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Three Forty Five. Sunday Afternoon. West London.

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 As warm summer showers
Kiss tee shirted fans
We’re queuing outside the ground
To bid adieu from the stands.

2 Leave a comment on verse 2 0 Farewell to Guus and our heroes
Farewell to friends in the seats
“Have a good break mate, see you next season
Don’t get too burnt on that beach”.

3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 As the turnstiles once more fail to function.
Crowds mood with the sky turns to black.
After chanting abuse at The Irish and Catholics
It’s the turn of the Jews to get tagged.

4 Leave a comment on verse 4 0 Distorted faces of a dad and his youngster.
Rigid right arms in the air.
As I queue up in shame, is this England in May
If it is, then what hope for salvation is there?

5 Leave a comment on verse 5 0 As two angry fans turn to fighting
The sober look embarrassed and sigh
Is there really the need for such sniping
As we queue to get in, and could said pair of fans tell me why?

6 Leave a comment on verse 6 0 As the chants turn to gross from just plain obscene
I take in this scene with a sickening blush
Why should we have to listen to this nauseous singing
As real fans get tarred with the vitriol brush?

7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Is it the booze, or the games that we lose
Inciting this anger and hate?
Blame four-o-clock kick offs, Sky TV, Murdoch
But no way have the racists or rabid faced fascists
Disappeared and departed our game!

10

Notes

Eds. I’m really sorry about this, as this was intended to be a jolly end of term football poem about the if’s and buts’ of, for this fan at least, a thoroughly enjoyable campaign. As on the whole considering Big Phil’s appointment and what followed. It’s not been a bad season to be a real London Irish Chelsea fan.

So why? When the faithful turned up yesterday to say goodbye and enjoy the Summer break to mates and the team. Did we have to be stuck (once again) in the queue, listening to the whats in the poem

There was even an outbreak of fighting in the seats behind the goal in the end where I sit. Can the passion be running that high when we’re playing at home to Blackburn two-nil up and seemingly playing in a practise match, that you’re fighting with someone you’ve sat near or next to for the entire season?

Afterwards a mate of mine tried to blame it all on the four-o-clock kick off. “They’ve far too much time in the pub, drinking before the game”. Nah, I’m sorry I can’t agree, what about the young eejits giving it the straight right arm fascist style? They couldn’t have been on the beer could they. As the poem says. There was anti: Irish, Catholic, Jewish songs and chanting.

Yet our owner and saviour. Roman Abramovitch is a…Jew, and our West London club has a huge following amongst it’s fan base of first generation Irish immigrants and their offspring, born here in the locale, of London Irish descent like meself.

So why don’t these people (can’t think of another polite word for them) go to another sport or what have you somewhere else of a Saturday or Sunday afternoon and make idiots of themselves there, coz what they’re about certainly ain’t funny and has no place being where real fans of any nationality go, who believe it or not, just want to watch the football.

P.S Er Roman son, if you’re reading this try and sort out them state of the art, hi tech turnstiles for next season! It’s sheer pandemonium trying to get in to the ground half an hour before kick off!

Peace.

Kev.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/three-forty-five-sunday-afternoon-west-london/