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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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
Thiefa in the Night
Free kick?
Take your pick.
A toenail ball?
No, molecular atomic small,
All fall.
Like a rush of sand,
Thiefa heists the land.
From head to toe and the ground beneath,
Every players’ feet,
Thiefa feasts on all,
Like beasts on meat.
They turn tricks on a priceless, global institute,
Abusing their 20 billion dollar prostitute.
Derail this betrayal!
World’s fists clench with global muscles of might,
Powerless, for the silhouetted shadow that lurks is that thiefa in the night.
A Toffee in Number Ten
They should not go together,
Football and politics.
These two are hostile elements,
Which really should not mix.
We’ve heard this sentiment expressed
Once, twice and yet again,
But look what we have here right now –
A Toffee in Number Ten!
Before there was a Gooner,
Keir Starmer, you’ll recall.
But now it’s Andy Burnham,
Cos he’s more on the ball.
He used to frequent Goodison,
Now goes to Hilly Dicks,
To watch the likes of Beto,
Barry, Branthwaite, Jordan Picks.
I sympathise with those of you
Who are a mite confused.
In politics the man’s a Red,
In football he’s a Blue.
And some among you may just be
A little bit perplexed.
In football he’s a diehard Blue,
In politics a Red.
And what about the man himself
When he climbs into bed?
What colour ‘jamas does he wear?
I wonder, blue or red?
So when it comes to policies,
What path will Andy tread?
As PM his sole colour
Without doubt should be red.
Should have no truck with Trickle Down,
Or hiking fares of buses.
His grasp of economics is
Much better than Liz Truss’s.
He’s promised every Postcode
The benefits will reap
Of his bold plans to turn things round,
And every pledge to keep.
Yet s’pose when he gets out of bed
He still feels that he’s Blue.
If he forgets that he’s a Red,
Who knows what he might do?
Might sell off Council Houses,
Might privatise the Cops.
Might build huge hypermarkets,
Shut down the High Street shops.
Might not safeguard the NHS,
Might lengthen waiting lists,
Might grind the faces of the Poor,
Refuse to tax the Rich.
In short, he might just make things worse,
And won’t our problems fix,
Which would be proof that politics
And football should not mix.
26/7/26
Denys E. W. Jones
Andy Burnham
So Andy Burnham
You’ve nailed your
Colours to the mast
A lifelong Toffee
Proud Mancunian
But born in Liverpool
Of course
But the former
Mayor of Manchester
Was always an Evertonian
Everton through thick and thin
Perilous relegation scraps
Wobbling on the high wire
Sharks circling
The old Goodison Park
But then there was the Messiah
Howard Kendall who came saw
And overcame the odds
That League Championship was
Always their desirable property
Everton always had some kind
Of divine right to winning the League
Because they’ve been sitting tenants
In the top flight
Since the Dark ages
The Neolithic age
And then that classic moment
In world history
When cavemen carved
Images of deer and sheep
On severely scratched walls
Before the language of hieroglyphics
Became the norm
But Andy Burnham
Don’t forget to get your feet
Under the table
At 10, Downing Street
Here are the familiar
Probing questions?
Do you remember the
1966 FA Cup Final?
Weeks before the arrival
Of the World Cup
Landed on the rich green fields
Of England’s finest
It was Sheffield Wednesday
Everton win the FA Cup
It had to be their year
Since Burnham would give
Us chapter and verse
On ancient literature
On the boys from Goodison
As somebody devoted to their
Cause from cot or crib
In the FA Cup Final
That daring bloke in
Fetching trousers,
Braces and belts
Sprinting across
The old Wembley fair acres
Coppers in hot pursuit
But the chase was fruitless
He was caught
And most certainly nicked
By our eminent boys and girls in blue
He struggled at first
And Wembley was hot with embarrassment
But fear not
The constabulary rugby tackled
Our crazy pitch invader
But Andy Burnham most assuredly
You were but an apple in the eye
Before the screams of infancy
Were released into the Goodison air
Come on you Toffees
Of course you remember Kevin Sheedy,
Paul Bracewell, Trevor Steven,
Peter Reid, the men
Who brought it back to the other
Side of Merseyside
Liverpool were reduced to sotto voce
Small, silent voices in the wilderness
Everton, League champions
1980s poster boys
When Spandau Ballet
Knew you’d strike gold
But years before
Andy Burnham
Your dad and granddad
Must have told you
About the Golden Vision
Of Alex Young
Razor sharp awareness
Passes that would
Split the atom
Plucked from the heavens
And then there were
The rhapsodies of blue
From Ball, Harvey and Kendall
Footballing lyricists
Composers of ground breaking
Movements of art nouveau
Impressionistic, or simply
Belonging to elegant silks
From Asia or Persia
But Andy Burnham
You do realise that from now on
It’s the Hill Dickinson Stadium
And David Moyes
Emperor over all he surveys
It has to be a Champions League
Place assuredly
Premier League winners
Now that’s a must
An imperative
But David Moyes
Never mention that name
At the London Stadium again
Certainly in the presence of
Claret and blue
When you go for your next run
Please recall the
Heady heights
When Bob Latchford
Scored seemingly tons
At the old Gladwys End
Roared and idolised
Worshipped at Latchford’s feet
And who could forget Martin Dobson
Orchestrator and chief conductor
In midfield toils
Dave Thomas, twisting again
Like previous summers
Winger supreme
Wrapping defenders around his fingers
Darting this way and that?
