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[sid] => 173783
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Afterthoughts - Part 3
[time] => 2012-09-09 16:43:43
[hometext] => Part 1 located at http://www.your-poetry.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=172789
[bodytext] => you’re not to get it in the neck nothing further will be said in future, though, we’ll triple check you’re fast asleep in bed instead of skipping into town and swigging fizzy drinks debauched by sirens from sundown until the dawning blinks and finds you fuddled in the street riddled by cold air but where oh where those witches sweet and frolicsome and fair? how very odd! they disappear! there’s just this moped mob who flash around in snappy gear on a photo job! he smirks, which is as near as he ever gets to smile for a little spell the atmosphere’s safe from rant and rile again he wonders where they go those nymphs who melt like mist yes, time to let the ninnies know last night’s exciting tryst wasn’t accidental not some happy chance no star-spun, sentimental celestial romance wait! bide a bit! the time’s not ripe to serve more humble pies though pretty soon he’ll need to wipe the stardust from their eyes confide the wenches were decoys and they the chosen prey three bashful, bumpkin, country boys enchanted, led astray flushed with feelings, flesh on fire smitten out and in throbbing spasms of desire pulsing through their skin unversed in the seductive arts how could they ever guess such cute appeal would steal their hearts then sell them to the press! listen, pal! that’s quite enough you yap and yap and yap soppy, smoochie, spoony guff lovey-dovey pap! your tale’s becoming far too tall far too bloody long pro gaffers seldom speak at all when things go badly wrong when careful plans go all to pot they rarely rend the skies but concentrate on what they’ve got and mend and improvise they don’t create a great to-do and clack away and drool and drench us in a gooey spew of far-fetched cock-and-bull concerning slinky, sultry girls molls of mystery duping tongue-tied teenage churls as lovesick as can be your story’s garbled, inexact full of vague impressions except for one huge, glaring fact that implicates three persons make no mistake, these guys are ***** the pictures do not lie arms entwined, they lurch and list befuddled and awry yet we play at silly devils and drivel on like you pretending these are puzzling revels why and how and who? were they sent, the wenches three to prickle and confuse upset our pre-match harmony fix it so we lose? who knows! some gangland artifice a global betting sting to fleece old bookie enemies from vegas to beijing or maybe a stock market ploy before a buy-out bid a shock defeat, no euro joy the share price on the skid! aye, we’re forever taking swerves away from sane suggestions getting on each other’s nerves with idiotic questions away on wild and skittish loops what fancy tales we weave plucking weird, wondrous scoops from the land of make-believe! not unlike a tabloid hack drafting football prattle bits of faction, bits of flak diced in tittle-tattle in idle speculations incidental fuss titbit revelations items mischievous honest fans of course deplore these creative skills piffling padding and no more thin on facts and fat on frills football data’s all we ask basic pros and cons is it such an awesome task to draw comparisons to depict contrasting styles cite the spoilers and the spinners proffer fair and frank profiles on super saints and sinners? that is all we want to read in a match report not some artificial screed making waggish sport of extravagant ambition wacky off-field capers mad officials lacking vision whatever peddles papers titles of high quality top tv reviews nod to this reality blithely pick and choose incidents of minor pith which they aggrandise then titillate their public with merry wit and wise much more than mere telling of the basic stats with cameos compelling of fleeting touchline spats managerial bickering sulky gestures, dirty looks ungentlemanly sniggering fingerly rebukes or they may guy a toffee-nose on an ego-trip some goalie apt to preen and pose told to get a grip i twitter on! football blether never really stops like people’s health and wealth and weather and prices in the shops we cannot speak enough of it there’s always more to say with pithy words and pungent wit we keep our tongues in play articulate and eloquent dispensing fair opinions incisive and intelligent to attentive millions the candid views of honest fans shared with diffidence though not with certain partisans hell-bent upon offence who greet us with hostility howling vile abuse genetic incivility a bloody good excuse for loud participation windpipes at full pitch rude retaliation responses lewd and rich now switch me off and kindly stop this wordy, windy glut i’ll go and suck a lollipop and keep my mouthpiece shut i’m no pundit! i’m no hack chasing breaking news! i’ve no yen for yackety-yak and ever-changing views who am i to sniff and scoff at each and every trend yes, it’s time to switch me off amen! finis! the end! you beam at me and raise a glass