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(
[sid] => 173121
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Afterthoughts - Part 2
[time] => 2012-06-22 06:06:11
[hometext] => Part 1 located at http://www.your-poetry.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=172789
[bodytext] => keepie-uppies, nutmegs too a circus exhibition cheeky wing-play's what they do for the television three-two the score! which doesn't show the sides are poles apart we're made to look so witless slow prosaic in act and art then they go and give us a second awful shock we must bow down, god help us to another bloody jock a giant really, one john stein glasgow celtic's mastermind who leads his hoops in white and green to raptures unconfined a goal behind, they win two-one europe's bumper prize demolish inter of milan before our goggle eyes aye, history gets written as they join the game's elite the very first in britain to accomplish such a feat and this'll make your senses spin a statistic stark all their bhoys were born within forty miles of celtic park! anyway, we watched on telly and saw how it was done how defence can melt like jelly when its flanks get overrun in the end its shape will crumble under siege from wing to wing it only takes a careless stumble or some silly dithering to make a mess of . . . tell me why your faces flush so red you fix me with an evil eye is it something that i said? our heads, you fool, are swollen sore because your tongue's too long all this scots stuff is a bore it spoils our world cup song surely if you must create a great, immortal rhyme it's ramsay's team you celebrate england in their prime another thing! you seem to hint his lads were pliant cogs tenacious and obedient like well-taught collie dogs that do their bit with bark and bite alert to awkward tasks mark the midfield good and tight exactly as he asks wow, you seem to say, and phew how could our modest lot this decent, ordinary crew lift football's biggest pot? well, mealymouthed is what you are and misguided too you hint we lacked a single star whereas we'd quite a few we'd gordon banks the goalie acknowledged everywhere he was burly, roly-poly and ruled both ground and air strikers lunged like horses wild, unbridled brutes but the big man clutched the crosses plunged among the boots saved each header, lob and drive each volley high and low spurned somersault and swallow dive and such-like bravado gibberish! for goodness' sake all goalies are stark mad that bashful bit, you fruitcake was but his little fad goalies are a race apart crazy, crosspatch freaks strong in body, stout of heart prey to sulky streaks members of exclusive bands they feed on ego trips instead of feet they use their hands they won't wear proper strips mental cases! thick as bricks risking life and limbs they like to flaunt between the sticks their anti-social whims a dark, unbalanced species kamikazi and remote crabbit creatures of caprices - yet the ballast of our sport unabashed they bear the strain brave the tumbles come what may blarney, bully and complain rule the box with much to say bellow lots of scarlet patter see the gameplan doesn't seize sometimes fault and sometimes flatter seldom do they seem at ease enough of goalies! now's your chance you want to puff, i'm sure the excellence and brilliance of bobby charlton, bobby moore with just one more to make it four and hurst an easy pick wasn't he the first to score a final three-goal trick? yes he was and yes we mean to scupper your conceit that they were rank-and-file routine a side of spiceless meat we do believe you're blind and deaf no ifs or buts about it our banks and bobbies and big geoff were global class undoubted but first of all we must deflate your latest piece of guff keepers in fact fascinate and folk can't get enough of hunks who catch their fancy though patchy in the head whose working ways are chancy intuitively led cocky, spunky, swanky call them what you like cantankerous and cranky with a volcanic psyche that can quickly simmer down from fiery hot to icy cold hero, villain, straight man, clown keeper roles are manifold one minute act the teddy part affect a cuddly air the next be berserk, hard of heart a bloody polar bear save a scorcher from the spot raise a fist in pride now chase the touchline idiot who didn't flag offside and rib the wretched referee who's also joined the chase and waves a red card tetchily and pokes it in your face a keeper's cares are never done there's always something new fast asleep he'll toss and turn and thresh the sheets askew a pleasant dream goes spooky he quakes between the sticks a helpless little rookie braving big-game kicks wake up, you fool! you're in your prime you're no demure recruit show those dicks you've done your time they're queuing up to shoot rise and shine, man! mime king kong make the goalposts shrink keep mind and body sweet on song brain and brawn in sync high and low and off the cuff pick their efforts clean power drive and powder puff and all sorts in-between you can thwart the finest whack from twelve short yards away provided you've acquired the knack the chances are you may outsmart the kicker, catch his drift suss him at a glance gauge his every start and shift decode each dalliance there are tricks to every trade and keeping's no exception the seasoned goalie's well prepared