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Array
(
[sid] => 172789
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Afterthoughts - Part 1
[time] => 2012-06-02 22:30:55
[hometext] => (football fan)
[bodytext] => dominic duff is tough as teak and tackles with a will he has puff and pace and good technique lots of natural skill sprays fine passes left and right dribbles with great flair his shots are sheer dynamite he's lethal in the air stylish, versatile, adept at back, midfield or wing he's really vintage class except he's got this image thing stick an elbow in a face scotch a dodgy knee spike them in a private place quite accidentally clip an ankle, rip a shirt flash a stud or two hack the markers till they hurt kick their keeper too do a nosedive, writhe in pain just inside the box send their bullyboys insane with signs unorthodox hit a striker, knock him flat the minute play begins drop some witty chit and chat about his origins such merry ploys are all the fashion they're premier routine the bruiser now and the assassin police our football scene you cavil like a callow youth 'rules! officials! ref!' learn, you fool, eternal truth that clique is dumb and deaf and blind besides as belfry bats which honest fans well know pompous, whistle-happy prats who like to spoil the show where am i? yes, the big league boys don't miss a dirty trick they heed the coach like clockwork toys except for dominic who's quick and bold and twinkle-toed each week his talents shine though he won't do as he is told and keep the party line at throw-ins, would you credit it he won't steal half a yard he's never even merited a single yellow card he doesn't spit, he doesn't foul he doesn't swear or scoff or hit the deck with stricken howl to get a fellow off he won't dispute a stupid flag scorns to show dissent he's neither thug nor scallywag in fact a proper gent a real sporting paragon decent through and through a species nearly dead and gone rare as diamond blue fair and square, simon pure corinthian to the core a model player and mature you couldn't ask for more in point of fact the premier does its whiz kids nowadays are primed in tactics devious and misanthropic ways hot of head and hard of heart honed on raw emotions they wouldn't give a sparrow fart for gentlemanly notions see them swank from match to match bejewelled and tattooed a harum-scarum home-made batch exuding attitude see them flaunt like feisty girls cosmetic airs and graces screaming locks or gleaming skulls on sleek designer faces every time they notch a goal see them run amok they have this bolshie rigmarole that leaves good folk in shock jig and jaunt and flap and flip rave like an imbecile bare the torso, wave a strip somersault, cartwheel cut a gleeful stomach glide into lush green grass till you're smothered deep inside a heaving, seething mass of sweaty topsy-turvy mates swopping hugs and snogs revealing rather rampant traits and dallying like dogs while hordes of our newfangled fans plus millions round tv thrill to their shenanigans and raise a mad whoopee yes, every week that passes you see indisciplines filthy rich young asses dressed up in lion skins bring dishonour to the game and do not give a hoot paw and pant and know no shame in the manner of the brute it's but, you say, a bit of fun a chummy little lark there's always bonding to be done on and off the park oh yes, there's bonding once a week and also at weekends except of course for dominic who diligently spends his leisure time in sober style eats fresh and wholesome food walks wood and field for many a mile and sleeps as athletes should it's while he slumbers sweet and sound his workmates come alive they make their customary round of pub and club and dive swagger in the social swirl the ritzy ballyhoo smoke and suck and sniff their fill swill bucketfuls of brew city centre razzmatazz midnight romps and revels giddy girls ooze oohs and aahs swoop and stomp like devils city centre whirligig hectic razzle-dazzle rock and rollick, snort and swig hanker after hassle tipple till they're tanked enough to hatch some dizzy jinks they fancy doing macho stuff when dripping in their drinks guzzle lager to the gills perspire through every pore snuff and puff and pop more pills strut the disco floor stagger, scrabble, lunge and lurch tip a table, trip a tray they like a rumpus very much a bit of aggro and affray wait, you mutter, what's the point! there's nothing new in this our greatest stars would raze a joint when they went on the ***** what balderdash and babble what tripe and tommyrot! you can't compare this rabble this airy-fairy lot with real stars, with great ones who wove a wizard touch we now breed automatons work-rate clones and such backs who huff and hustle on high-speed forward runs mid-field men of muscle who feed the foreign turns tweedledums and tweedledees processed artisans customised nonentities clockwork fancy dans where now the spirits fey and free who teased the combat zones pure natural ability fair brimming from their bones where the ones who played to please and made the ball sing songs mavericks whose melodies silenced rival throngs where's the ginger pudding the lean and hungry waif brave goalies fell to brooding and no defence stood safe when these two shimmied up the field