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Array
(
[sid] => 173784
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Afterthoughts - Part 4
[time] => 2012-09-09 16:45:36
[hometext] => Part 1 located at http://www.your-poetry.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=172789
[bodytext] => these newcomers from afar who star in every game they do not doubt how good they are nor hang the heads in shame when some daft bluffer from the board urges harder graft it’s not, they know, the foreign horde that’s lacking heart and craft no, nothing’s ever as it seems they’ve hit upon a secret all these tip-top english teams are . . . shush, they daren’t speak it! but who cares! the damage’s done it’s not so shameful now the show is over! spain have won world champions and how! by up and doing, being brave a squad too proud to yield ace pass-masters, wave on wave pressing up the field by thinking quickly, that’s the key and movement off the ball their party piece the half-touch spree spellbinding one and all well, that’s enough digression leading folk astray we fans have an obsession with going our own way no matter what the story we jiggle it about garnish it with glory graft it with more clout or if it’s really jinxed for joys a sleepy sort of yarn we introduce a cheeky noise a rank, long-winded yawn or . . . ach, enough of twists and turns it’s time to stop all that resist those grand poetic runs apply a strict format and start with recent, secret ploys of premier conceit which keep our bunch of home-made boys reasonably sweet each top team fields two or three such celebrated chaps who earn a whopping salary as keystone england caps automatic choices adept at work and play quick to raise their voices at the state of pay unzip, they say, the purse strings reward your upper class indulge us with more baksheesh things more moneybags! more brass! which we’re entitled to expect since we’ve got valid claims we now command widespread respect we’re legendary names once mere rookies, trainee brats for many a hectic year unlike those dais and macs and pats who’d readily appear dead set to steal our english jobs despite our righteous whinge young welsh and scotch and irish yobs from the celtic fringe listen! i must interrupt tell us something new! premier football’s been corrupt since 1992 since the year of its birth they’ve dabbled with the rules chancers mocked with raucous mirth and labelled greedy fools for peddling wealth-creation in unfussy ways whetting speculation of a lawless phase when outfits buy and sell on tick and debt’s a normal thing and deals get done and dusted quick as premier giants fling big money at the internet at dotcom or elsewhere . . . lord bless my soul, i clean forget we’re not to spout hot air! i made a promise! so did you! from now it’s strictly fact no more sounding off askew or hyping a crap act an end to all meanderings that grate on readers’ nerves a ban on roundabouts and swings and off-field body swerves instead we stick to simple fact free of ostentation we need no longer interact or fabricate sensation just narrate the naked truth to those who care to seek it why were our heroes so uncouth what’s the great, big secret? why did team spirit sink so low and tactics get unclear each performance tired and slow no fun but lots of fear as the world, they knew, was watching on a billion screens and blinking and skull scratching at their wobbly routines and goggling viewers gazed aghast it can’t, they gasped, be true england’s finest quite outclassed what a crappy crew! who’d believe these hallowed guys each a global name would have us rub our heathen eyes and bow our heads in shame at such a scatty exhibition of defensive roles devoid of craft and all ambition in the art of goals gusty passes, gutless tackles messy movement off the ball schemers stiff as if in shackles strikers hitting a brick wall enough, you snap, it’s no big cheer brooding on like this some speedy action and severe wouldn’t come amiss we’re spineless, idiotic to let those traitors win but we must be patriotic and raise a hellish din destroy the prim delusion the premier is ours an english institution enjoying special powers dispensing economic bliss both here and away our caring men of business at the sweet f.a. busy in the backrooms fixing deal on deal no call for fancy puffs and plumes just off-the-peg appeal ready-made, well-cut concessions investment tips and such access to brave banking persons but maybe not too much lots of fresh temptation a fat cat can enjoy do you mind his admiration for an amazing ploy a real boon for the tycoon as good as it could get multiplying his fortune yet inheriting no debt . . . listen, i’ve no wish to fuss but may i interrupt some say such conduct’s generous others say corrupt these are mucky waters football’s no-go zone awash in sleazy matters best left well alone ach, here’s chaff to make you laugh guess who owes a billion quid but wants a billion and a half for a successful bid! i’ve got a cold, i belch and sneeze though the season’s sunny blue i jerk and judder in