for infinite deception do lefties truly choose to shoot to the keeper's right? do those who use the other foot prefer the opposite? flex the legs and bend the knees arch the elbows, hunch the back, clench the knuckles, crunch and squeeze leave the fingers slack loom large and lour as if you need a little bit more space feign to pay no further heed to the furrows of his face spread the hands and brace the feet limber up the legs you're set to keep a spotless sheet as sure as eggs is eggs here he comes! now hold your fire read his run-up pat ground-stroke, side-swipe, high-rise flier daisy-cutter, splat something in the way he slouches scuffs a toe-cap at a sod slightly left of centre crouches lifts his head and drops a nod makes the kicker a mite queasy quickens a suspicious hunch this whole caper seems too easy why's the guy as pleased as punch? hanky-panky! fiddle-diddle! feed the bait and wait the bite left or right? i'll take the middle hit it with a bit of height he dips and dinks! i've got him worried bowed and balanced on his toes well, high time this ball was buried ready, steady, here goes! yes, i'm really set at last head down and steaming in lam that leather at full blast hear that rigging sing our fans will love it very much as he leaps eagle-spread what fun they'll have to see him clutch at empty air instead bang on! bull's eye! a raking drive a fine, ferocious hit he flies and flails and - snakes alive! hell on horseback! *****! dash and dammit! diabolic! devils horned and hooved! after all that fret and frolic the bugger hasn't moved except unhurriedly to raise a rather knobby fist which bops the ball which ricochets into gloomy mist . . . penalties bemuse and blind as many great ones know it's weird how they melt the mind remember baggio italy's cup final star serene, inscrutable he blazed the ball beyond the bar and won it for brazil okay! okay! let up a minute someone grunts and glowers you say their skills are infinite they've got abnormal powers and still you warble hunkydory goalkeeping obsessed but there's another spot-kick story that's hardly been addressed sure, your idols deal with crisis by and large it's what they do they're wise to wheezes and devices booby traps and ballyhoo they withstand great pressure flourish in a pinch give the fans full measure desperate to clinch a juicy, unexpected win a bounty from the board a next round tie at goodison or even annfield road aye, keepers kindle and engage a high regard no doubt but kickers too tread centre stage at the penalty shoot-out and here's the fascinating thing many don't realise the fact is fans are fastening cool penetrating eyes on all the chosen, one by one who take that lonely walk each blowy, blushful, brass-neck man they seriously stalk alert for fluctuations in the body works half-hidden hesitations collywobble quirks once they get the go-ahead do they peak or pine? do feather feet or feet of lead wend from the halfway line? do they toddle? do they trot? strut or slouch or stride? it's sixty metres to the spot and nowhere they can hide see that one shifting up the pitch surefooted, at his ease they aren't fooled! his ankles twitch he's knocking at the knees and this one sturdy as a rock he'll miss and be unmanned they see it coming! shame and shock substance turned to sand big match shoot-outs best of all bring out the very worst the well-loved hero who walks tall is in a blink accursed there he goes, his head erect shoulders soldierly a captain steady and direct though knowing folk agree he's too impetuous by far skimps on core technique scoops his effort off the bar a balls-up, so to speak aye, many find it hard to take the pressure's so acute the stakes are massive, make or break fame or disrepute he broods too much, he's terrified of being thought a fool of messing up and shooting wide and lifelong ridicule he'll be found out, he lacks true grit attentive fans can see he'll lose his nerve and foozle it live on prime tv . . . these penalties were seen at first as just a passing phase but pedants saw with prim lips pursed the end of cup replays they saw who really called the tune and carried all the clout some filthy rich tv tycoon had levied this shoot-out big money talks! it cuts a swathe through rules and regulations cares not a fig for creed or faith or precious reputations a telly mogul scans a sum and finds the figures stink boardroom pandemonium! premier profits shrink! unthinkable! it cannot be cash cows don't run dry we need a spot of gimmickry to catch the public eye let's dramatise the ending play a gameshow ploy viewers love heart-rending scenes of grief or joy euphoria, delirium funk or fortitude peaking in their living-room till they're superglued to tense climatic cup-ties where penalties spellbind with hellish lows and glorious highs and goalie jinks combined oh yes, we'll lure our truants back and rake in scads on scads big business will pay a whack to make us take their ads shoot-out! there's the very word workmanlike and witty sure, some will snicker how absurd six-guns at dodge city! sticklers, fusspots, fogey folk will surely vent their spite our ingenuity's a joke our inspiration trite they'll say we're tarting up the game pursuing vulgar ends we're cheats and crooks! we bear the blame for cheap and glitzy trends! we're parasites! we gorge our guts sucking football's