and nod your mellow head most coverage, you deem, is crass we don’t believe what’s said we’re none of us immune, you guess to verbal diarrhoeia you beam at me as you profess it’s not a bad idea yes, oral constipation would maybe do the trick we’d all have less occasion for football rhetoric so you mean to take a break! well, we’ll miss your slants the cogent comments folk mistake for arty-farty rants no, not all of us, just those who pitch their patter plain and practise anglo-saxon prose unpolished and profane my own respect is less than great for louts who act like that who eff and blind and spout their hate until the ball goes flat as nowadays it often does time and time again if moves don’t chime and things don’t buzz goodbye, they bid, amen! fair-weather fans behave just so they’re prone to manic fits you raved yourself a while ago as if you’d lost your wits but don’t forget you’re now exempt from all this post-match strain you now observe with cold contempt such garrulous refrain remember you’re now one of us a member of the clan you’re not a rabble chorus you’re an honorary fan who scans the pitch for quality like flawless backbone skills strikers’ raw mentality the latest goalie frills magic moments from the spot how to skirt a wall backshift boys we rarely spot though they control it all so many things keep taking place that pass spectators by you cannot even blink in case a mote gets in your eye or matters more vexatious may infect your liver like derby day invasions from across the river oh damn it all and pardon me i’ve done this bit before the sabre-rattling rivalry the ancient tribal lore no more of that! now listen you’ll need an anodyne codeine, say, or aspirin will fill the bill just fine nightly i take two of them before i go to bed they calm me down and gently stem the turmoil in my head they’re very safe, these tiny pills no side-effects, i find you don’t soil sheets in sweats and chills but sleep and ease your mind aye, drinking’s part and parcel of our people’s game we swill and watch and watch and swill and shout bravo or shame! it’s bottom’s up and down the hatch win or draw or lose whatever happens in a match we put to rights with booze now, though, there is less respite since many pubs rent channels that show live action every night with well-appointed panels oh yes, we go on principle you can’t spurn goods like that the standard’s irresistible and so’s the expert chat chaired by former superstars recently retired unsparing on particulars nice or nasty as required it could be juve v real delle alpi or the bernabeau santos against nacional bayern at the san siro or river plate and penarol celtic versus rangers barca hosting espanyol all civil, friendly strangers! bargain buys! scrumptious treats from china to peru as cheap as supermarket sweets at a venue near you lager, nips, a bag of chips perhaps a taxi journey some odds and ends like service tips sheer bliss for paltry money! poppycock! she’ll sniff and snort what shoddy lies i speak! though family funds keep running short i’m there three times a week i’m a fickle, idle rogue of low-life origins! she then recites a catalogue of selfish hubbie sins i think we’ll skip the details as she gets quite upset maligning feeble-minded males and screeching about debt prickly as a porcupine impervious to reason challenging the cheques i sign season after season tickets for each premier tie home fixtures and away which we attend, the kids and i to watch our idols play cup-ties too and euro trips the odd long-distance hop resplendent in our sponsored strips from the club co-op we follow, follow everywhere for we are faithful fans not because we do not care about her household plans more lies! she hoots with passion severe and intense football’s snuffed our ration of decent commonsense the game is too much with us overdone and overblown she has a right to raise a fuss and she is not alone countless other spouses scream we aren’t wise at all splurging cash on a silly team hoofing a plastic ball hysterical, they howl and claim there’s nothing in the kitty can’t we see the people’s game treats people pretty *****ty? not so! this isn’t club control but the price we’re bound to pay it’s an accounting of the soul a sacrifice, we say not some humbug influence or dumb indiscipline we’re guided in all innocence by a still, small voice within more guff, they’ll howl, another ruse a calling from above! football pilgrims who can’t choose but follow their first love sure, pigs will fly and mice will roar and rivers run uphill the sun will shine forever more before you pay a bill! now leave it there! that’s quite enough you’re being far too brash delete all this domestic stuff or risk a sore backlash so speak the fogeys, sipping malts at their chimney table sages who, despite old faults keep soccer-slick and stable they bleak from corrugated faces weary with vexation remark on endless wild-goose chases and irksome deviation regret that we’re so boring as boring as can be begin a bleak outpouring peevish, peppery emphasising everyone’s not swooning with delight in the eyes of many fans we babble with no bite but we’re adept at self-applause