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Array
(
[sid] => 173790
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Afterthoughts - Part 5 Final
[time] => 2012-09-10 17:43:46
[hometext] => Part 1 located at http://www.your-poetry.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=172789
[bodytext] => yes, well . . . if you suppose so most wise and witty seer who likes to watch each soccer show swilling pints of beer . . . our sweet f a would like to spread jam and joy for all in fact their plans are fancy led the charms of wealth enthral it’s a mission, a vocation a league of milk and honey they discharge an obligation dispensing mints of money it’s the way that things pan out you’re earning more than crumbs but if you get the chance, no doubt you plump for juicy plums money-spinning euro ties huge fees from live tv and a million pubs beneath the skies all pay a nightly fee guaranteeing heaving bars dense with raucous boozers viewing soccer’s superstars the whiz kids and the bruisers listen, i really have to hurry time is flying past and my wife is in a flurry panic-stricken and aghast that i’m scheming something terrible early on in june something i can’t tell her till next friday afternoon when our tickets are collected and the bookings and the bus she’ll go bonkers as expected and babble on delirious damn the lot of us to hell howl that we’re cuckoo we deserve a padded cell it’s africa anew despite the daily agony of the last two years the national disharmony the traumas and the tears! why do you need to pick up speed to write this feeble stuff! it’s trivial, you must concede a mere household huff it’s nothing of the bloody kind i’ve spent two wretched years trying to adjust my mind allay suspicious fears as to the richness of the jam and the measure of the joy do we applaud this selfish scam this unenglish ploy? you’ll mind the premier kicked off in 1992 all of a sudden we were toff as if born anew we’d been static, out of touch dreary matches week by week but much too proud to ask the dutch to teach us their technique since the early seventies holland’s game had thrived they’d sought no help from overseas yet cleverly contrived a dynamic football model of teamwork, grit and graft meshed with natural flair and skill by coaches who would craft . . . a system dizzily bizarre a cockeyed affectation? no, not so! it’s still by far our biggest fascination barca play it, so do spain i’ve watched them, man and boy they educate, they entertain they fill you full of joy they aren’t there just for the jam but to compete dingdong you feel they wouldn’t give a damn they’d play the whole day long for a poke of peanuts if they got the call unlike our wealthy local mutts who will not kick a ball until they know precisely what the bonus is today tucked away so nicely in a bank beyond the bay . . . the world cup final, twenty-ten had minutes still to go nil-nil the score and that was when they nearly stole the show the dutch, i mean! they might have won but missed an easy chance so a great injustice wasn’t done they didn’t kill romance and spain then scored the winning goal and johan cruyff relaxed though total football’s heart and soul had been severely taxed by the anti-football style of his former team dirty, ugly, vulgar, vile became his post-match theme their hard and ugly tackles straight from the kick-off raised his stylish hackles made him slate and scoff at tactics gross and grinding not the gospel of michel spain, though, weren’t minding they managed very well with basic skills like ball control and nimble shifts of pace essential to the subtle role of improvising space with a one or two-touch pass ever-running off the ball covering each blade of grass before the interval! you told us this stuff long ago when your song was young and tales of wonder, tales of woe tripped easy from your tongue so why a second helping of the holland role and your usual yelping about their ball control? well, i have a public reason and a personal one too it’s been announced next season there’s a coaching complex due in the greater london zone campuses already built perhaps a gesture to atone for a sense of guilt which infects fans everywhere since we can’t survive when this season in the premier the average was five players who were english born in the first eleven which rests our case, far-gone, forlorn from patriotic heaven now prick your ears! concentrate! take this little test: when fifa picked the twenty-eight they rated world-cup best how many were from england? none! well done, it’s true how many wore the premier brand? none! full marks to you i’ll tell you a solution to our football poverty despite the mad transfusion of billions from tv we english speak incessantly about italy and spain and germany and france maybe but how do we explain how do we rouse and rally our relations with the dutch is it maybe jealousy that they’ve achieved so much? soon they’ve got these giants ajax, feyenoord, psv soon, too, a queue of clients liking what they see bidding for any surplus stock from their academies . . . the soccer scene gets quite a shock in the early seventies when the first batches of graduates appear and folk crowd into matches for something’s happening here something wonderful to watch football full of joy supplied with elegant dispatch adept at every ploy and does it stutter to a stop a frequent on-field thing when fat cat clients come to shop on a lavish fling? no, fresh talent promptly flows from the production line fully-fashioned fellows who fit the grand design of michel’s exacting coaches and well know what to do familiar with approaches we english never knew but now there’s one thing we know well dutch coaches are the best year on year they excel so it’s in our interest to compel the moneymen who manage our fat kitty to get their chequebook and a pen and