weaving mazy spells stern rearguards soon rocked and reeled bamboozled by . . . hell's bells, you say i'm talking balls again and frothing like a fool i'm just a fossil specimen a jaundiced johnny bull a rickety old picklehead with a mindless flaw perhaps i haven't even heard of scholes and denis law you gaze at me and make a face and swear i bore you stiff i burble on, i lose the place my story's gone skew-whiff why can't i tell it pat and plain like any normal person step by step in simple vein shorn of wild digression keep it short and tell it straight knit a steady thread there's no great need to ventilate the clutter in my head cut, you say, the silly frills ditch them double-quick stick to goalmouth thrills and spills awaken dominic! it's symptomatic everywhere diversion's now distraction dumbed-down fans need speedy fare and instant satisfaction because their little bits of brain are made of marzipan a nitwit hen would quite disdain their concentration span dominic, you stipulate! he's sleeping in his bed which is where he shall remain till all my spiel is said see muck-a-mucks and millionaires politicos who preen see city slicks who truck in shares the prawn and cocktail scene see belching hordes of hooligans pewed around the pitch - our new prefabricated fans the rabid and the rich they shame the game, these phonies these toadies and yahoos the creeping boardroom cronies the boyos on the booze parasites and posers both oafish and obscene they aren't there, my holy oath to see but to be seen the people's game is going bad less beauty and more beast money-grubbing, money-mad the honest fan gets fleeced ripped off by greedy plc's a sordid, thieving set who gorge themselves on fatcat fees then leave the club in debt the grass is green, the ball is round two teams come out to play the buzz that used to fill the ground is now a vulgar bray a whistle sounds, a match begins sleek sponsors and execs watch only hireling manikins with zeroes on their cheques yes, bosman times are lucrative a juicy free-for-all where every kind of shark and spiv sets up a market stall where shyster agents ply their tricks in every town and region even tractor outfits from the sticks now boast a foreign legion bonanza times! prime telly cash rich uncles, sugar daddies! no wonder now the game's awash in superstars and squaddies mercenaries everywhere (the major force is french) and some indeed have skills to spare while some prefer the bench once they've clinched a jammy deal earn scads of coin per week a twitchy groin begins to squeal a hamstring starts to tweak once they take the gravy train await the lame laments flaked cartilage, a pelvic strain punctured ligaments they fret and brood excessively embroider every hurt even fully fit you'll seldom see them sweating for the shirt sure, now and then the odd surprise arrives from overseas extra special bargain buys like the zolas and henrys but they're mainly heebie-jeebies careful of their limbs obsessed with fees and freebies prone to prickly whims tripe, you say, most bosman boys are happy at their work they're not afraid to play their ploys where mischief-makers lurk with strict instructions to shanghai our fetching foreign aces to flex the studs and scythe knee-high and claim some stretcher cases such guys don't take it easy they aren't fraught with fears that hitmen bluff and breezy will skitter their careers accomplished players do not skive but strive for what they get they know how many beans make five and readily assert their mastery of ball mechanics space and time and motion they don't indulge in pets and panics in spasms of emotion calm and cultured in control even stopper centre-backs saunter upfield on a stroll to pepper the attacks skiffle with the ball and spray fine passes with panache aye, even centre-halves can play as well as biff and bash velvet grit and granite verve power, poise, prowess double-shuffle, swivel, swerve with fervour and finesse versatile, ambitious, clever their coming fanned a flame changed completely and forever the way we play the game okay, okay! just stop right there you've gabbled long enough sure, they've changed the premier and guzzle at its trough now, mind i mentioned unco guys who really do excel extra special bargain buys like ronaldo and mikel well, imported goods like these eclipse our home-bred stock because our crack academies still put back the clock still focus upon fitness stints circuits in the gym touchline jobs and sudden sprints and finish with a swim lots of lengthy, sweaty sessions a dire cross-country run hour by hour of hot exertions five-a-sides for fun too many coaches find it hard to shed the old for new do they adapt, do they discard or maybe wed the two when fresh ideas from abroad are mocked as mere gimmicks their pioneers classed as odd arty-farty mimics continental copycats neurotics on the whole conditioning our british brats body, mind and soul yes, fish grow fur and piggies fly and moggies flap at mice and premier managers are shy and never less then nice and santa calls on xmas eve asleigh from land of lapp romantics thrive on make-believe and i am talking crap my views, you say, are quite bizarre muddled and cock-eyed our coaching isn't up to par our rookie lads denied the fast-track priming that they need