Football Poets

Get in the Bin!!

Before the match, the rituals begin,
A sacred routine to guarantee a win.
Lucky boxers worn only on game day,
Lucky socks with heels and toes worn away.

Beans on burnt toast, the champion’s feast,
Right trainer first or the curse is unleashed.
Phone on silent, doorframe gets a touch,
Salute every magpie, but once only, never too much.

You superstitious fool, you’ve done all you can,
Your team’s gonna win, that’s always the plan.
But VAR is in place, you can do nothing about that,
A bloke in a bunker ruining games, a joyless sad twat.

“Checking possible offside,” the tannoy declares,
And the whole stadium sinks into collective despairs.
Half the crowd’s praying, the other half’s in dread,
While the referee hears bunker bloke’s voice in his head.

Twenty minutes later, after seventeen views,
“The striker’s toenail was offside’” is the news.
The goal that sent you mental? Chalked off with glee,
VAR is ruining football, it’s bordering obscene.

It kills the pure joy of the ball hitting the net,
Waiting for bunker bloke’s decision, and the ensuing upset.
But next week we’ll all be back in our seats,
Repeating the rituals and daft little feats.

Because football’s an illness, a lifelong affliction,
Built on false hope, rage, and blind superstition.
We’ll moan, we’ll swear, draw, lose or win,
Because we all agree that VAR can get in the bin!

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BOB — The Man From the V.A.R.

As Bob sat in his mum’s furnished basement
Watching re-runs of ‘Murder She Wrote’
On to a small piece of paper
to himself he wrote
a wee note.

“Remember to change over the channel
Make sure you do it by Three
The suits at the V.A.R head office
Want me watching the games on T.V.”

So Bob plugged the Var recording machine
Somewhere in the back of his telly
Then went and made up some sarnies
With pastrami to fill up his belly.
He then put his feet up
as he lay on his couch
And waited for the Var official to call
Was someone offside?
Did some player dive?
Or did somebody handle the ball?
But the games all seemed to lack action
There was nothing for old Bob to note
In fact he got so bored with the football
that he turned back over to ‘Murder She wrote.’

Meanwhile in North London in the new White Hart Lane
Spurs fans are all singing and cheering for Kane
He’s put Tottenham ahead with a nice little play
But the refs called it back, to Tottenham’s dismay.
He got a signal from his linesman, saying he thinks it’s offside
So the ref calls up var,
and asks them to decide.

Bob was watching the adverts when the phone call arrived
“Quick look at Spurs, Watford
Do you think Kane was offside?”
So Bob viewed the footage
It’s a real tough one to settle
So he decides the best thing to do
is to put on the kettle.

As he sips on his cuppa
and dips a digestive bickie
He realizes this decision is going to be trickie
He checks all the angles
With a compass and rule
The first time he has used them
since he was in junior school

Meanwhile back in North London
the place is in total uproar
As both sets of fans sing
“it aint football no more.”
Mourinho on the sideline is gesturing,shouting
and going insane
And it looks like the rowdies of Tottenham
will smash White Hart Lane.

Now Bob checks out more camera views
To help complete his mission
But after twenty seven close up views
He still has no decision
He presses pause on the camera
to put Kane’s right foot on still
He’s either on or offside
by one eighth of a mil.
Finally he grabbed an old sovereign and tossed it in the air.
Heads would be offside, and if tales the goal was fair.
The old ways are the best ways, when every other fails
Thought Bob as he picked up the coin
that had landed showing tales.

The scoreboard showed “Goal!!!”
and Harry Kane slid along the floor
Exactly thirty two minutes
after his initial score.
The fans they cheered wildly and sang about their star
And Mourinho showed the slightest smile
And later praised the V.A.R
At home Bob called in a half time sickie
Said he had stress and a dodgy throat
poured a nice hot toddy
And watched the rest of ‘Murder She wrote.’

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Winter woes

I know it must be winter
For the fixtures are piling high
Even though we’re lucky
And the weather’s kinda dry

I know I must be old now
For I rarely get to the games
And I’m also having trouble
Remembering double-barrel names!

I know I must be tired (so, so tired)
For I fall asleep in front of the tv
Doesn’t matter about all the hype
Nor the sheer import of “must see”

At least I know I’m not dying
Although I would terminate VAR
Eradicate, expel, abolish
No more goals to disbar!

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