Poetry Archives
This archive contains every poem that has been published on Football Poets. They are listed ten-per-page in reverse chronological order so the most recent poems appear first. Click or tap the arrows in the corners of the page to navigate between pages. It's easier to use the search form below to find a specific poem.
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Shock, horror West Ham win.
Yes it’s true
Shock, horror,
West Ham have finally won
Or is this just
A complete myth
A genuine fallacy
Finally somebody has flicked
A switch, pressed some
Random button
There is life in the
Old claret and blue dog
Like a Phoenix from the ashes
That’s a hat-trick of
Thames Ironworks victories
In the lower tier
Not the Chamber of Horrors
But the Championship
We thought they were just
A rotten, decaying corpse
But then came that moment
The sudden jolting movement
That heart is pumping away
Like a trip Hammer.
Who’d have thought it possible?
Firstly the prowling, howling
Wolves from the Molineux
At the Olympic Park
Devoured with hungry relish
Four of the best
And overnight the song changes
To we are top of the League
I said we are top of the League
Like some religious, mystical chant
Then the Rams are eventually
Battered, nay less clobbered
Derby County with three more
Into the Irons savings account
West Ham fans spoilt, startled
We can hardly believe this
Open mouthed astonishment
From whence did this come?
Origins and provenance unknown
West Ham firing on all cylinders
Was it something in the
London Stadium half time tea?
Finally West Ham are out of
The starting blocks
Up and running with goals
Raining down in Biblical torrents
Engels the Belgian philosopher
Is rediscovering those
Original thought patterns
Solomon, the Israeli flier
Will be contemplating and
Reflecting this most sacred weekend
The Jewish New Year
Rosh Hashanah
But of course,
He looks nippy and nimble
Low centre of gravity
But dainty and devious
But all in the best of tastes
Taty, the Argentinian
Must have an artillery in his
Armoury, goals galore
We can but hope
Austbo the new Viking
Norwegian to his finger nails
Has led with his first dance
Down the Hammers wings
Luring and beckoning defenders
Into a false sense of security
And then a couple of nights ago
The Trotters of Bolton
Came a cropper
Again at the Toughsheet Stadium
Yes, that’s what we thought
It barely seems credible
Oh for the glory days of
Burnden Park
When Nat Lofthouse roared
Like the Lion of Vienna
Goal scorer par excellence
And then more recently
Peter Reid, Alan Gowling,
Sam Allardyce
But Bolton are just
Out of kilter and shape
At the moment
A distorted caricature
Of their former selves
Dare you say it
But that was sweet revenge
For the 1923 FA Cup Final
When Billy the Horse
Stampeded across the old Wembley
In the first day edition
Of the Cup Final
Take that Bolton
Put that in your pipe
And smoke it
Besides there were thousands
The marauding hordes
On the pitch that day
And nobody can prove that
Bolton did indeed beat
West Ham on that far off day
From yesteryear
When the the Flappers
And the Charleston
Met the birth of the Talkies
But seriously West Ham
You’re second in the Championship
Cherish it, salivate and savour it
10 goals in three games
Oh, giddy, dizzy heights
It can’t be happening
But it is
Enjoy and be grateful
Transfer window
Ah, the transfer window
Of opportunity
What a stunning panorama
But this is no stained glass
Window with clear views
Stretching for mile on mile
Nor of the French variety
It’s the transfer window
Where football gazes
Greedily over materialistic vistas
Rumours have given birth
To tittle tattle,
We’re closing in again
And of course we’re in advanced talks
Because football never goes back
To its Edwardian or Victorian age
More’s the pity
Since over a hundred years ago
Footballers were humble, grateful
Content with their social standing
The mere pittance from the pits
And mining collieries from its
Northern origins
When six or seven pounds
A week was the absolute norm
No grasping, grabbing mercenaries
When the 20th century was but
A whisper in the dusty corridors
Of FA headquarters
But now we’re days
Away from the shut up sign
On the transfer window
Be sure to oil the hinges
Before it closes again
Reluctantly and grudgingly
Because Chelsea have signed
Morgan Rogers from Villa
For £117 million,
Manchester City have nabbed
Elliot Anderson from the
Forest’s latest generation
Cloughie would have been horrified
Anderson signs for City for
Criminal amounts and millions
And millions of pounds
What a vile obscenity
A footballing abomination
While those in Africa
Are tragically resigned
To famine and starvation
As Sando Tonali bathes
In the luxurious waters
Of £116 million,
Unforgivable sins
How can humanity
Hold its head
Up high
The morally shameful age
But who are Spurs to complain?