attuned, high-flier themes the disciplines they have to heed to realise their dreams solo tasks and teamwork drills on and off the ball a daily dose of basic skills passing most of all knowing when to run and pass spot the channels, sense the space pass and run on mud or grass speed it up or slow the pace when to chase and when to turn when to mark and track learn the day is often won by building from the back watch good practice from the past revamped on video matches with a famous cast fontaine, eusebio beckenbauer, johnny haynes ardiles, charles and such watch teams of beauty, bite and brains like the magyars and the dutch but first of all you watch brazil in world cup winning ways a mesmerising spectacle that makes you gaze and gaze it seems so nice and easy their happy, rhythmic dance so whimsical and breezy a grand extravagance garrincha jinking up the wing the conjuror complete servicing the future king on corkscrew pixie feet blue, green and gold embrace the beat of maracana drums it's fanfare time of trick and treat and here young pele comes pounces on the dipping cross cool and debonair defenders melt like candyfloss and tackle empty air hysteria! euphoria! a rapturous salute the carnival goes all gaga as he contrives to shoot twist 'n shake, jig 'n jive dizzy pirouette right foot strike, a raking drive it's whizzing for the net goal! a goal! a rocket goal! bossa nova bliss sambas rock and bongos roll and . . . ach, i'm miles amiss my fancy flies in ecstasy minding such great play zagalo, vava, didi they waft my wits away they didn't posture or oppress niggle or annoy theirs was a purist business messengers of joy whose artistry could never bore or tax a teenage head deploy them at your teaching core brazil from a to z aye, coach the basics week by week from films such as these teamwork, tempo and technique solo expertise freeze the action, analyse test it on the field disregard the groans and sighs as brutal truth's revealed pleasing patterns on a screen seem so smooth and sane now they find this mean machine is patented on pain yes, it seemed a doddle football at a blink but this exclusive model isn't what they think circles, diamonds and triangles loop and link and flit and flow tie the other sides in tangles one-touch, two-touch, quick-quick-slow lose the ball, so win it back pursue it with aggression harass and harry as a pack till you retrieve possession start again but stay alert don't go hell-for-leather it takes serenity and sweat to put this act together it takes an age to grasp each move to groove and improvise and early training sessions prove a horrible surprise confusion! clutter! utter mess! it's quite impossible and very far from effortless this blueprint of brazil! the wise coach knows the difference what's easy on the eye derives from constant diligence and comes in short supply aptitude is not enough nor fitness, strength and speed if you aspire to big league stuff it's inner drive you need unflagging single-mindedness he tells each wannabe there's the ticket to success the vital quality the coach, mind you, can get it wrong beset by ifs and buts he sifts and culls the soft and strong the maybes from the mutts he vetoes some erratic kid who neither marks nor shoots two seasons on a million quid won't buy his sponsored boots pro football is a funny game star-crazy and star-crossed for every upstart who wins fame ten thousand more are lost a lottery! pure hit-or-miss fickle fortune's whim one minute they cry god, gee whiz we've got to go for him he really looks the beckham part the perfect p r dream the next they reckon he lacks heart he's surplus to the team anyway, it's puskas now 1950's superman and many soccer buffs avow the eternal number one budding starlets need to study this wee guy overweight no, i'm not being fuddy-duddy he's the greatest of the great a paunchy cove of major rank bull neck and barrel chest a pocket tank who ate and drank with earthy zeal and zest see his left, a polished peg in deft and dandy mode yet deadly as a powder keg ever ready to explode caps eighty-four, goals eighty-three scored with that same foot the other leg just dangled free and his heading was a hoot he led them to exalted levels his squad of superstars the mighty magyars, the red devils hungary's proud hussars they played with bite and beauty shored by classy backs puskas, czibor, hideghuti in lickety-split attacks spot-on passing, supple roles made scoring swift and sweet netted them a glut of goals against the world's elite they came to wembley, won six - three though england did their best then, insult upon injury seven - one in budapest twelve and twenty, thirty-two matches undefeated imagine! is it really true? will it ever be repeated! by then a near veteran . . retirement? god forbid! no, he mapped a better plan he'd settle in madrid di stéfano's already there another ageless star today's caudillos don't compare mere shrimps to caviar the great blond arrow's will to win wouldn't let him stop even though his hair was wearing thin he'd plenty still on top he'd graze on every blade of grass and time could not diminish the impromptu move, the elusive pass the smooth majestic finish and paco gento rates a mention a manic box of tricks defenders quaked in apprehension developed nervous tics big strapping