skin such taunts and tantrums and tut-tuts you'd swear we're selling sin! do we cope with all this clamour about our phoney frills our soapy, showbiz glamour our lack of principles? indeed we do! it all pans out sooner than predicted it's dandy viewing there's no doubt and millions get addicted . . . track the quakers, spot the quacks come to take their turn mug-shots, close-ups and playbacks scrupulously done presentation slick and smooth on the pitch, in studio nothing florid or uncouth the pictures plainly show who's the man and who's the mouse the firm and the faint the blue-eyed boy, the big girl's blouse the sinner and the saint wait a minute! there's a snag this sounds very fine but when your kickers frisk or flag is it genuine? perhaps it's bluff! or double-bluff? a kid-the-keeper wheeze? our shoot-out freaks can't get enough of mind-game mysteries why do brave and clever pros behave like craven nyaffs? why do some go comatose and make such awful gaffes? here's a daft thing! how absurd how very odd and vague that taking spot-kicks in cold blood is treated like the plague by seasoned strikers who contrive despite great scoring feats to skip the firing squad of five submitted on team-sheets such puzzles stump the customers invite much scrutiny and so does that infernal curse the puffed-up referee who sees the drama as a chance to pander and to preen it will enhance his brilliance on everybody's screen his head will swell, his chest as well he'll whistle lavishly he'll run a lively carousel and thrill the gallery a specialist, he'll get things done smooth and spick and span though kickers sometimes tend to turn sickly green and wan though kickers sometimes tend to bawl purple-faced and fraught stop bugging me! i placed that ball precisely on the spot! and though he doesn't air his views on all those flaky knaves the kind who leap like kangaroos to make their wonder saves who try to steal a tick of time and leave the line too soon who wink at such unwitting crime and deem themselves immune to every rule-book article that cramps their oddball style oh my god, if looks could kill have i said something vile? why all the meaty glances the sullen nods and scowls the gloomy countenances the subaquatic growls? because, you booby, we detect symptoms of disease someone's managed to infect your mind with referees which is unforgivable not at all like us we wouldn't waste one syllable on scruff so cretinous except of course when we fulfil the ancient courtesies we give those prigs a greeting shrill of effs and bees and cees but you keep bleating on and on refs do this and refs do that has your brain completely gone to mutton and to fat? remember fifa's laws assert all players' full protection yet hordes of refs are sore beset by gammy eye infection there are those who know fine well you swivel to survive and there are noodles who can't tell a divot from a dive and some who'll give a penalty if a hero hits the sod and some who claim no man can see the playful hand of god they're all so supercilious these hoity-toity minions totally oblivious to terracing opinions they never heed the good advice advanced from the dugout repeated once or twice or thrice each time the ball goes out and they don't care one puny fart when honest fans see red if they're not there to play their part the game can't go ahead! now strike me dead, good lord, at once should i mention them again spike my pen's neurotic dance forever and amen . . . aye, the shoot-out's a success discontent is dimming diehards finally confess it's more than mere trimming it's composure, common sense commitment to the core when the pressure's most intense you're sent up there to score dammit, this is parrotry ignore what i just said i'm sorry that my story is constantly misled by some fanatic persons of erratic disposition addicted to diversions contradiction, repetition i think it's now beyond repair blown to bits and pieces by gasbags who insist i share their latest, urgent thesis on why the strikers must be axed if europe is our aim they're much too flaccid and relaxed the manager's to blame on what's become of those fine plans to spangle up the side the owners pledged brazilians once again they've lied . . . on, on they go! they sabotage and endlessly distract blitz your mind with a barrage of fiction dressed as fact so how on earth do i escape all this frothy blether? should I bother to reshape my broken thoughts together when the story's long since lost its fundamental line which called for change and damn the cost you update or decline because the system's dumbing down our game is under threat where's the greatest show in town? it's nightly on your set previews, highlights, matches live the more the merrier as scores of stars arrive and thrive in the english premier a fit and proper place to be for players who are special a league that's lapped in luxury with sponsors universal and buyers from the seven seas blueing roubles, dollars riyals, bhats and currencies obscure to fiscal scholars a multi-billion business a blissful way to live the pay and perks and bonuses would peeve a banking spiv they deserve it! viewers see the power they assert through natural ability and willingness to sweat adept at tactics and techniques flush with artistic fire they strive to show us week by week they're worthy of their hire yes, certainly