and clever-dick assertions which is why despite the flaws some think we’re honest persons so speak the elders as they tally our literary sins like storylines that shilly-shally before one ends, the next begins or pieces dressed in rhyme and rhythm fancy primped as fact why do we reckon folk so dim and easy to distract so daft they see no difference can’t tell chalk from cheese which items waft a whiff of sense and which are fripperies loose ends flapping in the air lots of lazy lies slapdash stuff and devil-may-care no, don’t apologise just wait a bit! there’s other things we also want to say apart from gouty mutterings we have respects to pay! we’re awed by your tenacity and sheer application despite an odd capacity for mass alliteration despite each frilly body-swerve sidestep, roundabout you’ve stuck with it and kept your nerve and swept away all doubt as to your skill and sanity to tackle such a task though we’d have mentioned vanity if you had thought to ask because the people to persuade will flatter to a fault until your project gets mislaid in some forgotten vault perhaps because it threatens their easy-osy hours like other bolshie cretins you’re out to scotch their powers you’re just a gung-ho dreamer hyping soccer’s plight another red redeemer who’ll put the system right admittedly, your thesis is beautiful in bits but comfy in their offices they’ll see few benefits hang it all, that verse’s a mess! our sense of tense is smitten how on earth could they assess what hasn’t yet been written? no, it’s witty, you insist it shows old minds are sharp we aren’t gaga or exist in some historic warp hey, old age is not an issue if football’s what you crave it afflicts your whole life through from the cradle to the grave so frankly we don’t really need a hoary compliment we’re an oldish, blimpish breed but not incompetent though now we’re dawdling just like you rather jolty, out of joint doing what we shouldn’t do skewing off the point well, let’s go straight! it’s time to ditch scoops and scams and such we’ll stick with football on the pitch beginning with the dutch do you mind how we enthused about the great brazil how pele and his pals bemused the planet with their skill about the might magyars in pioneering roles puskas and his diamond stars designing wondrous goals about the royals of madrid a team of many nations how we gawped at what they did supreme new age sensations! we scanned old film black and white watched vamped-up videos aflame with lyrical delight you went and wrote all those fine lines of praise and glory lavish rave reviews this was no hot story not tomorrow’s news yet you knew where you were going you were heeding good advice vivid verses fresh and flowing full of feeling, full of spice might arouse the lumpish masses galvanise the crowds maybe prick the blazered classes heedless in the clouds yes, you knew what you were doing you were penning simple plans no puffery, no ballyhooing – then, alas, you meet the fans we mean, of course, the honest ones the conscience of the sport though scoffers call them charlatans and smarty-pants support yet in sunny times or storms they do not miss a match starchy in their uniforms they keep a beady watch check the rank and file is there all present and correct to belt the songs and shout and swear their utter disrespect for wild weekend invasions when unwelcome guests bellow provocations and mock our interests especially in foreign banks offshore, far away in dealings done to stoke the ranks with infants who can play prodigies who’ll fill the gaps in our academies whenever local stocks collapse we traffic overseas and what’s so wicked about this? for years this has been a profitable business and premier routine! they’d lots of revelations stuff like the above off-field machinations tales of hate and love the comings and the goings of dissipated stars the to-ings and the fro-ings of the latest tsars sure, you listened avidly and got illumination the game’s much more, they made you see than matchday expectation the premier is much, much more than just a super league it’s even coded metaphor for megabuck intrigue for buying cheap and selling dear on a global scale it’s the realm of the racketeer who never goes to jail who makes a bomb on dotcom fraud on vague computer crime then launders all the loot abroad and skips the scene in time stories about glorious booms about inglorious busts the goodly moments and the glooms gourmet feasts or crusts it’s mind contamination daily and intense sensation on sensation designed to influence the musings of the masses our weakness for romance it’s not because we’re asses we seek extravagance but because each humdrum day it offers a release something unforeseen to say a conversation piece conveyed with dry conviction free of boring fact a funny bit of fiction spun solely to extract a few rare beams of sunshine from frosty, wintry souls withered by a lifetime whine at biased refs and offside goals so funny even cynics laugh at least affect a grin before they scan each paragraph for parables within perhaps a hint of hidden fire titbits still to come tales of envy and desire discomfiting for some