
“We’ve won the game, let’s get them in”
As that winning feeling, floated down somewhat sublime.
Pray shake hands with losing team
Give them three cheers for being keen
Dive down the tube, and get back to the manor for… opening time!



This poem is very loosely based on a story I’ve been told from a few years back, about the other side of our game that’s very rarely spoken of. Local Saturday or Sunday morning football.

My brother who was a pretty useful goalie, was offered the chance to punch above his weight and play for a team that was a bit older than him, consisiting of mates of mine!

Anyway he turned up to find most of his team-mates drunk, having played cards and partied all night in some West London night club. Some of the boys had not been home and were in an awful state, but went out and played in the game anyway. The sickness and drinking prior to the game and at half time were very much part of the story. The poem is not meant to glamorise those who choose to turn up and play part time football drunk, but is merely stating that it does go on though, and is not spoken about that often.

I watched this team play on a Saturday afternoon a couple of times, where the poor manager had to dive between the betting shop and the pub looking for his players, so he could pour them on to the coach to get them to go and play in the match.

A Happy and Peaceful New Year To You All.


Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/nine-o-clock-of-a-sunday-morning-west-london/