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Where he was from football was frowned upon.
The foreign sport, the garrison game
Which if you played, you’d be banished
Either to the fires of hell
the pubs of Camden Town,
or to the Connaught Rangers.
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Knew nowt ‘bout football did dad.
The muddy building sites of a London town
Ravished by war, became his playing field.
Building became his game.
He took to the trowel like Finney took to the ball.
He was passed bricks by hods more than Hodd passed to Crookes
Over doorways he built headers
Of which Astle would have been proud
He knew more different brick bonds
Than Billy or James
And he built many brick arches
alongside the Thames.
But he knew nowt ‘bout football did dad.
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When his sons started to play
He tried to learn the game
He never did.
But he did learn the name George Best.
“That George best fella is a great fella,” he’d say
Interrupting the football intellectuals
as they discussed the intricacies of the offside trap
And the merits of a Terry Cooper over lap
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Not long ago dad had his moment of glory.
Some young Sky telly products were arguing in pub
Was the greatest Ronaldo, Messi, Zidane
And they all then agreed Roy Keane was the man.
“That George Best fella,” said dad, “now he was some fella.
the greatest there was, that I can tell ya.”
A couple of old timers looked up from their pints.
“Now there’s a bloke who knows what he’s talking about,” said one.
Dad grew in statue and rested his case.
A chuffed look of pride all over his face.
He knew his football did Dad.
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Now Dad’s gone to heaven
In peace he will rest
And I’m sure he is mentioning the fella called Best.
Now I don’t know if George Best was a great fella or not
But when in his prime was the best of the lot.
But the one thing I do know,
I’ll tell you now dad,
You might have known nowt about football
but who gives two hoots
cos that fella Best as great as he was,
wouldn’t have been able to lace up your boots.