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She turned up amid the half-time gloom
in the pub, asked if it was ok
to sit near the TV. I made some crack
about political-historical contexts
and Nazi fugitives, and why Uruguayan
officials might favour Germans.
She half-smiled: that’s when I guessed.
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The sort of joke you only make watching footie.
Sport and literature don’t mix,
well, not in my book. But I peppered the goal
with witty apercus, thinking England’s
laureate might write about the Three Lions
who had watched the match with her,
read it that night at the arts festival.
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She didn’t, of course. Although at one point
she did ask if Crouch had come on.
The referee blew. Did England’s worst
World Cup finals beating mean
I should give up football for poetry?
The camera lingered on Capello, the tabloid target.
He should be carrying an umbrella, she said.