but yummy fare for customers who love such situations and couldn’t give a monkey’s cuss for on-field fluctuations it’s offbeat capers that they crave conveyed in juicy leaks when home-bred heroes misbehave and hog the news for weeks aye, pots of money can be earned from premier spin-offs you listened avidly and learned why fat tycoons and toffs were not the only ones to see the good times coming and seize the opportunity to get the markets humming drumming up a clientele in teeming, untapped lands our reps had images to sell and celebrated brands and sponsorships and . . . bloody hell we’ve gone a touch askew we’ve got these urgent things to tell but blether on like you! yes, you detest the hurry-scurry of big league enterprise the hectic money-grabbing flurry the busy fingers in the pies boardroom greed is sordid stuff you constantly refrain yes, indeed! that’s true enough yet how do we explain this filthy rich fixation that puts you in a stew this manic wealth creation begun in ninety-two the year when the first division went and changed its name which many deemed a naff decision but very soon became our pride and joy, the premier a global cynosure a structure envied everywhere powerful and pure especially in playing skills if not in other ways like if you fail to pay the bills you fall on evil days inevitably, clubs will fall into dire arrears because the owners get in thrall to licensed profiteers fashionable high street banks and lesser loan sharks too exploiting interest rates with thanks accruing revenue piles on piles of solid cash from upstart soccer bosses who foresee a coming crash and cushion private losses by purchasing a slick machine with a golden touch a better buy there’s never been thank you very much the dutch, you mutter! yes, okay just wait a little while first it’s fitting to convey the utter greed and guile which sees our country’s pride and joy as mere merchandise a useful debt dispensing toy that readily supplies a steady cashflow, stream on stream precious and profuse a sterling outlet to redeem a mess of iou’s well, time to wash away the mess restore your trademark name revive the family business play the premier game grab as much as you can get it’s time to hit the trail tell them that a date’s been set the club is up for sale you’re the owner, after all so you decide what’s what besides, you’ve earned the wherewithal bye-bye and that is that your factories and doing fine from detroit to tampa bay on each reprieved assembly line delighted workers pay tribute to the risks extreme you took to save their jobs investing in some glitzy scheme dreamt up by limey snobs some ostentatious fantasy a super league refined maybe it was e s p that made you buy it blind or maybe desperation a gamble to stay rich or a sense of fascination which would soon bewitch not only english fans but ones east and west and pole to pole both purists and vulgarians enthusing heart and soul blimps and bigots voicing coos drooling in a trance likewise yobboes and yahoos succumbing all at once to a feast of beauty football at its best investors felt a duty to show an interest in a product rare indeed ingredients dearly bought remarkable for flair and speed especially of thought one-touch, two-touch, pass, pass, pass pass and keep possession keep it moving on the grass with adequate aggression and total application all for one and one for all ceaseless concentration on and off the ball! yes, the premier’s a winner from the very start a prodigious money-spinner cunning in the art of delivering at a level other nations fail to match so let them go and join the devil we’re the boys to watch! which is why we catch the eye of every kind of chancer for instance, there’s a yankee guy scrabbling for an answer to the pressing question of a safety net since market indigestion is spawning massive debt and since his business concerns already feel the chill he’s not the sort who sits and yearns for an early miracle it happens! some big owners each a hallowed name become bewildered moaners disgruntled with the game weren’t they always in the black never in the red! when the cash supply went slack they did without instead! they were frugal, full of care dealing decently! take a look, the books are there if you want to see! but now they can’t be really sure if they’re poor or rich now income and expenditure are mystic notions which they check on private telly which in a twinkle beams texts both sweet and smelly about tomorrow’s teams and fixture lists and big match dates impending euro trips family-class subscription rates the latest sponsorships impressive reconstruction plans requiring hard decisions excessive comments from the fans regarding league positions then faxes from the faddists who crave a home-made side waving electronic fists against the rising tide of alien invaders blond and black and brown and red sophisticated raiders despite being born and bred in far and feudal places aloof from football’s roots oozing airs and graces bravura in their boots push a button! there they are the new tv sensations hordes of them and each a star in our league of nations a crying shame! there’s no excuse! the