England, the reigning champions,
despite losing to Brazil,
had reached the quarter finals,
and now had time to kill.
Sir Alf Ramsey got the squad together,
and gave them all a lecture,
“I don’t expect you to be, choir boys,
or study local architecture.
Have a drink by all means chaps,
but be careful where you go,
avoid the local women,
and the local H-2-O.
Make sure you’re back by cur-few,
show some common sense,
tomorrow we’re discussing weakness’s,
in West Germany’s defense.
Keep away from jewelry shops,
and keep out of the sun,
now go out and enjoy yourselves,
relax and have some fun.”
So the players strolled out into the hot mean streets,
of Guadalajara in the State of Jalisco,
some just taking in the sights,
some looking for a disco.
Soon they split up into groups,
to see what they could see,
one group was led by Alan Clarke,
and one by Franny Lee.
But the leader on the pitch,
was the leader off it too,
and Bobby Moore led a group,
of just the chosen few.
Along with Banks and Charlton,
Terry Cooper and Geoff Hurst,
Mooro searched the dusty streets,
for a place to quench their thirst.
A few mad dogs walked with them,
as the sun scorched down at noon,
but then Geoff Hurst let out a roar,
when he spotted a saloon.
“Welcome to my Cantina,”
said the owner looking proud.
“Gracious,” said Mooro,
as he surveyed the local crowd.
Mooro bought the bar a drink,
and soon the locals joined their ranks,
and the man they all, wanted to know,
was the modest Gordon Banks.
Banks had been the hero,
in the battle with Brazil,
and his save from Pele’s header,
is shown and talked of still.
“Senor Banks is numero uno,”
agreed the locals to a man,
“if Pele cannot beat you,
no way Gerd Muller can.”
The players they drank the local rum,
which tasted rather nice,
and Banksy started to daydream,
of lifting the cup twice.
The owner put some food out,
plates of beans and rice,
and into Banksy’s drink,
he slipped some cubes of ice.
A Mariarchi band came in,
and sang old songs of yore,
of how they drove the French and Spaniards,
back to their native shore.
The English players politely clapped,
at all the local bards,
and then sat down amongst themselves,
to play a game of cards.
The drinks they kept on flowing,
as Cooper split the deck,
but Banksy’s glass resembled,
the old Titanic wreck.
As Charlton dealt the cards out,
for their upteenth game of rummy,
Banksy sudden – ly fell sick,
complaining of his tummy.
Soon the man, who was between the posts,
for the 66 World Cup,
had his head in a Mexican toilet bowl,
violently throwing up.
They made it back to their hotel,
just beating Alf’s cur – few,
but Banksy never slept that night,
just stayed awake to spew.
Next day the dreaded sweats came on,
first hot ones then of cold,
“It’s just a twenty four hour bug,”
by the team doctor Banks was told.
They wrapped poor Gordon up with towels,
and pumped him full of pills,
but next night in his hotel room,
he still shivered with the chills.
The day before the German game,
Gordon still weren’t near his best,
but Alf asked him, to get kitted out,
to take a fitness test.
Alf took a shot at Banksy,
a shot very soft and lame,
and when Gordon caught it easily,
he said, ” Right you’re playing in the game.”
Next day the players were gathered,
for a pre-match team discussion,
but half way through poor Gordon Banks,
to the toilet he was rushing.
“Don’t worry about Franz Beckenbaur,
for you the Krauts should hold no fear,”
but all that Gordon cared about,
was his fight with diarrhea.
He interrupted Ramseys speech,
and with his head held down in shame,
announced to all and sundry,
that he couldn’t play the game.
Ramsey didn’t miss a beat,
his eye lids didn’t bat,
instead he looked around the room,
and pointed to ‘The Cat.’
“You’ll start in goal Peter,
make sure you are prepared,”
he said to ‘Cat Bonetti,’
who looked terrified and scared.
So the team they went to Leon,
to fight for a semi place,
but when the game was over,
they were heading back home, in disgrace.
Up two nil and cruising,
they took Charlton off for Bell,
and the Germans took advantage,
making Bonetti’s life a hell.
The Germans finally won, three two,
to reach the final four,
and “Bonetti lost the World Cup,”
was chanted ever more.
A few days later Mexican telly,
had some happy news,
of a local man who won a fortune,
betting Eng — er — land to lose.
He not only forecast their demise,
but bet Banksy wouldn’t start,
he said it was a premonition,
from the Sacred Heart.
In his little seedy Cantina,
in a run down part of town,
he told the hoardes of media,
how God one night came down.
He served them up tequilas,
and with them shared a joke,
while Gordon Banks was on the loo,
somewhere back in Stoke.
The moral of the poem is,
abroad, folks seem so nice,
but always keep an eye out,
for the man with the cube of ice.