They’ll take the money and run
While former Hammer
Mateus Fernandes sticks his
Nose in the trough
Cash registers ring
That’ll be £99 million
Or was it £85 million?
The Bank of England
Now convulsed with laughter
Agonising avarice
Keep spending those vast sums
Of loot and lucre
Abba had their
Finger on the pulse
Money, money, money
But maybe not funny
In this giddy, cashless world
You can keep the change
It really doesn’t matter
The damage has been done
Collateral, quite possibly
Oh for the days when
Tom Finney plied his trade
As the Preston plumber
For tuppence ha’penny
A tanner at times
But Tom never objected
Or squabbled with the
Chairman or manager
No grievances at all
Now Andry Santos goes
For £48 million
Is that all?
He says sarcastically
Just a drop in the ocean
For Manchester United
And Youri Tielemans
Midfield architect
And highly valued stonemason
Another rebuilding block
For Michael Carrick’s men
Tielemans is just a
Drop in the ocean
At £41 million
While Liverpool swim
In the lively seas
Of £60 million for
Jeremy Jacquet and
£34.5 million for
Victor Munoz
What on earth
Would Bill Shankly
And Bob Paisley have
Ever thought of it
Of this ridiculous fairground
Of billions bouncing
Through the hands of Saudi
owners, Americans
With big, business plans
Partnerships and investments
Multi million dollar signs
But as the transfer window
Draws to its close
Please stop this madness
Before we lose
All reason and perspective
Shut that window now
Kenny Dalgish In Conversation (Graeme Souness Tackles Podcast)
I saw ‘The King’ in conversation today.
I listened intently to what he had to say.
He spoke with humour, with glint in eye.
As he reminisced of days, long gone by.
An iconic legend of the beautiful game.
So many honours and awards to claim.
He told his stories like an ordinary Joe.
No airs or graces from this Sir on show.
He shared many an anecdote and tale.
But the king looked tired, aged, and frail.
So, from every true Buoy, Rover, and Red.
Good luck Kenny with any battles ahead.
Same old story
After all those
Vivid traumas and hardships
Of England blowing hot
And then cold, searching
For anything like World Cup
Redemption in the Americas
And the maple syrup dessert
Of Canada
West Ham, the team
Still to be credited
As the eleven who won
Our only World Cup in 66
Now find themselves back
At the drawing board
Square one
It’s the same old story
Same time, same place,
Identical window, table
And chair, that withered
Flower and plant
That may have last seen
Water in 1966
For the League season
Opening defeat to Chelsea
At a sun soaked Upton Park
While Mooro, Sir Geoff and Martin
Wheeled away amid a
Swarm of honey sweet acclaim
Roll forward to 2026
And a replica, a genuine artefact
Of the last archaeological dig
For a West Ham win on opening day
The Hammers lose their first home match
In the Championship
Defeat to the Addicks of Charlton
Spot the irony
Yet another London club
Leave claret and blue shirts
Flat on their backs
This is simply too predictable
For words, like a sentence
Without any flow or grammatical sense
At this rate West Ham
Will be rubbing shoulders with
The Grimsbys, Rochdales, dare
You even think it
Accrington Stanley,
Yes who are they, exactly?
So where does your lifetime
Allegiance to your club
Take it from here?
Sack the manager,
That would be too easy
Perseverance for a while
But by then the Hammers
Could be dropping like
A stone to the bottom of
The proverbial basement
The dank, dark and forbidding
Well of relegation
Piranhas circling ready
To bite for the lethal kill
At the moment
The grim cemetery that is
The London Stadium
Is baying for blood again
Too many haunting ghosts
Perhaps driving fans to a thousand shots
A superabundance of booze
Lorry loads of lager and
Is there any point in supporting
West Ham United?