they're welcome here whichever way you scan it they've made our english premier the best league on the planet well, what a boost, you bluster for the nation's pride our football's a blockbuster followed far and wide! a pity, though, our native sons are thin upon the ground top-table fare of home-made buns is rarely to be found the head at times rebuffs the heart and sniffs at loyalty now and then our big clubs start with only two or three! a sorry fact! we've far too few true-born local chaps who proudly wear red, white and blue and boast a clutch of caps aye, in the birthplace of the game a shameful ratio and who or what deserves the blame? i'm sure you'd like to know or maybe not! you're all enthralled with things the way they are you've no occasion to be called racist, insular or other names with nasty smells for highlighting a wheeze which links some mighty big league swells with anti-anglo sleaze wheeze! sleaze! you spout again your drift is quite doolally please shut up and count to ten or till you brain cells rally we really think, sir, that your mind is well and truly minced your case is feeble, ill-defined and we are not convinced by airy-fairy whimsy which is what you spout your pros and cons are flimsy lacking pith and clout besides, how often have you sung our game's beyond compare it's fascination so far-flung folk love it everywhere in holland, spain, and italy in germany and france there, commentators all agree our league now leads the dance in argentina and brazil tomorrow's superkids get wistful and excitable and dream of english bids yes, you yourself have said so it's the best there's ever been premier soccer in full flow bestrides the global scene yet now you're in denial it seems you've changed your tune has it all become a trial much more bane then boon? and must you blur and baffle with words of little sense your wheeze and sleaze are waffle not concrete evidence! lord, give me strength and patience keep me calm and cool i'm facing allegations outrageous cock and bull no, i haven't changed my view the premier's the best a prolific venture too generously blest with ample awe and wonder and glittering appeal with backroom boys who plunder and screw and strip and steal a wheeze is but a jokey trick maybe a bit cheeky lawful, often lunatic sometimes sly and sneaky which is fine if it's for fun and meant to make us laugh if naughty deeds are not being done by the recruiting staff hey, that's a stupid thing i say dark deeds is what they do they're versed in every wicked way to crookwork old and new spooky creatures, fly-by-night off on secret missions cloak and dagger, out of sight making propositions beguiling nervous mums and dads to roles indelicate seducing them with big fat wads of juicy tax-free bait don't heed, they urge, the hubbub just say that it's been fun and mind to thank this famous club for nurturing your son no matter their resentment your family rights come first too bad their shrewd investment shall not recoup a crust we must, you see, enrich the stock of our academies and, yes, the best kids on the block are foreign prodigies well-prepared, ready-made attuned to pro routines self-possessed and unafraid by their middle teens sleaze is squalid, sordid work the resort of devils who lick their bloated lips and lurk at soccer's upper levels it's immoral and corrupt mocks the sporting spirit and . . . no, you cannot interrupt you only want to stir it no, we don't! but we subscribe to the backdoor principle which bids you gild the pill and bribe or else your rivals will and actually we applaud the glitterati set who bring their billions from abroad to rid our clubs of debt they get to buy them first of course then they splash the cash refresh, reform, reinforce and cut a hectic dash through complex regulations dispensing envelopes cementing good relations with canny misanthropes red tape apparatchiks starchy local bosses who brief them where to put the ticks and where to put the crosses pressing buttons, oiling wheels expediting plans behind the scenes they bind the deals and they're the very ones to quell the pandemonium the anger and dismay when fans realise their stadium is moving miles away grand new ground, new staff, new stars investments! acquisitions! adventurers with flashy cars and grandiose ambitions soon see them lavish riches with premier largesse relieving lower reaches lame ducks in sore distress now hold it there! okay, it's true the premier is rich and doing very nicely too on and off the pitch but has it crossed your tiny mind the whole shebang's a scam you're either deaf and dumb and blind or else don't give a damn if you can't read the simple creed behind this hallowed league it feeds on unremitting greed and wallows in intrigue it reeks of rancid monies which for reasons of hygiene need frequent off-shore journeys to wash them squeaky clean aye, the rumours make you ponder the lucre shipped in sacks the rake-offs that they launder through dotcom anoraks they're fat, you say, and clever cats and i am talking guff why would football's plutocrats pollute their dripping trough? because, you fool, they're lords and kings and puppets do their bidding they rig the rules and pull the strings fair play? you must be kidding! foul, more like! their scoundrel schemes bring misery and woe to four times twenty other teams that founder down