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was heartily sick of not being pigeon-holed,
of people calling him Mr Versatile,
which his team-mates always took the Michael about,
like he swung both ways as some kind of deviant;
with no one position he could claim as his own
except the number twelve’s bench from where he’d be pulled
to become a makeshift this or a makeshift that,
a footballing jack-of-all-trades, even leaping
about between the sticks one freezing Boxing Day.
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Since he’s hung up his boots he’s maintained the same role
for twenty years as the ever-dependable
licensee of a boozer renowned for being
welcoming to all, including children and dogs.