When quite clearly
Disunited and disrupted
Fits the trades descriptions act
Absolutely perfectly
All out brothers and sisters
It’s time for revolt
Down tools, avoid West Ham
Like the plague
Because Nuno it’s your fault
Point the finger of culpability
At Nuno, blame the governor
He, after all, is the commander in chief
And all of those training ground
Routines, schemes, drills are
Just not working
Today it was all a million
Short passes going around
The airport carousel that is
West Ham’s modus operandi
Like suitcases and bags
Going around and around
Increasingly in aimless circuits
One day the ball will end up
At Luton rather than Heathrow
Before disappearing and
Vanishing without trace
No thought, method, gameplan
Nothing coherent, clear thinking
Hesitation and deviation
Stuttering and staggering
Rather like the pub drunk
Who loses their way and ends
Up with a fleeting relationship
With a lamp-post
It’s all very sad and pathetic
Self inflicted wounds
Seeping from still
Blood stained stitches
Charlton take the lead
With an extraordinary bicycle kick
Then pile on the agony with a second
To seal the points for the Addicks
West Ham do find consolation in a goal
But by now, it’s too late
Chucking out time, lads
Damage limitation
And just to add fuel to the fire
Taty just completely messes up
A penalty that should have
Been stroked home by Jarrod
The captain Bowen
Autumn on our doorstep
And already the
Irate natives are restless
In fact fuming and foaming
At the mouth
No hope of instant promotion
Back to the Premier League
Rather just stagnation,
Static stasis
What happened to that
Iron constitution
Thames Ironworks
Where are you hiding?
You’re in there
Somewhere
But it’s the Hornets
Of Watford
Next for West Ham
And we know they sting
Under provocation
Maybe this is the right time
For the Vicarage Road
Congregation to drown out
Pretty Bubbles in the Air
Oh what will become of you
West Ham?
But keep the faith
44 matches to go
Set Piece FC
Set Piece FC, Set Piece FC,
Aren’t they just a joy to see?
Score from corners or free kicks,
Or a well-struck penalty.
Goals from open play are rare,
But the Arsenal fans don’t care.
Three more points they hope to gain,
Aim is not to entertain,
Cos those dead-ball situations
Give the Gunners good vibrations.
“Set Piece again, olé, olé”,
Gooners, this is what I say:
Simply I cannot agree.
Set Pieces? Not my cup of tea!
18/8/26
Denys E. W. Jones
Gianni Infantino
FIFA presidents, hey
What a revolting stench
They leave in their wake
Deep in the foul sewers
Of their chronic corruption
Once again notoriety follows
Them around like
The dirtiest sheet
That can never be cleaned
Gianni Infantino
Once again drags the
Beautiful Game down
To its lowest common denominator
Billion dollar notes
Flashing across his eyes
So let’s sell the family silver
Dole out those shares
To all and sundry
Why don’t we just put
The For Sale up sign?
Cheapening the World Cup
And dropping it down to
Its tawdriest depths
And we thought Joao Havelange
Was a dubious spiv
An evil shadow
Hovering over the money pot
Obsessed with only his
Own image
Stuck in the trough
Of football’s bottomless
Pit of finance
And now history repeats itself again
Gianni Infantino
And his crooked henchmen
Are accomplices to the crime
It’s time to hand over
The World Cup to
The Dow Jones market
How low can he go?
Completely destroying
Football’s proudest heritage
With thick wads of
Monumental mountains of money
Dropping the game into
Its smelliest cesspit
Many moons ago, though
Sir Stanley Rous
From shores of Blighty
British through and through
Made his sterling contribution to
The world of football
Into a comfortable haven
Where all was well and good
Respectability ensured
But then there was Havelange
Never the man for the job
Doubted at first then loathed
Before Sepp Blatter
Got his grubby hands on
the FIFA tiller
And suddenly
The Beautiful Game
Had sunk to the bottom
Of the sea,
Right down to the Plankton
We thought we could trust
Blatter
But only Ronnie Knight
Could have done a better job
Fleecing the game of its
Natural goodness
Blatter, he battered
The World Cup into submission
And now we’re lumbered
With a shifty member of the Mafia
Infantino, yes you heard right
The name itself suggests
Childish behaviour
Gianni a penny for your thoughts
Or maybe a million
What madness possessed you
Some crazy paroxysm of stupidity
Blinded you
When you must have known
That the very purity of the World Cup
Would be stained with
Bloodthirsty fat cats
Drowning helplessly
And down into the
Darkest drains
Of vile venality
But fear not Gianni
Of course
Your change of heart
Would leave you with
The sharpest thorn of guilt
Haunting your sleep
That ultimate volte face
A pang of conscience
Now that must have
Played on your mind, Infantino
Since football would never
Ever forgive you
For this crackpot idea
That almost stabbed
The Beautiful Game in the back
From which there would
Be no recovery
So Gianni, keep your
Bright ideas and ideologies
To yourself
Nobody is even remotely interested
In four years time
The centenary year of the World Cup
Will blossom and flourish
With the cream of football’s crop
Best players and managers
Undoubtedly so
Goodbye to Castle Street
On the Friday before the gates swing wide,
and the new season’s first whistle calls,
the faithful gather in Marple Bridge,
at the Royal Scot’s familiar walls.