So Andy Burnham
Let’s chew some Toffees
Then fruit from the orchards
Of the Hill Dickinson
Forget the grim, melancholy
Faces of Harry Catterick and
Gordon Lee or maybe fondly
Cast your minds back
To happier days
When Catterick and Lee
Could do no wrong
So one Andy Burnham,
There’s only one Andy Burnham
Chant it in mellifluous tones
Let’s lead the country to
Yet greater victories
From the often toxic corridors
Of the House of Commons
Westminster, your new
Spiritual home
But Everton in your heart
You’ll support them
Forever more
Boot
Ball is indiscriminate about whose foot strikes its plastic.
Bits of dinosaur hand-stitched and sewn into a sphere.
Yet it spins atop the biggest ball that turns beneath.
Axis-tilted, centrifugally holding together the greatest team of all.
Life.
Playing in the toughest sport of all.
Living.
Compete in nature’s league play-offs.
The prize?
First, revolve through endless rolls, and roles, round and around you go,
Scoring to only lose or draw.
Who shot out this ball into the starfield with space as stadium?
The God foot. A planet kicker. World header.
We bounce far out into the cosmos,
Orbiting inside the Milky Way tournament.
Galaxy of games,
Forever playing,
Across the endless pitch of starlight.
Mountains for hands,
Valleys for fingers,
Now lift the Universe Cup.
Skytide of clouds vapourise,
The ultimate trophy prize emerges;
The great grandmothership held aloft for Champions.
King Kev
He came by train with dreams and vivid hope
Via Doncaster and Scunthorpe he must have thought
He could cope and did without a doubt
Nowt taken out
Kevin Keegan a fireball of energy, wit
And common sense
In both the past and present tense
Yesterday King Kev relinquished his
Royalty with grace and loyalty
He died with exemplary dignity
Didn’t he?
And the Kop beckoned
But never reckoned
On the future of this human dynamo
When Liverpool launched the Alamo
On Merseyside’s swaying masses
From the youngest lads and demure of lasses
A fresh faced Yorkshireman
Carved from the finest earthenware
Defenders were always implored to beware
Keen as mustard
After meat, two veg and custard
Keegan now adored by Liverpool’s
Great and good
We knew he would
From the debut goal against Forest
He ran like a whirling dervish
But certainly never girlish
Masculine and muscular
Throughout days of mists so crepuscular
From those European nights
When Tosh, Steve Heighway danced
On the lights of Anfield’s electric stages
When Borussia Munchengladbach threatened
Through the ages
But then Kevin burst past Berti Vogts
Playing all the right notes
And Liverpool conquered Rome with
European Cup number one
Of course he won
Then after innumerable League Championships
And the heights of Hamburg
This coolest iceberg
Struck again with records vinyl
As well, clear as a bell
It seemingly never fell
Head Over Heels in Love
A song clearly above
But Keegan had established a legend
The omens had to portend
With manifold goal scoring talents
What poise and balance,
Hunting and darting towards goal
Ubiquitous, always on a roll
But then the Toon called
Armed and tooled
Newcastle Brown Ale
Without fail
Goals with unerring accuracy
Even the ones with audacity
Then promotion to the top flight
As prolific scorer offsides not even tight
Before St James Park became his own
This king though was never alone
We knew when his managerial domain
Would always remain
With Chris Waddle and Peter Beardsley
He invariably refined
Wined and dined out on yells from the bench
It could never be a wrench
Before the afternoon when Kevin Keegan
Bellowed out reprimands to Fergie
Full time had to be far too early
If Alex was ready for a verbal fight
He’d love it. He’ll see you on the night
Newcastle denied when the Premier League
Seemed wrapped up and bowed
Class showed, it had to be permanent
Certainly no remnant
But KK lost that battle
In that land of Cross Pennine
Tittle tattle
As he looked as though he had
But then a tad scary and wary
In Charity Shield warfare with
Billy Bremner that snarl and sneer
Keegan ripped off the red of Liverpool
Sent off, we were appalled
Kevin stormed off in a fit of pique
But that was unique
For Kevin Keegan was the prince of
The penalty area
Not even remotely inferior
Even brave and heroic
On BBC’s Superstars so epic
Falling by the wayside
But always scoring on the blindside
Hitting the cinder
But so explosive on the tinder
Toppling over on bikes
Yet undeterred on TV mics
Manager of England it may have lasted
A year but singularly without fear
He walked out of Wembley with head held high
Kevin Keegan, we’ll always love you
Farewell, Rest in Peace and Goodbye
Kevin Keegan, the best
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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
8th August 2026
Phil Brennan
3rd August 2026
joe morris
2nd August 2026
Phil Brennan
30th July 2026
joe morris
30th July 2026
Jason Prasad
28th July 2026
Denys E. W. Jones
26th July 2026
joe morris
26th July 2026
Jason Prasad
22nd July 2026
joe morris
21st 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
See in context
22nd July 2026 at 10:29 am
I think this is best thing I have read so far about the legend. Thanks
See in context
22nd July 2026 at 10:22 am
One of the greats, inspired my generation of school kids in the 80s
See in context
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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