my knees at the horrors i’ve been through my eyes drip sore, my mouth’s agape my mind has gone askew i dribble verses to escape the horrors i’ve been through it’s easier to muffle to stifle how one feels speak words that barely ruffle established imbeciles it’s easier to snigger blame those fools above than to pull a trigger and kill the team you love much easier to offer a diplomatic plea what went wrong! it’s all a blur don’t ask me but some recall quite clearly the sad reality this world cup squad is merely a mediocrity betraying raw deficiencies basic soccer flaws which doom our finest lads to freeze in their country’s cause because they don’t control the ball in a pressure situation because their passing’s comical with little inspiration pell-mell efforts, error-ridden pain our startled eyes a patchiness well hidden in premiership ties by timeless young jetsetters who relish extra work and baby-sit their betters when the latter opt to lurk on the edge of battle quite unheedingly sorting tittle-tattle for tonight’s tv or browsing over earnings from recent p r stunts arousing youthful yearnings modelling y-fronts or hairline weaves . . . you grunt aghast bristling very stern fire and brimstone! damn and blast i’m drivelling again! again off-beam! another babble spoils my plan aye, i’m a true-born brother of a universal clan who can’t control wild urges to sink as well as swim whose honest soul indulges football’s every whim! whatever, in the premier ball control and pass are mere customary fare to players of world class whose craft conceals the frailties of native english stock revealing basic failings leaving us in shock at heroes cruelly exposed when they come together discontented, discomposed no matter what the weather they’re so shoddy and so slack they moon unmanfully were they ever taught the knack of mind and body harmony by means of practising each day improving concentration achieving bits of perfect play exceeding expectation? well, learning then was less aloof with endless competitions raw kids developed on the hoof in needle-match conditions besides, big daddies wise and sage declared all league groups must field lads of roughly the same age a rule both fair and just except . . . they clean forget the dutch (as we’ve done once or twice) who said our chiefs were out of touch and needed good advice the dutch proposed the notion that kids who knew success in league and cup promotion used physical excess all blood-and-guts and do-or-die competitive no doubt to catch perhaps the seasoned eye of a passing scout whose fleeting glance will promptly spot an unlikely pro nice, fancy footwork swanked a lot but savvy not on show astute at reading situations? shrewd with either foot? no, they shoot on pass occasions and pass when they should shoot! can a matchplay situation patch and polish careless style raise mental toughness, concentration marking and attacking guile? no, we’re stale, beyond repair we’re needing something new a coaching scheme that’s fresh and fair so here’s what we’ll do . . . they introduce academies where likely lads will cram and the most acclaimed of these ajax of amsterdam affords a brave example of fundamental change their grievances so ample they find it very strange that people of all sorts and kinds should nitpick at their plans it’s hard to please the drifting minds of dizzy football fans many of whom sigh and sneer at such wild expense but ajax wish to persevere hell-bent on excellence and despite derisive devils who caution spending sprees get attention at two levels from coaching prodigies who scent a soccer heaven a super-duper scene so groups aged five to eleven and eleven to sixteen will soon get quality coaches on hefty salaries who’ll teach them fresh approaches total football expertise a phrase that hatched a saying technique, technique, technique tricks not learned from playing matches week by week now we call it 4-3-3 a mix of style and sauce michels and cryff’s philosophy show the ball who’s boss show them brilliant control and nimble shifts of pace essential to the subtle role of improvising space . . . ach, you say, four at the back three about mid-field another trio in attack what clout those coaches wield dismantling all the old routines discarding frazzled drills off-loading pedants, philistines phasing in new principles! such sarcasm! so sharp and keen! but you’ve no cause to scoff fans know these numbers mostly mean the line-up at kick-off the coaches bind young minds to see football’s changing face a pitch is common property not private bits of space from the start they task each group with challenge situations ambitious fellows, cock-a-hoop hooked on innovations each group, they check, is truly blest born with knack and flair their progress too prompts interest in how they dress and set their hair and if they really primp and preen and sometimes sniff and swill revel in the social scene wallow in the teeny whirl the tingling disco dancing and the adulation the dalliance, romancing the serial flirtation? the coaches say: it’s up to them they’re whiz