backs fell gibbering shivered in their skins whenever he zipped down the wing on perky little pins he'd skip and scoot and loop the loop prankish as a puppy he's cock a snook and cock-a-hoop practise keepie-uppie! they're soon a virtuoso side in a brand-new bernabeau and on a glorious copa ride five europas in a row sure, coach with cameo and clip choose key material but for sheer craftsmanship show eintracht v real a final with a message stark for zenophobic sorts one summer night at hampden park jam-packed with roaring scots who hadn't seen this stuff before and rooted in high spirits fast, flowing football on the floor served up for ninety minutes plus goals in plenty! seven - three despite some staunch defence a rare, exotic recipe a feast of excellence by god, these foreign guys were good two sides with skills to spare they basically understood a bladder full of air moves much faster than a man and hit with vim and vision precision passing truly can confuse the opposition the scots applaud them to the skies and strangely do not quibble when not a single player tries a good old-fashioned dribble zig and zag and twist and turn tease them to a tizzy do a shimmy, dummy run drive defenders dizzy swerve and swivel, come and go back and fore and fore and back wiggle-waggle to and fro show a wizard knack oh yes, it's wonderful to watch it titillates, beguiles yet hardly ever wins a match despite these weird wiles yes, such art enthrals the masses ballwork brave and droll but by the time the artiste passes or has a crack at goal the rearguard has rallied ramparts are restored because he dilly-dallied and totally ignored his wing-backs overlapping his strikers finding space they're frothing now and flapping and purple in the face now the box is cluttered with bodies bellicose obnoxious words are muttered and curses come to blows baulk and jostle, cheek by jowl skirmish tooth and nail but, one eye shut, the ref cries foul it's all to no avail once again a chance is lost and he has hurt the team if only he had passed or crossed not dribbled in a dream likely they'd have caused a shock heroes to a man with but a minute on the clock they'd win it zero-one! ach, dreams are two-a-penny eintracht and real pay scant regard if any to things imaginal these maestros, though, can dribble too it's there for all to see but selfish sideshows they eschew they do it differently see that small one, strongly built bursting down the middle like an arrow, at full tilt without one twirl or twiddle a mere twitching of the hips a bit of buttock jigging befools the back before he rips a rocket at the rigging see yon midfield he-man dispensing grief and dole once in a while this demon as if to ease his soul chooses to caress the ball flirts with it instead then light of foot and lyrical he sallies on ahead jinks and juggles up the field leaves tacklers in the lurch it's plain as day this link and shield enjoys an angel's touch hurries forward at full lick with subtle skews and tacks phantom feints and fetches slick hoodwink the centre-backs no indeed, he's not a dreamer who doodles on the job now he shapes to hit a screamer dupes the keeper with a lob the film catches it fine well solo, ad-lib stuff real and eintracht personnel who dribble off the cuff who wow the crowd as you'd expect excite and tantalise with sorties sudden and direct and shots that pop the eyes mind you, the crowd's already wowed by magic carpet skills already marvels long and loud at constant miracles they say it was the greatest game the best there's ever been a million fans still fondly claim their presence on the scene still can't resist a chronic need to tell a first-hand tale kick by kick and screed on screed they dazzle with detail (it wasn't normal british fare no, this was master class the ball refused to go by air preferred to stay on grass god's truth, but every blessed guy however much harassed scorned to put it in the sky and passed and passed and passed) they tell each move and counter-move and what the highlights were particulars which clearly prove that they were really there we pay them due attention note how proud they feel it would be rude to question such undoubted zeal or mention with a muted yawn they'd maybe turned up late since most of them were barely born on that historic date nineteen-sixty, may thirteen a very special night europe-wide on the telly screen live in black and white not a gremlin! no one cursed or booed the referee! it was a famous double-first for football and tv aye, fans do tend to fantasise and sometime live the dream they'll fill you full of mellow lies to boost their self-esteem technically, yes, they lie they weren't there in person so what! since then they've seen the tie in each and every version and still they tingle and enthuse and sniffle happy tears still hold the same unshrinking views after fifty years! this was stuff they didn't see on saturday afternoon fine-spun football flowing free to a quickstep tune the real thing! the people's game in all its simple glory absolutely not the same old rough and tumble story the same stale sport of kick and rush crush the so-and-so's forget all goody-goody mush respecting fellow pros hurt the strikers, do not spare the sure two-footed crunch catch their skipper in the air with a rabbit