below they lick their chops and smack their lips those charitable chaps then bid our lesser fellowships scrabble for the scraps god knows how these divisions cope and somehow stay onside they live on tick and faith and hope and suffer nationwide yes, some are rich and many poor immune to fortune's smile the wonder is they still endure from yeovil to carlisle flotsam on the sloughy wake of premier conceit our jacks-in-office quite forsake the poor for the elite rake in the telly smackers embrace brave cosmic plans well, wouldn't you be crackers to back the also-rans! you don't aspire to global brands with perishable goods no-hopers don't get helping hands or trigger melting moods it's economics, after all you maximise resources your stock is either on the ball or falls to market forces waffle! pish! you sniff and snarl arrant balderdash! such notions are neanderthal avaricious trash! mark my words, disaster looms boom will come to bust as countless folk in sitting-rooms register disgust soon they'll heed a pressing need to wield the rule of thumb too many homespun stars, they read are anti-social scum too many front-page splashes filthy off-field japes crawls and brawls and bashes groupie romps and rapes role models mustn't run amok wreak havoc in hotels prowl in packs around the clock and surface in the cells they mustn't yobbishly dismiss public obligations it doesn't pay to ***** and ***** on customer relations crucially, they mustn't lose the trust of mums and dads should they switch off because they choose then who will watch the ads? mark my words, the day will come and sooner than you think when tv moguls scan a sum and find the figures stink shrinking profits! frantic scrimmage admen promptly clean big league soccer's rotten image off your telly screen ach, this is now and that was then your omen is miscast you're speaking gibberish again and living in the past every day we read or hear another big exclusive crude and coarse or cavalier but not the least intrusive no, not the least! for now we place small store on tabloid squealings they don't invade our private space or fan our finer feelings we don't devour their gutter tales to feed some inner needs or chew to bits the raw entrails of last night's dumb misdeeds not any more! but it's good fun to find our fledgling plebs carousing with their legs undone among the toffs and debs partying with posh new pals at a jolly cabaret champagne and choicest chemicals and a caviar buffet you knit your brows? it's funny in a niggard sense rags-to-riches yarns make money reach a wider audience keep the gossip columns busy scoop the clubbing stakes catch our starlets lurching dizzy as the morning breaks jumping queues for taxi-cabs causing brief melees hot for curries and kebabs fish supper take-aways . . . okay! okay! yes, that'll do a little fun is fine thank you for your point of view which doesn't gell with mine i'm not inclined to countenance this jokey, joshing claim that redtops choose a token stance and all their stories seem the same daily defamations glaring celeb gaffes swipes at reputations feeble, singsong laughs good fun, you say! well, think again on those benighted capers what exactly happens when our goody-goody papers splash their bold publicity with screamers full of spite - superbrats on superspree boy wonders booze all night it's certainly no merry hoot for fans who feel let down who'll know for weeks the keen pursuit of every wit in town and no great joy for team-mates who dangle in dismay a midweek euro tie awaits a few short hours away the board confers with bated breath sponsors are in touch coaches linger pale as death but don't say very much because the gaffer's up the stairs throwing chairs and cups hurling threats and hairy stares at three delinquent pups of course they aren't pups at all but whey-faced english youth their good opinion punctured small dubbed useless and uncouth bullied with a bile impure belching from his tongue drenched in lashings of manure ***** and turds and dung two weeks' wages, they are told that's what they'll be fined and you'll be dropped and you'll be sold your honour's undermined you've made this club a laughingstock front page news! a pr mess! our bigwig chiefs are deep in shock they'll kick you out unless . . . there's no such thing, the cynics swear as bad publicity both batten, press and premier on brats who make whoopee yes, maybe the idea's funny silly, cock-eyed, comical but, listen, here we're talking money and profits prodigal pickings are enormous teacup storms pay what a lark for all of us three cheers and hooray! my words, you snort, are feckless teacup stuff indeed! those puppy pros were reckless a drubbing's what they need after all, as honest fans we put the game to rights as good and faithful guardians we treasure its delights the weekly magic that we see in each and every team the craftsmanship and artistry of a league supreme the happy multi-racial mix of rich exotic skill the well-loved wiles and novel tricks which they unveil at will goalies, both the saints and sinners rawboned strikers waging war all the markers and the spinners showing off their repertoire teams who work in subtle shifts creating time and space streamlined sides with passing gifts cruising through at pace aye, we see all sorts and kinds random styles and trends we like the clash of