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Poems tagged ‘Humour’

Locking horns

There’s a lot going on, out on the pitch
To-ing and fro-ing
Scenting and marking
A multitude of personal battles
As they hunt the ball

Look at this pair –
Chasing down the line
Shoulder to shoulder
Arms linked
Eventually, dead-ended into the corner, with
Thighs and butts buffeting – as if duetting on a pommel-horse

They reach an impassé
Old-school
Neither will relent
Neither will go down
Neither will dive –
At it…
Like harrumphing rhinoceri

And as for the ball?
Largely forgotten

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The Best Match I Ever Saw

Ross County v Aberdeen,
Victoria Park,
1999, or thereabouts.

County won 3-0.
Amazing display of football.
You wouldn’t think it possible,
but he’s quite a player,
is Ross.

To be fair, Aberdeen
had an early red card
(well deserved, I might add),
so for most of the match
he was playing against ten men.

But still, quite remarkable
to win so comprehensively.
Never gets the credit he deserves,
does Ross.

Same goes for Patrick Thistle.

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Penalty Shootout in Zero Gravity

It was Barry’s idea, so
he only has himself to blame.
For all the thrill of orbital flight,
of seeing the Earth from space,
those journeys are so damn boring.

I admit to sneaking the ball in,
and that Barry was winding me up.
The running commentary didn’t help,
calling me Gareth Southgate,
him being Andreas Köpke.

No one could have predicted
the ball would hit the airlock button,
just when Barry was leaping up,
trying to stop my rocket blast,
straight to the top left corner.

Perhaps he’ll be a hero yet,
get a glove to an asteroid
hurtling towards the Earth.
The slightest of deflections,
nudging it over the bar.

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Granddad

GRANDDAD

My Granddad is a weird old man,
he calls me Harry Kane —
every time I visit
he calls me by that name.

I thought you were a footballer,
I thought you were a 9…
“Please listen, I am 6,” I said,
“and I’m Isaac all the time.”

Now Kane’s a 10 for Tottenham,
he’s never been a 6 —
so come on Harry, tell the truth
and no more of your tricks.

“Oh! Granddad! Please behave yourself,
you really are a pain!
Why do you have to tease so much
and call me Harry Kane?”

“But I saw you at WEM-BER-LEE!
You were leading out the team;
we know that Harry does that job…
Perhaps it was a dream?

“Yes it’s true I went to Wembley
dressed in my England kit,
but if you think I’m Harry Kane
you must be losing it!”

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Maine Road Matchday ’69

Maine Road Matchday 69

A week at school wished away
Until at last it’s Saturday
Matchday
Maine road matchday
Solemn commitment to worried mum
“I’ll be ok, I’m meeting a schoolchum”
Usually a lie, sometimes true
Most times I don’t, now and then I do

Bus to Piccadilly, the 219
Passing by the Courtaulds sign
Straight to Lewis’s department store
TV showroom, fourth floor
An array of tellies for sale or for rent
A small crowd gathers, all male, one intent
To watch football previews – in colour! A proper treat
Then through the gardens to Aytoun Street
For the football special, a red routemaster
Though some days you could walk it faster

Unshaven men with unwashed hands
Wait for custom at burger stands
Stained white overalls define their style
Not seen Persil for quite a while
Grubby nails on nicotine fingers
Haven for germs to thrive and linger
Burgers stacked in a tepid lake
Laced with fag ash, almost opaque
Not exactly items to savour
Like soggy cardboard, with slightly less flavour
Vegans hadn’t been invented yet
But if they had you can bet
They could have dined here safely
(Other than the obligatory tummy upset)

Floodlight pylons, an arresting sight
Frame Moss Side drizzle in vibrant light
Fumble in pocket for half a crown
Through creaking turnstiles, put the money down
Programme seller, refreshment stand
Last few coppers clasped in hand
Flat capped men clutch cups of Bovril
Repulsive odour fills the nostrils
Not a drink for little boys
Kia-Ora orange, that’s my choice
Money less than wisely spent
Real fruit content zero percent

Now time to spend another penny
But so few facilities for so many
Cascading rivers of metabolised booze
Fag ends hurtling along like canoes
Shooting the rapids, though this water’s not white
The stench unspeakable, that can’t be right
Is this what it’s like in a man’s world?

All set to ascend the stairway to heaven
To watch my heroes, one to eleven
Hordes of eager trampling feet
Pound on steps of crumbling concrete
Disintegration into rubble
Can only mean impending trouble
Paint peels on rusting railings,
Glaring health and safety failings
Never properly put to the test
Fingers crossed and hope for the best
Ibrox, two years on, 66 die
There, but for the grace of god, go I

Out come the teams to do their worst
Opponents first, always opponents first
“Bring on the champions” the Kippax boys roar
Even though we’re not champions any more
But we are still pretty damn good
Even on a pitch awash with mud
No names on the back of those shirts of sky blue
But I don’t even need numbers to tell who’s who
Bell’s athletic, imperious stride,
Lee chest out, bursting with pride,
Young floating with balletic grace
Book’s hunched gait and unlikely pace
I gaze out in awe, mesmerised
Precious images forever prized

Crowd disturbance, a sudden buzz
Rival fans on the loose, here come the fuzz
For those around me a huge distraction
But my eyes stay fixed on the action
People lean across for a better view
And I just think “what’s wrong with you?”
Our games aren’t on telly, well hardly ever
So blink and you’ll have missed it, forever
Giving morons the oxygen of attention
Even then well beyond my comprehension

Final whistle, don’t see me for dust
Sprinting away to run for the bus
At speed through dithering crowds I go
Sit next to someone with a radio
Final scores and reports from familiar voices
If United have lost the whole bus rejoices
At last Piccadilly, will the Pinks have arrived?
Was that first goal offside? Will they say Franny dived?

Read the Pink on the bus, cover to cover
Even the letters page, why do these people bother?
Relentless banality, always the same
From armchair experts, never been to a game

Walk home from the bus station, knock at the door
Mum’s there to meet me, she knows the score
Mood wholly dependent on how well we’ve done
Tea always tastes that much better if we’ve won
Then The Avengers and Match of the Day
Followed by Sunday grisly Sunday
The looming grim spectre of school on Monday
But Wednesday evening we’re at home again
Another trip to Maine Road’s my week’s only aim
Planting the seeds, night after night
Please mum, it’ll be alright
Some lads from school are going…

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Colleen x 4. Please Dont Block Me Out On Instagram.*

After the lack-lustre performance by our chaps,
During Friday evenings qualifying match,
I blame on a drought of Marks and Spencer’s waist-coats?
It’s nice to see a bit of real commitment I suppose?
From a pair of WAGs (who out there can remember those?)
Publicly going hell for leather at each other throats.

Colleen, and Becky Vardy are
As I’m aware m’lud thus far
Merely slinging mud at this juncture in their on-going, frenetic social media mystery
While Wayne Rooney’s more than savvy trouble an strife,
and I hope this will cheer fans up after Friday night?,
Has, due to her prowess as an on-line sleuth, been likened to a Scouse Wagatha Christie!

Peace.

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/humour/