faddists howl in fever why can’t our coaching schools produce a native high-achiever! our squads are stacked with foreign brats a brash, exotic mix add lots of dais and macs and pats . . . and think of sixty-six we still turn pale and trembly wet-eyed and all wound up when we remember wembley our very own world cup did it really happen then not all that long ago did eleven Englishmen valiantly show how pleased they were to represent our green and pleasant land to spare no pains till all was spent as mr ramsay planned defend, attack! stonewall or storm! do it as a team! they had a duty to perform and realise a dream with patriotic spirit devotion to the cause no cliquey ***** to stir it no dressing-rooms seesaws what we got was blood and thunder guys who’d graft through aching hurt harassing classy teams asunder sweating proudly for the shirt a modest game-plan altogether marked by honest grit plugging at it hell for leather . . . oh balls and bells and bugger it we’ve left the owners high and dry despairing of tomorrow their days and nights tormented by extremes of spleen and sorrow they’re growing very nervous suffer turns of stress dear lord, they pray, preserve us from merchants of excess yes, we’re premier elite accustomed to excel yet suddenly we’re obsolete we cannot choose but sell see the electronic fashion by which deals are done the indecent, phoney passion for fortunes lost and won see those new metallic ways sanctioned, don’t forget by slick politicos who praise the normality of debt buy now, they cry, pay tomorrow now’s the time to splash u k bankers let you borrow barrowloads of cash you’re very welcome to their lolly spend it anywhere ten million, say, in napoli twenty in auxerre will get a fine young keeper and a hitman capped for france mind also they come cheaper if you settle in advance no chance of that! we’ve had enough premier transactions too many piggies at the trough too many sick transactions god knows how we’re still thriving! maybe it’s true love our football strong and striving still rated far above all the other superleagues in europe and elsewhere so why then do those upstart pigs fill us with despair? because we sense they are a breed brash beyond belief who’ll grind our premier with greed into early grief niggard creatures with no shame selfish to the core it isn’t they don’t love the game but they love money more the love of money, money the filthy evil root clings to life’s whole journey if you let its lure pollute honest reputations built across the years rosy expectations of brilliant careers aye, fans and family and friends employers now and then accept occasional weekends when fit and flush young men relax from all the pressures of tough top-level jobs and savour thirsty pleasures among the yups and yobs in city centre places with a cocktail clientele entry only when the faces and the credits ring a bell . . . excuse me, sir, but may i say it’s all a bit too much your fancy’s leading you astray first you ditch the dutch then you gabble on and on preaching to excess that greed’s the new criterion for premier success that achievements on the pitch are not what now appeals but spin-off profits, getting rich doing sordid deals traits which mark our current crop of mediocrity conducting their jules rimet flop to themes of me! me! me! a troupe of gifted wonders england’s finest sons committing schoolboy blunders silly twists and turns that mess their balance on the ball and spoil the simplest pass no zip! no zest! no poise at all! a modicum of class as sterile and as stale as you could ever see it took a thousand vuvuzelas to soothe our misery they were serially bland on three ‘demanding’ dates algeria, slovenia, and the united states who were winners of the group while we sneaked second slot which put us truly in the soup against the german juggernaut it’s them and us! like hot and cold! we’re inert and coarse but they are fervent, bright and bold an overwhelming force at first they can’t believe their luck what ails the ancient foe! this anglo bunch has gone amuck and do not seem to know they represent a nation a proud, defiant race famed for confrontation always in-your-face why then do they not behave disdainful and defy? why play as if they want to wave south africa goodbye? the hows and whys, the alibis for four ghastly games we’re fed a mash of truths and lies and mentions of some names players, coaches, men in suits embroiled in mean distractions rows and wrangles, rash disputes petty-minded factions ach! here, incidentally are the sorry stats the mangy, meagre tally of our wealthy brats first, the group games: we played three won one, drew two next, knocked out by germany without too much ado four matches altogether scored three, conceded five now the leading question’s whether england’s honour can survive our reputation’s now at stake because the world of soccer struggled hard to keep awake and watch such mediocre bumbly, fumbly mummy’s boys outthought, outfought, outclassed where oh where the john bull joys of our doughty past! where the robsons, kidds and waddles the hoddles and the wrights lads who frowned on fiddle-faddles and relished