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Euro 2024: Semi-Final :-)

U Rowe

Wednesday, July 10th, 2024

Ollie, Ollie, Ollie
Oi, Oi, Oi!
Ollie
Oi!
Ollie
Oi!
Ollie, Ollie, Ollie…
Ploy, ploy, ploy!

Ollie, Ollie, Ollie
Oi, Oi, Oi!
Ollie
Oi!
Ollie
Oi!
Ollie, Ollie, Ollie…
JOY! JOY! JOY!

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Euro 2024: Sufferfest!

U Rowe

Wednesday, July 10th, 2024

I could not sleep
I could not work
all this pent-up nervousness
just drove me berserk!

And so I tried listening to Bob Dylan….
“the nerves, they are a-changing”
yes indeed they are…. escalating upwards!

And so I tried listening to Queen….
“We are the Champions, we are the…..”
no,no,no, too soon, don’t want to jinx the lads!

And then I tried listening to the Stones….
“I can’t get no, oh no, no, no”
“Hey, hey, hey, that’s what I say”
“I can’t get no, satisfaction…”
And confusingly, we didn’t, 
even though
we’ve reached the semi!!!

I tried to get all contemporary, by listening to Taylor Swift….
“I could build a castle out of all
the bricks  they threw at me!”…..
oh yes, how that would truly resonate
with the much maligned, “Garrison” Southgate!

So, as the kick-off draws near
we’re filled with hope, yet filled with fear
which we’ll doubtless rebuff
with copious amounts of beer!

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Messi’s Baptised Boy

Crispin Thomas

Wednesday, July 10th, 2024

Messi’s baptised boy*
sees La Roja through in style
with a mighty strike

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On the eve of the big match

joe morris

Tuesday, July 9th, 2024

So here we are
On the eve of
The Big Match
Twitching curtains
Shuffling of feet
Behind the scenes
Nervous coughs and sneezes
Audiences sighing
Tomorrow England and Holland
Euro 2024 semi final
Phones poised for
Immortal images
Flash lights flickering
Unbearable tapping of fingers
On tables and chairs of
Agonised anticipation
We’ve rehearsed these moments
A thousand times
Training ground rigmaroles
Millions of shots
Fired at the onion bag
Nets billowing and blustering
The target has to be hit
Goals are the essential currency
England, the only ones
That count, it has to be
Now, tomorrow or it’s
Back at Heathrow
On Thursday morning
A shuddering blow
There is geography and history
Between the flying Dutch
And the educated feet of the English
Remember Euro 96,
The old Wembley
Oh how we adored those
FA Cup Final sepia tinted
Images, but then
Gazza lovable, always
One of our own
A player par excellence
Teddy Sheringham, steady
As they come
On that night he got
It absolutely right
Jamie Redknapp, Harry’s boy
Suave and sophisticated
Passes completed with
The smoothness of carpet slippers
Shearer just doing what
Seemed to come naturally
Recalling the Wor Jackie heritage
Among the Geordie pride
Newcastle to his fingertips
So England be ready
For Rembrandt’s modern day
Heroes and icons
Ronald Koeman, now sitting
From the sidelines
Privately glowing with
The knowledge that his
Free kick blew England out
Of the 1994 World Cup
Out of the water
So park your orange bikes
Next to those placid canals
Gareth Southgate
Take a deep breath
Behind the scenes
Frantic last minute
Lines memorised
The roar of the grease paint
In the wings
You can hear
And feel the apprehension
Nerve shredding,
Unbearable theatricality
Sweet wrappers rustling,
Low whispers of constant
Questions, questions
We can barely look
Up until now
Disgracefully forgettable
Hardly worthy of mention
Glasses of lager trembling
With yet more unspoken fears
St George and Union Jack flags
Petrified with portents of failure
Dutch revenge in the air
Burgers will be bristling with
Beefy bliss if England can
Do it again
Pubs erupting with profuse
Breweries of pleasure
Plastic cups spraying
Fountains of booze
Into street carnivals
Of joy,
High summertime
For England it has to
Be coming home
We must hope

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The Belfast Boy

Mike Bartram

Monday, July 8th, 2024

The Belfast Boy, a player complete.
Had the football world at both feet.
Art like gift, born to dazzle, to win.
Never again to see the likes of him.

In United Red, in native Irish Green.
The greatest player I’ve ever seen.
Look at the numerous YouTube clips.
Stand amazed at the swivelling hips!

Desperate defenders left in his wake.
Goals of all types to score and make.
On mud bath pitches, still could glide.
Kicked to bits, but never one to hide.