punch tackle like a terrier maul them front and back flash the studs until you hear a metatarsal crack up and at them every chance don't give a devil's damn adopt the fierce aggressive stance you picked up in your pram . . . dads and granddads most of all would glower at the scene go berserk on the couch and bawl for god's sake, get stuck in! of course it was the same at school a playground education enforcers proud and purposeful ruled through confrontation stroppy brutes who kicked you silly dished it out dingdong until you kowtowed willy-nilly and bootlicked to belong because you had begun to twig those rough and raw cadets those rowdy brats so bad and big were also teachers' pets aye, agents, touts and top team scouts crowded the touch-lines come to watch these catchment louts the champion under-nines soften up a rival side buffet them to bits then ruthless as the roaring tide launch a scoring blitz goodness and mercy have they none they just pound on pell-mell and though the league's already won the county shield as well they know that spotters hover to monitor their play alert for boys who bovver and flourish in a fray alert for pre-teen sluggers fit and tall and tough mean, accomplished muggers professional enough not to dither or get shoddy or skylark for a laugh get that gifted, little body slice the squirt in half give and take but mostly give do what you must do prove that you're competitive vicious through and through put the challenge in waist high claim it was mischance watch him wave the game goodbye from an ambulance weaving through, he took the whack a knee-cap snapped in pieces now he's writhing on his back as aspiration ceases officials shrug, his dad is told rules are rules, good heavens the lad's at least a month too old to stay at under-sevens we do our best, we organise we're always strict and straight but leagues don't run on strength and size or sides of equal weight we operate the proper way at each succeeding stage our system's much more workaday it's simply based on age they're all mad keen to make the team these nippy lads and small they're like the cats that got the cream when summoned to the ball by mad keen teacher coaches who pick their squads with care who loath seeing kids on crutches or wheeling in a chair so it goes! the people's game is goodly yet uncouth sometimes savage, sometimes tame rough as well as smooth a devilish affliction a heavenly allure a general addiction beyond all earthly cure beyond all rhyme and reason it consumes the human race season after season besots the populace frantic fans in fervent moods infest its grassy shrines the faithful in their multitudes chanting mantras, making signs savouring the sacred joys eating pies and taking sips greeting shrill their golden boys divine in skin-tight strips for goodness' sake, do get a grip the irksome voices whine this stuff's thin on zing and zip and slight on storyline you fart about and flap and flail a hopeless, headless chicken is it so hard to spin a tale that makes the pulses quicken you just meander on and on like a blatherskite mouthing off a marathon of psychobabble *****e they're often right, the voices (and usually civil) attentive with advices seldom spouting drivel this time, though, they reckon wrong i'm really in control my story's on the ball and strong i've got a clear goal mind that little, likely lad stretchered off the pitch and mind his apoplectic dad railing round and rich at those official flannelled fools in blazers and school ties who blandly state that rules are rules then blink their mildewed eyes do they truly still believe the sporting spirit lives? are they truly so naive those smooth executives those backseat power blocs who bask in structures obsolete who stare in shock when parents ask why children should compete and why should dates-of-birth decide the grades where pupils play surely size and strength provide a better, fairer way? okay, okay! no more harangues! please don't say any more don't rant and rage and bare the fangs we've heard it all before! yes, nineteen-sixty, may thirteen when millions fell in thrall to football ways just newly seen from eintracht and real and things would never be the same it was the wind of change our hack-and-hoof-it native game would soon seem passing strange soon we'd see fine streamlined teams instead of innocents but sometimes, ach, our best-laid schemes are subject to events situations will arise often unforeseen realities that paralyse perhaps what might have been aye, folk of every stripe and sort were more or less agreed we'd need to remedy or rot our game had run to seed slack on art and aptitude on style that entertains our tactics less than half as good as germany or spain's so we raised a ready chorus craved a speedy fix lord preserve us and restore us we got sixty-six! hail the heroes! chant and sing and union jacks unfurled salute alf ramsay's ing-er-land champions of the world! our matches were at wembley every single one a home-sweet-home assembly strictly partisan at first, though, many fans went flat aghast at what they saw now what would finney make of that! would matthews gape in awe! for on the field our pick and prime were doing shameful things perpetrating football crime - playing without wings! it gets worse! where's jimmy greaves