Poems tagged ‘Chelsea Football Club’

Decline and fall

‘Some people think that football
is a matter of life and death …’

I was a Chelsea supporter
for 40 years before
the Roman empire.

Fan is short for fanatic.
Empires fall. Football’s
nowhere near
as important
as life and death.

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Transfer business

We await, with baited breath
The deal of the decade
Nay, the deal of our history

We await, on pain of death
For a shining knight
To gallop to our rescue

We await, and all while, understand
How beyond football’s corner flags –
Putin’s purge ravages another land

Some among us, chant
Giving thanks to the memories
That dirty money brought

Some among us can’t
Reconcile those riches and rewards
Was it worthwhile – or all for naught?

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Battle @ the Bridge

10/03/2022. The British Government adds Roman Abramovich to their sanctions list.
“It’s multi-layered, it’s huge and it affects every little area of the club.
It’s cataclysmic for Chelsea. It’s unprecedented.”

Confucius, he say:
“Roads were made for journeys, not destinations”

So let a Roman road lead our vaunted owner away
So that an alternative path, is left for the righteous among us to follow;
We who so diligently serve and observe
Understanding the enormity of the situation
But finding everything so hard to swallow

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Chelsea- Leeds – another fiery contest

Chelsea – Leeds – another fiery contest
Oh Chelsea against Leeds
Shades of 1970
When the old Wembley
Cup Final
Resembled a sand pit
Or was it an allotment
Site where cabbages
And raddishes may
Well have been picked
By Billy Bremner or
Norman Bites Yer Legs
Hunter and Jack Charlton
Towered over the spectacle
Like the gentle giant
Who just loved a scrap
But then matters relating
To the game
Were no agricultural
Thump into the stands
And yet 1970 was
copied and photcopied
By the class of 2021
On the penultimate weekend
Before festive boots
Were trodden
No dubbin needed
Just a blizzard of fists
Sweeping across
Impassioned lands
Where the Bridge
Met the well educated
Feet of the Elland Road
Bielsa ball purists
Brave and admirably
Schooled by a man
Who knows far more
About the game’s morals
And principles.
So the final whistle went
At Stamford Bridge
On the sabbath weekend
And all hell broke loose
The dam broke
Sheer bedlam
Rudiger, powerful
And yet, taking
Sport far too seriously
For his good
Anger floods through
His blood
Tributaries of fury
Pouring from
Torrential brows
Sweat on over heated
Then Mount, Harvitz
Or quite possibly Hudson
Joined the red blooded
Tempest, the hurricane
Of tempers, bursting
And boiling.
Then we remembered
It was but a football
Chelsea and Leeds
We’ve seen it all before
But no more animosity
Again, it is just a game
No more handbags

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Of All The Stars (Jimmy Greaves RIP)

of all the stars that I have seen
above the sky or on the green
when I was merely but a child
he was the one who made me smile
when we would be there win or lose
to idolise his ev’ry move
the spot that was my second home
at Stamford Bridge behind the goal
with my old scarf in sun and rain
to watch him score then score again
with jinking moves and cheeky look
all captured in my old scrapbook
and though he looked so young and small
the pictures on my bedroom wall
revealed an artist at his game
and oh to be back there again
to see him play and dance like leaves
the wonder that was Jimmy Greaves

and in the street out with a ball
I’d try to emulate it all
the impish swerve the snaky run
that left defences all undone
the baggy shorts that he would wear
so many memories to share
the hapless days when we were poor
when he’d grab three but they’d get four
it didnt seem to matter then
if you were only nine or ten
and though they called him lazy Jim
no man could ever equal him
when he would glide past men with ease
the legend that was Jimmy Greaves

I cried as loud as one boy can
the day he signed up for Milan
I ran on at the Bridge to say
“don’t leave us Jim and say you’ll stay”
and on his last game he scored four
and we ran on the pitch once more
to shake his hand and lift him high
to carry him and say goodbye
and now I cry again and grieve
to lose the legend Jimmy Greaves

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MotD Queen

Gary fancies himself as a poet
weekly he tries to show it
but tonight Gabby guns him down
takes his weekly crown
and out manouvers
gender reprovers….
“there’ll be no quadruple
all thanks to Tuchel!”

