Football Poets

Friendlies- please explain

And so it was that
The spirit of Irish shamrocks
And Welsh dragons
No longer hold sway
The World Cup dream
Of American pies
Mexican mariachis
And Canadian Mounties
Vanish in the mist
On Friday England faced
The absurdity of friendlies
What on earth was the point?
Even though that was clearly the case
Uruguay 60 years after
Sir Alf Ramsey’s fairy tale
Bore fruition
But on opening night in 66
It was Uruguay
Who parked the bus
At Wembley
When a pint of Double Diamond
Would have set you back
A princely sum of couple of
Tanners, shillings or a
A handful of sixpenny pieces
And yet it was a goal-less bore
That wasn’t the harbinger of doom
And gloom, since at the end of July
The West Germans challenged
The mighty of Blighty
First and only World Cup
Jules Rimet trophy
Next to the backyard
And, quite possibly,
The allotment sites of England
They were there back then
And still are
Roll forward 60 years later
And Thomas Tuchel’s young striplings
Once again found themselves
In the headlights
Blinking and
Cancelled out by Bielsa’s
Nimble and nifty
Light blue and white
South American
Defenders of the faith
Yes Marcelo Bielsa
Was back in town
After leading Leeds
To some exotic promised land
Bouncing on the trampoline
Of football’s fickle fortunes
First the Championship
Then eventually the Premier League
Once again
This time Bielsa does
The international manager circuit
Hard audience to please
Plants himself on the trusty bucket
For 90 minutes in
Friendly fire against
England and stares
Into the middle distance
Stunned bewilderment
Stretching across his
Weather beaten features
What on earth is he doing?
But Marcelo loves a
Daunting task
And then Wembley witnesses
A tactical wrestling match
The most disgraceful excuse
For a football match
Wallpaper would have been
Far more stimulating
With a coat of emulsion paint
And some floral embellishments
England and Uruguay
Just static, stumped,
Almost lost for words
Nothing to show the world
Blunt as an old HB pencil
Going nowhere
Going around in ever
Increasing circles
Football’s revolving door
Absolutely stuck in
The same groove
A record scratched
Vinyl record playing
That horrific, repetitive
Tune, over and over again
For long periods
Phil Foden for so long
A shining torch of City inspiration
Now blurred in a
Red shirt
James Garner
New kid on the block
But without any resemblance
To the land of Hollywood
Celebrity, since Garner
Was earnest and too
Clever for his own good
Dewsbury Hall, hints of promise
But too soon for judgment
Livramento and Dominic Solanke
On trial and still
Far from the finished article
But nothing to
Write home about
Work in progress
Ben White the Gunner
Taps home apologetically
For England’s first
Literally on the goal line
From the umpteenth corner
But then in the game’s
Final flickers and murmurings
Of discontent and disillusionment
Uruguay level the game
Even though they’re not entirely sure
How or why
Penalty struck powerfully home
Another draw
And yet the thought occurs
There is an omen there
Perhaps a premonition of
Better days to come
Maybe Harry Kane will finally
Follow in the footsteps
Of West Ham’s defensive maestro
Bobby Moore
This time though
In the Land of the Free
Where the Trump ego
Is now soaring into
The stratosphere
Dare we believe that
Tuchel’s Teutonic telepathy
Can almost foresee the World Cup
In English hands
But on Tuesday it’s
The Orient will wander
Down Wembley
But not Leyton
Simply another friendly
With Japan
Now that’s enchanting
For sure
But meaningless
Irrelevance
Is all we can see

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