That morn the freezing Fulham road
Looked like a pane of glass
There were touts decked out in crombie coats,
Homburgs, and paisley scarves.
Hot chestnuts kept us fortified
As the gates to heaven heaved
Then we flew on in, to that sacred place
Like scattered autumn leaves.
Ten groundsman did a sterling job
To sweep the pitch of snow
Would they have it be clear by kick off time?
Was all we’d want to know.
Straw adorned the dog track
With Coppers round the pitch
As the tannoy churned out a right bad batch
Of dodgy Christmas hits.
Eleven sheepskinned martyrs
Who’d missed their Christmas lunch
Were worshipped to the rafters
By some bleary eyed half drunks.
As they eyed the scene of white and green
And waved to friendly fans
They autographed some programmes
Or shook hands with some old man.
The visiting team tried out the pitch
To hoots of loud abuse
Shaking off long travel stiffness
Whist deciding choice of boots.
As shovel fulls of sand were sprinkled
Across the penalty box
A fan who’d far had too much to drink
Tried to focus on his watch.
By now the crowd was heaving
Expectant, on alert
There was no way we were leaving
Till that final whistle burst.
As the deejay reeled off players names
We ticked programmes with our pens
Then got ready for the be all that’s the game
On a cold St Stephens Day.
We’d clap our hands and stamp our feet
Adjust scarves and dodgy hats
As I look forward to a hectic month of football
I’ve still fond thoughts, of wondrous days like that!