the greatest in the land? i swear to god, our gaffer leaves him sitting in the stand he isn't suitable at all he cannot be controlled he'll do wonders with a ball but won't do as he's told a nifty, nippy cockney star who scores majestic goals he's alpha plus, a vintage car unfit for common roles see him nip and see him dart a wily, weaving wisp adept at ripping walls apart with passes slick and crisp he'll work unwearied in attack inventive and prolific but marking, tackling, tracking back his attitude's horrific which is why he earns a snub why heels are all he kicks because there's neither bench nor sub in nineteen sixty-six well, our wingless wonders enjoy their share of luck they make some early blunders but do not run amuck they stick with ramsay's vision the drills which he devised despite the shrill derision of a nation scandalised by argy-bargy antics and much midfield ado it wasn't for romantics this four-four-two a trim and shipshape name to call a system short on image a shambolic, messy brawl a ninety-minute scrimmage! of course it's since been civilised it's now much prized and pure even then wise coaches recognised its tactical allure anyway, they see it through all very grim and gory sweat blood as they were bid to do and bless their splendid goalie defend in depth, we mustn't lose our honour is at stake just play it tight until we choose to hit them on the break be dogged if not dashing rugged, not refined give their pivots a good bashing stamp on all that kind but don't concede, the gaffer said stand your ground gung-ho you sneak a goal, you go ahead your confidence will grow besides, it happens often even tip-top teams drop their iron discipline when pestered to extremes it isn't pretty but it works you knock them off their stride you clean their faces free of smirks and prick their lordly pride sure, this system isn't pretty but winning ugly's not a sin what matters is the nitty-gritty our country's willing us to win indeed it is! forget the sneers forget the gloom and doom listen to the swell of cheers from terrace, pub and room from wherever people watch on pins and needles, in a stew till a wallop seals the match pips the germans four-two a wicked strike, a shot sublime as both sides gasp and grind as panic spreads in extra-time (no spot-kicks then, you'll mind) there goes the whistle! what a story not at all a fairy-tale alfie's heroes crowned in glory capture football's holy grail the final whistle! great elation celebrations last for weeks fans dilate with admiration on the tactics and techniques which our mastermind devised to deny the very best the guile with which he organised his players for the test just turn the key and lock the door resist with tooth and claw remember if they do not score the least you get's a draw so block and chase and cramp their space declare a buffer zone a rougher, more unwelcome place than they have ever known dent their jaunty foreign phlegm let their tempers spill then if jackie doesn't get them nobby surely will see their full-backs feeling surplus since they've nobody to mark off they go to join the rumpus in the middle of the park from their peaceful little acre safe and sound and well-secured yes, our canny mischief-maker has conveniently lured this twosome from the touchline beat they've trodden seasons long and, yes, the ruse has worked a treat his gambit can't go wrong since now there's lots of space to spare for instant flank attacks forays easy to prepare thanks to absent backs well, the signal's nothing special an upfield punt as planned nicely kicked as at rehearsal into no man's land then a surge, a scorching cross across the box on cue their centre-backs lurch at a loss outnumbered five to two aye, we've a streaker on the wing and a striker like an ox plus three midfielders in full swing swooping on their box stretching for a killer touch to clinch an edgy tie we want that winner very much clouted hard and high so there you are! a great success our four-four-two in essence defensive boredom to excess with blinks of effervescence yet here, there and everywhere at home and work and play you'll find that folk no longer care what the scoffers have to say folk who now strut ten feet tall declare with emphasis we mustn't change our style at all just keep it as it is we've got to stick to this routine our youth must not be gulled we're neither hackneyed nor has-been we're champions of the world! and being ranked at number one warrants we're high class so any borrowed new-look plan would now be merely crass well, folk are much in favour the bulk of them say yes let's all rejoice and savour the pickings of success such good fun, such merry sport the fleeting taunt, the passing tease and so agreeable to gloat at ancient enemies which means, of course, the bagpipe tribes a boozy lot quite lost to shame exuding anti-saxon vibes they belch through every game but, typical, those pesky scots are having none of this they've a surprise for patriots who try to take the ***** alas, next season they're the first to pay a wembley visit devil take them! we're accursed while they are pure exquisite To be continued .... Part 2 soon! [comments] => 1 [counter] => 206 [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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