They come for those who graced the park,
players and supporters gone before,
whose names still echo in the stands,
though they will cheer their team no more.
Their names still drift through Edgeley’s air,
they live in songs the stands still keep;
Though absent from the Cheadle End,
their bond with County runs as deep.
Club staff arrive with a fitting wreath,
freshly woven, proud and bright,
and together they climb the punishing hill,
with The Captain’s resting place in sight.
Step by step, with shortened breath,
the winding road grows ever steep,
yet every stride recalls a tale,
every silence honours those who sleep.
Beside John Hall they bow their heads;
A simple service, warm and true,
no grand display, just heartfelt words,
for those whose love of County grew.
Through winters cold and seasons lean,
promotion dreams and relegation pain;
They wore the blue through every turn,
and somehow still they do again.
The wreath is laid. The prayers are done,
the hill is left behind once more,
they drift back down to laughter and pints,
and the welcome of the Royal Scot’s door.
Dark rum catches the afternoon light;
Glasses rise without command,
here’s to the ones who sang before us,
forever part of County’s band.
Then someone starts the old refrain,
and every voice knows every beat:
When I was young and lazy,
as lazy as could be,
I said goodbye to the mother-in-law,
and off I went to sea.
I sailed with Captain Beefheart,
and Captain Beefheart’s men,
and off I went down Castle Street,
in a black Maria van.
Oh Castle Street, I have forsaken,
for it’s the whisky and rum that I have taken,
for it’s the whisky and rum that I have taken,
Goodbye to Castle Street!
The chorus rolls through smiling tears,
half remembrance, half delight;
A song that keeps old friends alive,
in every verse they sing outright.
And when the final toast is drunk,
the glasses gently touch at last,
the living carry on the song,
for all who now belong to the past.
They sing it once more for the absent ones,
for the Captain and all who have passed,
then raise the rum and the memory high,
until the season’s first whistle’s blast.
Goodbye to Castle Street – But never goodbye to the names.
A fortnight to go to the new season
Suddenly August dawns
On hundreds and thousands
Of freshly painted terraces
Across cantilevered stands
Football calls once again
A stirring in the bowels
Of stadiums in quiet solitude
At the moment
It’s a fortnight to go
Until the Emirates, Etihad
Anfield, Old Trafford,
The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium
How did they get out of jail
Last season?
But they did
The Hill Dickinson Stadium
Everton once again
Masticating on their familiar
Toffees
But modest expectations
And yet it’s the lull before
The storm,
Summer still rippling across
The silent whispers
Of the Anfield Kop
Nothing less than another
Premier League will suffice
Merseyside bricks and mortar
Will demand another street party
At the beginning of next May
For now though
Let those groundsmen
Paint those well manicured
Lines of grass
Smoothly cut white lines
Football gets its yearly
Pre season haircut
Rollers complete their final
Short back and sides
Is the Premier League ready
For another 38 match marathon?
Through the tumultuous seasons
Of woe, fear, then
Explosions of ecstasy
Thick vests, pullovers,
Umpteen layers of wintry garments
It’s that scenario
We may have seen a million times
But never tire of
The winds of change
And yet more energetic evolution
Arsenal must be hoping
For a repeat episode
Of last season
Gunners loading cannons
As we speak
Surely nobody to challenge
Their North London supremacy
Lords of the Manor
At the Emirates
Now that Pep has left
The crown jewels
That dazzled the Premier League
With four titles that left
Football stunned, awe stricken
Spellbound by City’s
Glittering empire
Of palatial pearls of wisdom
This time City will find
Another drawing board
Classical designs
But not the trophies
They used to take for granted
Champions League contenders
Of course
Top four or six
It goes without saying
But no coronation
Or sitting proudly
On those thrones of
Ultimate achievement
As for the promoted trio
From the Championship
Coventry will hope that
Nobody sends them back
From whence they came
Frank Lampard’s Sky Blues
Novices wet behind the ears
But remembering those
Bearded, beloved days
Of Jimmy Hill
Those pioneering days
At Highfield Road
When Willie Carr and Tommy Hutchinson
Ernie Hunt with that witty donkey free kick
During the 1970s when anything went
It was the permissive age
Liberated from the chains
Of dull and dismal
From the late 1950s and
Early Sixties
When games were
Swallowed up by
Gallons of mud and muck
But now Ipswich are
Back among the Premier League’s
High and mighty
Hoping to stay this time
No more trampolining
Between the top flight
And the Championship
If only they could find
Another Sir Alf Ramsey to
Guide them towards the promised land
Of another League title
The Premier League variety
Another John Wark, Trevor Whymark,
Clive Woods, Roger Osbourne,
Paul Mariner, Eric Gates
To send another jet propelled
Dynamic charge winging its
Way to Portman Road
Perhaps another Sir Bobby Robson
It might happen again
And finally Hull City
Now there was a bolt from the blue
After espionage scandals
Last season
When the Saints sinned
And were left only with
A sorrowful confessional
Southampton, please forgive us
But who are Hull to care?