bonny fights! where fowler, shearer, sheringham keegan, trevor francis lads who didn’t give a damn and never shirked the chances! billions blink and rub their eyes and sense things aren’t right these cannot be the selfsame guys they see on satellite and yet they’ve got the very same names and shapes and faces premier stars who grace the game in various global places every single week, it seems they’re on television playing for superior teams in our top division occasionally subtle creative now and then but rarely in a muddle since nine times out of ten they’ve specialists to left and right as well as close behind insisting that their touch be light and simple and refined pass and run, pass and run focus upon run and pass enjoy it fully and have fun or never make world class! we also blinked a bit at first there was a crisis here! incredibly, the very worst our heroes faint with fear wary of the limelight glare grouchy and uptight wishing they were safe elsewhere far from public sight in a balmy place that pleases on a golden beach bookies, booze and bits and pieces within easy reach wishful thinking! here they are panicky no doubt desperate to disappear before their secret’s out you’re mystified? well, simplified this is what it means every leading premier side falls short on english genes home-bred bargains are so bleak opportunities so lean the native prodigies we seek are born to blush unseen elsewhere, though, things aren’t so abroad the market’s humming with talent agents on the go engaging, welcoming pricey bids for likely lads quick and slick and spirited negotiating big fat scads of salaries unlimited for earnest youth of many skills and spunky as can be groomed early in the principles of football harmony taught from childhood in good ways of clicking as a team delighting pundits with displays on a united theme coached in concentration they focus without fuss on total application for ninety minutes plus heart and soul in every ploy selfless through and through bringing elegance and joy to all the things they do notice, too, they don’t resort to solo dances on the ball togetherness is what they’ve got all for one and one for all no fits and starts, no huff and puff no jealousies or piques no big-headed, pompous stuff no dishonest streaks so there they are! celebrities the premier’s star turns exhibiting an expertise that well and truly stuns with its passwork and precision tempo and panache its vitality and vision owing nothing to the cash inducements and incentives their big league boardroom offers the glittering bonuses it gives from overflowing coffers wildcat bonuses, that is something on the side but let’s avoid analysis as our boys wide-eyed wonder if their ears erred because it sounded odd the pre-match pep talk they just heard so free with perk and prod sorry, lads, to intervene says the mouthpiece from the board i’ve upset your fixed routine but certain things can’t be ignored this cup-tie means an awful lot a stern, demanding test you’ve got to give it all you’ve got and do your very best that’s the message from upstairs where members air high hopes they also mention tax-free shares in big brown envelopes five-figure bounties from the banks for your grit and drive unstinting tokens of their thanks provided we survive well, best of british! work non-stop try very hard to win with these nice pledges from the top you’ll be bursting to begin so mind cooperation no personal mishaps keep your concentration not a single lapse! no, their ears do not err it’s that same tiresome cry - once the action starts out there remember you must try to beaver at your very best bellicose and bold play with zip and zing and zest don’t blow hot and cold! strive away and do your best together as a team try your very damnedest keep alive our euro dream! irksome talk! outrageous! it fills them with unease they work hard for their wages and other fancy fees hard and keen and intrepid they give it all they’ve got they always do! they always did scrupulously taught to play with passion, lots of flair and hale and hearty joy taught soccer is a love affair besotting man and boy (and woman also, more and more as mentioned later on but meantime we shall hold the door and bid her to be gone) so they resent the notion the general conceit that when you cross an ocean to sign for an elite affluenza is the spur a vulgar lust for loot a sordid need to prosper before you smash a foot or flying studs make smithereens of your fearless head all kinds of awful unforeseens may strike a contract dead . . . och, you’ve caught the bug again the common fan’s disease why do sane quite normal men wallow in anxieties go instantly ecstatic and trill a rigmarole just because some midfield prick miskicks a simple goal or, like you, they ballyhoo events already cold embroider them as fresh and new though they’re a year old? listen, this longwinded scene you wish us to believe it’s pish! eyewash! cheap and mean! these guys are not naïve (continuing) [comments] => 1 [counter] => 213 [topic] => 43 [informant] => eleven7 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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