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Time For A Change.

Honeymoon over, done ‘n dusted
Our first eleven proper mustard
Compared to dire performances of before
Proverbial writing on the wall
An icon, lost sight of the spherical
Sorry son, on your way out…shut the door.

Finally, the unwritten code is broken
Out there in plain sight, in the open
Under scrutiny in the real World, fans inhabit?
He didn’t have the chutzpah did he
Well if, I thought in admiration via B.T,
There’s a prize for being visionary, we’ll ‘ave it?

Three smug post-match ex-pros
On a late-night football show
Agreed, that isn’t how we do things here
After all, does he really need
To instigate a frenzied media feed?
Why not just have a quiet word in his ear?

Listening in, I had to bite my tongue
At their stance our gaffer should stay shtum,
The credit column of their managerial yield?
Admiring an angry kick at a bottle of water
By a winger, had he performed as ordered
Might well still be out there on the field?

What goes on in the dressing room…
Swept away by a stiff new broom
Irrespective of the personal gain or loss
Have the days of player power
Been scrutinized, toyed with, devoured
By a simple one act drama, I’m The Boss?

The new normal will soon come
Akin to rays of soothing Summer sun
We’ll bask again in a football club’s hub bub
While over in London South West Six
A few rich derrieres have begun to twitch
After witnessing Thomy Tuchel tug the sub.*

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Business Model. (For Marina)

Re-hired, then fired, The Special One
Told, Frankie Lampard, “Sorry son
Come in, collect ya cards, be on yer way”
A brooding bawling Conte met his match
Packed off home, tin-tacked, dispatched
To do his highly coiffured nut in Serie A.

Us fans don’t like some deals she done
Till the heady elixir of…having won
Washes any trace of divided doubt away
After all, to win is not the only thing
To win is…the bleating everything
Ask any fan, post-match, on any Saturday?

Could have hired practically anyone
But, winning here and now, ain’t how it’s done?
New gaffer needs some time to find his feet?
Our business model scoffs aloud at this
Success, winnings become a mega business
I’ve yet to see a losing fan-dance down the street?

Franks loyal old muckers, to a man
Talk: being given time, the bigger plan
Utter balderdash is what you’re spouting chaps
Our man’s plans clearly all at sea
On telly for die-hard Blues to grimace at, and see
No more so, than in the recent Leicester match.

Marina purred, “Enough, enough
Can’t sit here, and watch such dire stuff
That time has come again, when I must act
Our Frankie clearly hasn’t got a clue
How to change things round or what to do
If his game plan should body-swerve off track?”.

Nicked four points, in our last two games
Revitalized a few old angsty frames
To pulling on the shirt, the slate wiped clean
Training grounds awash in smiles
There’s cheering fills the empty aisles
From our subs, not out there toiling on the green.

Yes! Marina comes up trumps again
Finding a name to compete and play the game
Of winning matches, when right now there’s little else,
Who cares whom got the old tin-tack?
We’re off the sofa, soaring, scoring, back on track?
Thank You Marina, for taking Thomy* Tuchel to Chels!


Stay sage. Bode well.

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wrong, wrong, wrong

How to lose the fans
From the very very start
Drop all the young guns
And pick those without a heart

How to lose the fans
And tear our club apart
Don’t you dare, don’t you DARE
Force the juvenescent to depart

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Mane double sinks Blues

Chelsea 0-2 Liverpool

Christensen shown the red
Mane the Grim Reaper
Straight after half-time
Another nightmare for Kepa keeper

Mane took control
Heading in Firmino’s cross
Chasing down Arrizabalaga
Shaken head from Lampard boss

Hendo is off with an injury
Thiago gave the shirt a feel
It’s a reality check for Chelsea
Edouard Mendy the next big deal

20 09 20

© emdad rahman

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