I saw him at Anfield, he left us dazed!
The Kop as one were left amazed!
Memorised by outlandish flair and skill.
Decades on…surely the greatest still!

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Straight To Penalties

Crispin Thomas

Sunday, July 7th, 2024

watching England’s tricky
wherever you stand
given we’re consistently
ever-moaning fans

drowned in mediocrity
drained until we cry
put through ev’ry wringer
then hung out to dry

worn out with emotion
clinging on somehow
this is how it’s always felt
watching us til now

once I used to dread them
loathe them like the plague
those we missed still haunt me
even though they’re vague

but if there were an option
mine would be this please
can we skip the game and go…
straight to penalties?

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How much more can we take?

joe morris

Sunday, July 7th, 2024

Honestly, England
How much more can we take?
Patriotic nerves in tatters
Taken to the brink
No finger nails left
Clinging on for dear life
Wobbling and swaying
On the precipice
Don’t look down from
The tightrope
Precariously balanced
But England through
To the last four
Of Euro 2024
We’ll never know how
The divine intervention of
Fate or karma
Kissing the Blarney Stone
Perhaps, we’ll never know
Luck pushed to the limit
Last night it was in the stars
But surely not again
The Swiss were bliss
Or were for a while
And yet those tea leaves
Were definitely on our side
No crystal ball needed
It had to be England’s night
Gareth Southgate always believed
In the indefinable,
The impossible dream
England, beyond any
Description or category
It seemed to be goal-less
Indefinitely
Even the midnight of German
Cathedral bells were chiming
For 90 minutes and extra time
Embolo found holes in
England’s brittle defence
Of good old fashioned
Cheddar rather than Swiss Edam
Switzerland break the deadlock
Oh not again
This time it’s for real
We’re not kidding
It’s goodbye England
Farewell to arms
But, Hemingway
Had nothing to do with
European Championship
Football
England were on their
Way out
Minutes ebbing away
The sands of time
Trickling rapidly
Away from
Gareth’s gallants
But then Saka
Bukayo, give that man
A knighthood
Saka saccharine
No sugar
Bukayo, the sweetest
Shot you ever did see
Cutting back on his defender
Jockeying for position
On the angle
From the edge of the area
Driven with vicious vehemence
It flew like a missile
Arrowing past the keeper
Trajectory perfect
It was a goal ages
Before it left the Saka
Feet of ferocity
The equaliser and
The nation gasped for air
No more, please
We can’t take any more
Then Bellingham, Foden,Rice,
Mainoo almost too quiet,
Modest and understated,
Walker and Stones
Like Buckingham Palace guards
Muddling through to the end
Still figuring out Pythagoras
Theorem, those
Mysterious angles,
To pass or not to pass
That is the question why?
What to do with a football
Do they take that
Calculated gamble
Or Russian roulette
Decisions, decisions?
So many blocked roads
Sand bagged motorway cones
Switzerland seemed
To have England
Exactly where they wanted us
Take the next junction
They seemed to be implying
No, exit off that roundabout
Got you, Gareth Southgate
And finally extra time
No hope of a result
Whatsoever
England desperate to
Fill up the petrol tank
Rejuvenation time
But last night it all felt
So much better than
The group stage rehearsals
Drained but not out
The Three Lions were
Still roaring in
That concrete German
Jungle of European
Predators
And then the dreaded penalties
Not that old chestnut again
Beauties every one
Jackpot and on the money
Swiss miss one
Most painful blow
Vital and crucial
Before Trent
With a Merseyside song
In his heart
Crosses his metaphorical ferry
Steering the ball
Navigating the six yard
Conundrum with
A penalty tucked away
With the rock steadiest
Charm offensive
Now for the flying Dutchman
For a Final classic
Against either the French
Or, possibly Spanish
Can dear Blighty
Withstand the tantalising tension
Hearts pounding like
The familiar triphammer
Private fears about Dutch revenge
For Euro 96
But no, this is England’s year
New government, new European Champions
But no labouring again
It’s now 58 years
Since the world turned on its axis
And time to celebrate again
England your country need you
To win again, finally
It can’t be too much to ask for

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Euro 2024, Q-F: Doom Loop

U Rowe

Sunday, July 7th, 2024

Pre-match…
our hopes were muted
any overt optimism disputed….
and just like the election
there’s too much circumspection

mid-match…
well, our overall play has improved
if only slightly
but dare we say it
we’ve started brightly

on 75 mins…
doom, gloom
dominates the room
oh lor, where is our saviour?
where is our Keir Starmer?
then glory be
on comes Cool Palmer!

at 90+ mins….
oh, so we’ve equalised
and we go into extra-time
but can we up our game
and approach it in our prime?

