We left the stadium after awhile
Exiting though the
open turnstiles
To find
inappropriately clad in licra
And standing on top of
a Micra
A very fat woman
singing opera
From on top of that
poor little car
When I heard a laugh
from my lad
Who then said “It’s
all over then Dad”
The game of Golf is character building
In the view of certain
people
Others are a little
more grounded
And would describe it
as a perpetual
Series of unmitigated
disasters
Punctuated by an
occasional miracle
I hate the Champion’s League
On so many levels
I hate it because it’s
a competition
Devised by money
grubbing devils
I hate it because you
have to enter it
Because that is where
the money is found
Money to lure the
pampered prima donnas
To your particular
ground
I hate it because it
is ceded
So the best teams are
always on view
So that UEFA can
optimise
Their television
revenue
I hate it because it
doesn’t seem to know
What it really wants
to be
Is it a knockout
competition?
Or the beginnings of
the super league
But I hate it most of
all
Above all other
considerations
Because the European
Champions League
Has so few actual
champions
Post Script
Well all the above is
true
But I regret the
overriding reason
That I hate it so
passionately is that
We have been knocked
out this season
The song of the supporter’s pack
“Who’s the wanker in
the black?”
That was the chant
But no longer, for you
cant
Disrespect the referee
For a man such as he
Is to be protected
And respected
And no one must speak
ill
Even if forced to
swallow the bitter pill
Of un-just officialdom
Which is NOT seldom
No manager may mutter
Query or utter
Discontent in the ref’s
direction
For to commit such an
indiscretion
Will see them had up
before the FA
Where a fine must be
paid
And be sentenced to a
touchline ban
For insulting the
black clad man
But why should they be
protected
And forcibly respected
They are a
professional group
And well salaried to
boot
They no longer
officiate
In their amateur state
Low-tech refereeing
A hobby to be fitted
in
Attending the scene of
their crime
In their spare time
With no remuneration
For their dedication
No “bread and honey”
Just enough for petrol
money
If lucky luncheon
vouchers maybe
For a cup of tea
And a pie to warm the
soul
Before disallowing a
perfectly good goal
It was much better
then
With those amateur men
And be able to say to
their faces
That they were bloody
disgraces
I don’t think we have
progressed
Now we have
professional refs
They now think
themselves important
And no longer want to
hear the chant
But I still want to
sing with the pack
Lying in bed on their wedding night
The newly wed wife
said, eyes full of tears
“Before we were married
I was a hooker for eight years”
The husband said to her calmly
That he had no concern
about it
And that it might even
Spice up their
nuptials a bit
Then she got flustered
And said “no, no you
don’t understand
My name was Jeremy
And I played Rugby for
England”
The Liverpool supporters
Singing from the cop
Urge me to join them
On and on they never
stop
“You’ll never walk
alone”
Is the anthem they
sing
It’s gone on for years
now
With that tinny
scouser ring
Well I’m from
Blackpool
And of more sober tone
Which is why I say to
the cop
That I’d rather walk
alone
I never expected us to win the cup
That was always
inconceivable
But if we played to
our potential
The Quarter finals
were achievable
But when the first
ball was kicked
They were more
nightmare than dream
So I just wanted them
to do their best
Clearly too much to
ask of our team
The summer started oh so well
With a Euro football
banquet
Though sadly the home
nations
Were unable to attend
it
But the Euros inevitably
led
To the curse of footie
nations
The summer transfer
market
And the incessant
speculation
After the Euros came
Wimbledon
And I cheered on the
plucky brit
Then suffered our
inclement climate
While being bored by
the Cricket
I watched the windblown
whingers
Hacking round at the
British open
Then courtesy of the
highlights
I sat and watched it
all again
Then more newspaper
talk
Of who will stay and
who will go
Who is in and who is
out
And more stories about
Ronaldo
Two weeks away on the
costas
Helped to numb the
pain
Then home to more
paper talk
And of course more
summer rain
Even the upcoming
Olympics
Fail to give me
inspiration
Thinking of all that
track and field
Merely deepens my
depression
The only thing to break
my torpor
And to rejuvenated my
heart
Is to hear that shrill
whistle blow
And have the football
season start
Elin Woods admitted
Assaulting Tiger
“How many times”?
The police asked her
She thought for a
moment
"I’m not sure
exactly”
Then with a nod she
said
“Mark me down for a
three”
Are you wearing plus twos?
Well listen, here’s
the bad news
It looks as though the
plus twos
Have fallen out with
your shoes
England left for the airport
On the wrong bus,
apparently
For emblazoned on its
side was
“Playing with pride
and glory”
England’s bus was
possibly stolen
You will recognise it
quite easily
For emblazoned on its
side is
“Playing with sloth
and lethargy”
