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Dad was Pickwick-
his glasses streaming up
from the hot water bottle suspended
by sheer force of will
up his jumper,
(pyjama stripes protruding guiltily
from the rim of his trousers).
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At half time,
I gnawed on a frozen Mars bar,
while Dad took swigs from a hipflask.
We took off our gloves
to massage fingers enough
to turn the pages of our programme.
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Afterwards, as the buzz of the air conditioning
swirled around our tingling noses,
we listened to the crackling alleged highlights
of the nil-nil draw,
on the coldest night of the year.