They’re back in the Premier League
Again and this time
The Tigers will be growling
In the tangled undergrowth
Of football’s concrete jungles
Yorkshire’s unfashionables
Middle of the road
When Boothferry Park
Was just an ordinary outpost
Where only mediocrity
Lived next door to
Flaking rust on dangerous
Bucket seats, and Hull
Was just a music hall joke
But now refreshed and revitalised
Back in the Premier League
For Hull, of course
All hell will break loose
But in the nicest possible way
At the top of the bill,
In large, starry letters
Where the Humber meets
The rest of the world
Hull will hope to create havoc
Among the big boys, the prefects
Who boss you around in the playground
All hail to Hull
Hull City FC
Let’s get the new season
Underway, VAR and draught excluders
In perfect alignment
That telegraph pole is offside
Football, not long to go
To the season’s first beginnings
We can hardly wait
Goodnight Vienna
Big lad, big heart, Stockport born and bred,
A United fan in scarlet red.
Though Edgeley Park still knew his face,
For County too, he’d find a place.
David Hazelhurst? That’s what it said.
But “Nutter” was the name that spread.
One of a kind, a proper gent,
The sort God smiles at when he’s sent.
Away days came with laughs galore,
And somehow trouble found him more.
He never went looking, that much is true,
But trouble would often say, “Found you!”
He loved his grub, he loved his clan,
He was a larger-than-life kind of man.
Milky coffee, football chat,
And if you fancied a natter, he was good at that.
Disappear for months? Oh yes, he could.
Then turn up smiling, just as he should.
No explanation, no excuse to spin,
Just, “Alright, Darling!” and that cheeky grin.
He spoke more languages than Google Translate,
Though none would ever call him great.
“Ciao!”, “Adios!”, “Cheers, Mucker!” too,
Whatever the country, he’d muddle it through.
The chapel was packed, and rightly so,
For a man who’d lit up every row.
The stories flowed, the tears appeared,
For a man so loved, respected and revered.
His princess’s words, read by his son,
Reminded us all of the life he’d won.
Not measured in money or things he’d own,
But by every heart he’d made his home.
The turnout said what words can’t do,
Just how much we all loved you.
A one-off character, impossible to clone,
The sort of bloke who is remembered as ‘one of our own’.
So here’s to the laughs, the football and cheer,
The milky coffees and mates held dear.
The world’s a little quieter now you’ve gone away,
But we’ll all smile when your stories come into play.
Until we meet again, somewhere under football’s floodlit sky,
Where the pints are cold and the offside flag is always a lie.
Sleep well, big lad, you’ve earned your rest.
Goodnight Vienna, you always said it best…
60 years ago today
It was 60 years ago
To the day
Since England proudly
Occupied that iconic spot
At the centre of the universe
We embraced the World Cup
Clutched it to our bosom
Never ever forgotten
Finally the world was our oyster
Far across the churning oceans
Raging seas, distant lighthouses
Then back in the sleepy villages
Where Maypole dancers gathered
For their regular convention
Of joyful feet, throwing
Caution to the wind
Mum, dad, auntie, uncle,
Niece, aunt, boy and girl
We’ve done it
We’d won the World Cup
There you are
You never thought it would
Happen but it did
Finally after 60 years
Of blood, sweat and tears
Demoralising drudgery
And now in hindsight
We look back on those
Eternally triumphant years
And wonder if once again
We’ll ever do it one more time
Before civilisations move
Into future centuries
But at the moment few us much care
Because we’ve had enough
Of broken promises
Agonising quarter
And semi finals
Missed penalties
Grazing crossbars
Clipping posts
If only, conjecture
Was a huge conspiracy
Those pitiful permutations
A vast treasure trove
Of excuses, the weather
Kept playing us offside
But in 1966, the World Cup
Belonged in our dressing room
Our living room
In front of black and white
Goldfish bowl TV sets
And David Coleman
Looked at his sartorial best
Booted and suited
He must have known that
England would finally win
The World Cup for
The very first time
And do you know what?