coaching minds how steve attacks, how dave defends we also keep a wary eye on business affairs especially on clubs who tie their lot to billionaires to freelance foreign traders filthy rich somehow imperious invaders who simply won't allow that football deals have fatal flaws beyond the providence of hard and fast commercial laws and private influence that things are very seldom done according to the rules that football's fun and fondly run by wild romantic fools who don't insist the game is played on money-making lines or that the bills are promptly paid and sporting straightness shines through every single give and take every buy and sell without a sniff of fix or fake or faint corrupting smell without a whiff of wickedness or scruple of decay then for sure they'll reap success the triumph of fair play! this is utter tripe, you'll think sheer nonsense, mere cock our brains are surely on the brink our reason's run amok how right you are! we're prey to bouts of mental wear and tear prone to dread, abysmal doubts about the premier its hire and fire inanities bully boy aggressions patronizing vanities grandiose obsessions sporting persons? stuff and nonsense! they engage creative crooks who will salve their tender conscience by cooking up the books who will vouch them chaste and pure and prudent with their purse commendations which ensure queues of customers gushing kudos which excite big spenders far and wide premium stock with prospects bright plus sweeties on the side ach, however hard we try to gloss and reconcile questions awkward and awry and answers volatile however much we fawn or fret at management technique pro football, let us not forget retains a nasty streak there's no such thing, the cynics sneer as bad publicity both profit, press and premier from whiz kids on the spree so let's return to those three brats who cringe in hangdog dread as a bloodshot man throws brickbats and the riot act is read you are, he bellows, finished here you're all a damned disgrace collect your things and disappear, you useless waste of space! are you so stupid you don't know how half the city feels? they're hurting from this hellish blow, you mindless imbeciles! tonight would be a special night they'd sing and sing with pride spanish giants put to flight scuttled on a tide of swelling adulation from a hymn they call their own ringing confirmation that we'll never walk alone and they'd raise the loudest cheers great salvoes of applause for certain lads of tender years who gladdened them because they were english through and through the only ones in sight a lampard, walcott, butt-like crew fervent for the fight bold, tireless types, surefooted winning tackles, finding spaces first team choices undisputed despite our foreign aces wise old heads on shoulders young the workaholic sort stay-at-homes, their ways unsung or so i bloody thought! aye, i felt a fool alright a fall-guy in a farce i'm flying high about tonight then landing on my arse life can spring surprises just when hopes are high you're suddenly in crisis slapbang in the public eye we're in a mess, you cretins the squad is under stress a world-class outfit threatens to stymie our success a draw's no use! we've got to win if we are to progress but i can't see it happen not a chance unless . . . he pierces them with laser gaze goes very calm and still and in a while he quietly says . . . we work a miracle show the bastards that we're strong in body and in mind scour the midfield, scrap dingdong play it dirty and refined graft and grind from start to finish concentrate like hell emphasise our english spirit's fit and well hit them hard, man-mark, harass keep their maestros on a leash don't allow a killer pass tackle tigerish startled, the three culprits sneak a collective squint they gulp for air, their knees go weak is this some sort of hint? no, they're not the ones he means he's talking to the wall he sees them merely as have-beens no further use at all . . . and, he continues, you will play the football of your lives you'll stride out there and join the fray for ninety minutes and no skives from first to last you will produce a stint both raw and rich and you shall not run out of juice or vomit on the pitch the doctors' tests were scrupulous we've got their certain word you've suffered nothing serious no toxins in the blood but, they warn, morale is low the pressure is immense so their answer must be no you're lacking confidence no sweat! i'll get you into shape we still have hours to go and for a start let's now escape the ratpack down below who scrape and scurry everywhere spraying windy vapour dressed in electronic ware waving bits of paper they infect our stadium these uninvited guests an obnoxious, prickly scrum of public pests come along! don't worry soon we shall take flight flit from all this flurry to where it's nice and quiet aye, fly away and stay aloof from a media gone mad our pilot's waiting on the roof by his helipad he'll waft us to his country house half an hour away and there you will relax and browse on what i've got to say in fine, just show the fans you care you've made their day a hell so win tonight and this i swear and the owner swears as well (continuing to part 3 soon) [comments] => 0 [counter] => 172 [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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