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“Go on, get stuck in,
Don’t be scared, a the likes of him?
Yer twice the bleating size, a that nippy little runt?
Try n pass the bleating thing
Not backwards, over here on the wing
Strewth! Watching this, is proper giving me the hump?”.
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“Wisha, ain’t that widder woman, got some mouth?”,
Deccy whispered tentatively, he daren’t shout,
Fearful of a vitriolic volley being aimed at him,
“Stopper, centre-half? Couldn’t stop a draught
Oi Youse! Don’t let the little runt wriggle past,
Wassamatter wiv ya, lost yer bottle? Get stuck in”.
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“Oi lady, lady, give that north and south a rest
Young fella’s, out there, are giving of their best”,
“Oh, and who the fluff might you be?”, Deccy heard her scoff
“Fella trains that team to enjoy having a kick about
Maybe try n cheer them on, if you’ve got to shout?”,
Deccy, didn’t catch her reply, though the sentence ended…off?
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Fast forward…Craven Cottage, by The Thames,
This widder woman, yes that’s right, her again
Screaming like a banshee at her team to, “Get stuck in”,
Few other choice words reverberating ageing stands
Ensued a crowd of heard it all before old hands,
Perched in The Cottage, acquired a mischievous grin.
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Fulham F.C, at the time, short of an old pound note
Finding their club, a proper struggle to keep afloat
Due to a shortage of cash, decide to blood a fledgling pro
Well, the dogs abuse from the start of play
Dished out on what should have been a proper blinding day?
Caused a seasoned ex-pro, in the dug-out, serious woe.
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“Ask our kit-man to nip over and have a word
With that tongue a blazing mean looking bird”,
Tell her to zip it shut, or I’ll call a match-day cop?”,
The kit-man nervously saunters back
Ears ringing post a quite profound verbal attack,
“Sorry gaffer, only caught every other sentence, ending…off”.
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Moving on…we’re at our usual rendezvous
Waiting on a mini-bus, for a soiree to Man Yoo
A joke, a smoke, a tepid tea, perched on a wall,
“Oi Declan, where are you lot, off to then?
Bit early ain’t it, for you, twenty-five to ten?
Geezer spends his day in bed, doing sweet fluff all?
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“Hello missus, I resemble that last remark
Off to Old Trafford, on a jolly, maybe have a laugh?
There’s a spare seat, fancy a day with us on a mini bus?”,
“What? Go and watch Chelsea, are you sure?
Bleating pile of (put politely) old horse manure?
Rather be over at The Cottage, though times is tough”.
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“Can’t tempt you to come savour real class?
On a pukka pitch, sporting lush green grass?
Instead of a field of mud, scarcely a sod atop?”,
Just then our mini-bus arrived…bang on time
On waving goodbye, I saw her discreetly mime,
Two fingers in the air, sentences ending…off.
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Time rolled on as time tends to do
Though Deccy n me, didn’t sit in the same pew
Every so often after, the game, we’d arrange a meet
I’m listening to the scores one day indoors
The phone rings, an excited Deccy roar’s,
“Switch on the telly, quick, see them just won the league?”
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There in the middle of a wildly exuberant shot
Dear reader I kid you not?
Stood a face I knew, but whose whereabouts I didn’t know?
The slated centre half, beside the widder woman, (his mum!)
Couldn’t control her rabid expletive ridden tongue?
On a council playing field, or Craven Cottage, years ago.
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Those who crack on regardless, and succeed
To reap rewards, are deemed fortunate indeed
More so from a dodgy start, than a bestowed toff?
After all, isn’t there something admirable to savour?
About a fella being driven, albeit by a gobby mater?
Ain’t afraid of abruptly ending her sentences…off?