He was right
After all those decades
Of tortured, distorted
Visions of nothing
Desolate concrete bowls
Wind swept terraces
Creaking and groaning
Desperation and desolation
Cried into its pale ale
And a thousand cups of Rosy Lee
Tea for nobody in particular
But the memories of 1966
Keep us warm and secure,
Cosy and re-assured
Like those snug pubs and
Taverns where soaring
Crescendos of love, joy
Hope, community and
Neighbourhood solidarity
Flowed and rushed
Down from timeless waterfalls
Through the forests and valleys
Yes England, it was our turn
To hold the back page
World Cup winners,
Sir Alf Ramsey so modest
Emotionless and self effacing
He played it all down
Moore, Stiles, the Charlton brothers,
Hunt, Peters, Wilson, Cohen,
Hurst, Banks,
It all felt like destiny
The fickle finger of fate
On our side
Three Lions on the Chest
And then the cameras turned
Towards the old Wembley
The marching bands
This historic, unique occasion
Before drama unfolded
Like those intense kitchen sink
Plays for Today
That the BBC so revelled in
Where the social fabric
Of Britain’s domestic
Families and relationships
Came under the forensic spotlight
Saturday night, Sunday morning
Yes this was the case
In 1966, the World Cup
Fell into our hands
Like the best birthday present
Of all time
Street parties multiplied
By the million
Bunting and currant buns
Overcome with indefinable emotions
Flags and banners draped
Across our back street
Like vivid blackbirds,
Swarming across the blue skies
Balletically in motion
It all though seemed like
Too long ago
We lament the loss
And mourn those empty years
When 1966 seemed like
The day it just materialised
On this golden tapestry of
Our lives
Like mum’s delightful washing line
Union Jacks and St George’s
Forever stitched on our minds
My Account
About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
Latest Poems
joe morris
10th September 2026
joe morris
29th August 2026
Mike Bartram
25th August 2026
joe morris
22nd August 2026
Denys E. W. Jones
21st August 2026
joe morris
8th August 2026
Phil Brennan
3rd August 2026
joe morris
2nd August 2026
Phil Brennan
30th July 2026
joe morris
30th July 2026
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
28th July 2026 at 9:40 pm
Hi Denys. Thanks for your kind words. I could have mentioned Dixie Dean but decided not to.
Best wishes, mate
See in context
26th July 2026 at 3:47 pm
Great knowledge of Everton history, Joe.
See in context
23rd July 2026 at 6:54 pm
Hi Jason,
Sorry I forgot to congratulate you on your excellent poem as well.
Keep well
Joe
See in context
23rd July 2026 at 6:43 pm
Hi Jason,
Thanks so much for your kind words about Kevin Keegan, a footballer of legendary status and deeply missed.
Best wishes
Joe
See in context
23rd July 2026 at 12:01 pm
Thank you, Crispin. I will defo encorage my bunch to contribute and will of course clear it with staff room.
Many thanks
Jase
See in context
22nd July 2026 at 6:48 pm
Great poem Jase.
You are a man of my own heart …
And great to hear that you your students poems from our site.
Keep on and more please
if ever some of your students write anything suitable for here and most importantly they give you permission to publish them, you can always do so under your name referencing their names and the school..and year.
Best Crispin
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22nd July 2026 at 10:29 am
I think this is best thing I have read so far about the legend. Thanks
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22nd July 2026 at 10:22 am
One of the greats, inspired my generation of school kids in the 80s
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23rd May 2026 at 3:35 pm
Hi Crispin,
Thanks for the featured poem for the Arsenal Premier League victory. I love that photo showing the Arsenal ladies and fans in full rattle and rosette mode. I’ve seen it before quite a few times and, I think, a bit iconic. I think it was before the Gunners victory against Liverpool in the 1950 FA Cup Final. Great photograph.
Thanks
Joe
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8th May 2026 at 4:21 pm
Thanks for that Joe. Yes it’s been some season we had a blip but came out of it and finished strong. A mate of mine supports West Ham here in Coventry and my next door neighbour is a Spurs supporter, and both are getting edgy ! I like the Championship though as it’s competitive and has some good teams, players, and fans. Anyway we are back in the top flight and who knows what will happen ?
Cheers. Kev.
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