Penalties!!….
unfortunately, we’ve been here before
and it’s not generally our forte…

then bang, bang, bang, bang, bang
five out five
penalties of unexpected quality
and so now we face the semi-final
in a state of heightened frivolity!!!!!

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Politics and football

joe morris

Thursday, July 4th, 2024

So here we stand by
The gates of political history
Keys clanking and jingling
On Thursdays, every five years
Portcullis and drawbridge
Ready to open,
Quite possibly to new Labour
But to misquote Baddiel and Skinner
Three parties on our chest
Never stopped me dreaming
Labour, Tory and Lib Dems
14 years of hurt
Never stopped me voting
You decide
Will it be Rishi Sunak
He, of Saintly virtue?
Southampton but none know why
Would it have been
The windmill arms of
Mick Channon, David Peach,
Peter Rodrigues
The late and much loved Bobby Stokes
Racing onto that exquisite through ball
And slamming home the FA Cup winner
Against United in 1976
The highly esteemed bosses
Ted Bates and Lawrie McMenemy
Managerial legends secure
And eternal
In Saints hearts
Or in the red corner
Sir Keir Starmer
A Gooner through and through
Pinning his colours
To yet more
Red breastplates
Of the Gunners
Shield
Will he be waking up
To the dulcet strains
Of things getting better?
As once Tony Blair
Insisted in black and white
Stripes of Newcastle
Unquestionable loyalty
Blaydon Races themes
The Gallowgate End roar
Driving Blair into
10, Downing Street
Remembering Malcolm Macdonald,
Alan Shearer, Terry Mcdermott,
Chris Waddle, Kevin Keegan
Of course, the Robledo brothers,
Bobby Mitchell from long ago
And then there’s the meek cry
Of Ed Davey
Falling comically into great lakes
Never trust a politician
Who stands on paddleboards
Or larks around on Bungee Jumps
Ed could support anybody
Maybe the yellow Hornets
Of Watford
You can feel a Sir Elton classic
Surging through your bloodstream
But the Lib Dems are just
A busted flush
Surely a wasted vote
But Ed could always point
To Lloyd George from
Many decades and over
A century ago
Football though,
Loves its
Prime Ministers
Besotted with
The Beautiful Game
Dear Harold Wilson
Sucking on the reliable
Pipe and blowing out
The tobacco, while
Thinking of his beloved
Huddersfield, who once
Swept all comers aside
With conveyor belts of
League Championship titles
Huddersfield, the Terriers
Who snapped into tackles
And beat the very best
So Ladies and Gentlemen
Please go out and vote
For political heavyweights
Cabinet ministers to be
New faces, familiar or just
Same old talking heads
Football still at the back
Of their minds
Sunak and Starmer
Still pre-occupied
With transfer windows,
Transfer gossip a plenty
Will the Saints go marching on
For Sunak’s Southampton
Back in the Premier League?
And will Arsenal clinch
The Premier League title
At the third time of asking?
It’s possible, you know.
Sir Keir, your Gunners
Never let you down
Once Invincibles
But now it can be done
Again, he must believe
His loving dad once had
The tools of labour
Yes Labour as well
Working class through and through
Football’s General Election
Today
How we’ve all looked forward
To sitting on that
Seat of democracy
Bring it on

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The Day of the Leaflets

Alex Saynor

Tuesday, July 2nd, 2024

The day the leaflets came, election sludge
we slip into like a soft play ball park,
they promised us all a new start.

The current incumbent wouldn’t smile,
just said ‘It’s strange how all these missiles fly’
and how all my calls get emoticon laughs.

The day the leaflets came, I couldn’t distinguish
all the colours and names, so picked one up
but realised then they aren’t the same
(though they play the same game).

This manager, an old boy, would lift his head
and go Route One. ‘Why play from side to side
when BANG. You pass and it’s done.’

This younger one, a slightly rougher Pep,
would keep it on the carpet in rotating circles,
a planet locked to a continuum of analytics.

Another one would resolve all crises,
past and present fused to common sense devices.
‘You just put the right people in the right places.’

And the current incumbent looks down sadly
as time slips like sand through his fingers

while the favourite’s the one who drinks and fights
and gambles and parties into the night.

The day the leaflets came, hopes rose
then sank like remnant yeast in beer
alive for a time in the declining year.

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/page/8/