emulate man city shell out millions week by week a trick that should suffice choosing the pure greed technique is cheap at half the price! if we can tempt some maestro guys to come across the sea and help our teachers galvanise a champion policy . . . sometimes, pal, you seem naive wet behind the ears not all folk, would you believe are football profiteers many staff do no careering they’re happy where they are except on friday nights appearing in their local bar your idea is a goner no offers will be made dutch and anglo-saxon honour can’t be overplayed! now why didn’t we undertake this idea before when our big new league began to make millions more and more and why didn’t they invest in our own young blood at play were the f a’s fat profits best spend on foreign pay? youthful excellence from abroad was freely bought and sold and once the bosses gave the nod silver turned to gold as they did complicated sums then multiplied by ten to figure out the incomes of these elite young men who needs big costly complexes when you’ve got premier cash! and which do-gooder flexes his morals for a clash! the premier was exciting high-powered at all times humdingers kept delighting fresh air from distant climes and don’t forget to mention high-quality provision which got powerful attention from the world of television . . . they did not spend their gains and means nor scupper their resources on english youth doing tough routines through long and complex courses the decision brought upheaval to many youthful lives it sowed the seeds of evil and still it spawns and thrives were they supine under pressure from premier interests or were their reasons simon-pure . . . well, there the matter rests ach, to hell with greed and money why not some chits of joy! certain days were always sunny when i was a little boy ecstasy! euphoria! my team, a c milan channel four, serie a watching with my gran on sundays in september in the afternoon continuing, i remember until early june both of us were football crazy oldie, teeny-weeny bedazzled by baresi donadani and maldini but she reserved her chief regard to three with the goalden touch van berten, gullit, rijkaerd real supermen – and dutch when any of the three would score as they often did she’d whoop and waltz around the floor like a dizzy kid oops, the dutch again! i prate i should be more discreet but if you wish to speculate they’re the ones to beat put every fiver you can spare on a sweet and stroppy side which contrives foul play and flair and parades excessive pride yet they also play the total style that’s made dutch football great followers travel many a mile and much appreciate the wizardry that . . . by the by i’m useless at foreseeing perhaps holland versus germany not easy refereeing! england? their manager is new and he’s a native son his appointment recently came through which means it can’t be fun moulding, motivating the squad in four weeks of less not much joy there! the f a’s mad good luck, roy and good bless he’ll already know the riddle regarding gifted players lads of talent, front and middle yet skivers too and strayers no, not their fault, he’ll be aware since they were never taught it was a dastardly affair to sell their team-mates short high-flying trainees at the time were wrapped in cotton wool some gymnastic drills were prime five-mile runs and sprints were cool where, though, was the craft and guile the thoughtful use of space the subtle, sly manoeuvre while you raised or dropped the pace? where non-stop participation concentration more and more ninety minutes’ application team effort back and fore? it’s loyalty and duty and no snotty quibbles you focus absolutely refrain from selfish dribbles the leading premier sides of course hide these fits and starts they field a largely foreign force that finds it in their hearts to disguise such deviations with kindly little shifts no niggling aggravations and soon the weather lifts . . . in internationals, some say they’re playing the same game millionaires on holiday traitors without shame! however wise the management however fine they tune it the team won’t fathom what is meant by a stylish balanced unit much of the above, please note relates to the recent past roy, please prescribe the antidote release us at long last from the awful festering shock the ungodly ignominy our football’s now a laughing stock a money comedy! listen, you go on and on about this creature wealth as if it were some demon threatening our health you’re getting very boring really wearisome look! some of them are snoring some are dazed and dumb! you mentioned, mind, that you would end on cheerful bits and pieces you’d neither pamper nor pretend no phoney artifices you also said . . . yes, yes i know i’d tell you joyous tales the trouble is i’ve got to go tomorrow the ferry sails and i’ve got lots of thing to do like wine and dine the wife and promise i won’t loose a screw but lead a normal life if we show no improvement on and off the pitch we must have pace and movement team togetherness which . . . typical! i’m in a whirl! where was i? yes, here’s two exotic scenes to tickle you till our pilgrimage is through when i shall tell you twenty more if i’m still fit and able they’ll not annoy and they’ll restore joy to our corner table first, a portly chappie is prancing off a bench leaping, dancing, wildly happy and nothing’s going to quench his triumph as he runs the line euphoria in his eyes no fantasy! it’s genuine he’s lifting messi to the skies! i’ll let you figure that one out a world cup incident the second is a speech devout from a foreign gent it’s neither haughty nor defiant original, you’ll agree delivered by a chelsea giant in two minutes on tv . . . [comments] => 0 [counter] => 113 [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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