kids fancy free we welcome rather than condemn relaxation therapy they get sympathy, attention as well as sheepish giggles when they mention daily tension tetchy training niggles yes, it’s good that they connect off the training ground and pay each other due respect and maybe buy a round as they chatter on the reasons for the standards to be met wondering if these rookie seasons will be matters of regret or maybe our newfangled ways rehearsed so many years will stoke their fires and set ablaze sensational careers! they do stints on rising, falling refine their heading with more force they do sessions on stonewalling a siegecraft sort of course moves that they must master because one never knows in football things go faster than normal folk suppose defence in depth is what they do the top-flight euro sides pundits dub it 4-4-2 forgetful of the tides the relentless ebb and flow retreat, resist, revive from deep defence upfield they go switch to 2-3-5 all-purpose boys and flexible with ready head and feet whether going for the kill or keeping a clean sheet they work away at each new touch each deft effective move they love involvement very much feel themselves improve they have a ball and keep it clean don’t spit in people’s faces they’re also fussy on hygiene avoid on-field embraces an attractive, fluent style is what they’ll soon convey football with a happy smile in a futuristic way a pilot scheme of quality with a combination of individuality and trim cooperation a wonderful experiment ideas fresh and rich engendering excitement on and off the pitch a joyful exhibition elegance refined no slipshod intuition no need to graft and grind since they make it look so . . . hey, must you snort like that? you shake your head as if to say what a stupid prat! well, you are! a while ago you swore to stick to fact yet now atwitter and aglow your story’s inexact those guys you praise so readily aren’t they trainees? is it wise or just plain silly going into ecstasies about enchanted coaches and their wondrous boys pursuing fresh approaches with new-fangled ploys while the killjoys snigger they’ve seen it all before and the ballyhoo spins bigger till it’s heard no more . . . who’s stupid now! now who spouts a load of utter tripe? we fans at time get loony bouts and babble true to type indeed we do but dicks like you are thick beyond repair your brains are balls kicked black and blue leaking toxic air pay attention! as things go the plan proves brave and keen and so the winds of change soon blow across the euro scene no, not so very soon in fact it takes hectic years of handling issues needing tact - tensions, tantrums, tears and teething troubles all the time rejecting old for new telling stalwarts in their prime bye-bye for now . . . be seeing you! however slick the presentations prickly hassles tick backstage however happy the vibrations scabs finds cause to rage aye, we could fill whole pages listing hitches on the way like squabbles about wages keeping guttersnipes at bay and – ach, it’s getting boring imagine this instead a jampacked crowd is roaring as floodlights overhead illuminate a derby clash between two giant sides played as always with panache and bloodiness and pride wait a minute! something’s wrong this match is most bizarre the tempo’s fast, the fight’s dingdong but not a bit like war and no announcement! nothing’s said another odd surprise all the loudspeakers are dead as fans rub popping eyes and gawk and goggle at two teams whose football isn’t normal everything they do, it seems is wondrously informal they play with steely elegance they’re always seeking spaces they can duff and they can dance in rough and silky places see that stopper centre-back built like a concrete thing well, now he’s frisking in attack skipping up the wing he stops! has he lost control or maybe confidence? no, he loops a lovely goal past a massed defence see that classy, pint-sized guy ghosting here and there his passes flow in sweet supply his touch is tinged with flair would you believe that by and by within a few short years this little guy, no longer shy has keepers shedding tears no longer just a stylish twit a creative fox this man can give and take a hit a tiger in the box . . . your eyebrows come together you’re counting one to ten you reckon i’m a blether i’m bluffing once again well, bollocks! don’t you worry i’ll neither blah nor yak i’m in an awful hurry no time for bric-a-brac no more time for idle glitter freshening the facts spreading tabloid litter splashing fleshy acts total football’s where i’m at the dutch revised edition a rich attractive format designed by men of vision and no, i do not overdo all this orange crap in fact the time is overdue to point you at a map at a horizontal place across the cold north sea neighbours, yes, but you would face choppy trips by air or sea should you ever opt to visit that wet and windy shore because you’re eager to elicit what makes a minnow roar sorry! they were never minnows never easy prey but proud and sassy fellows in a beatnik way so, early in the seventies there’s a bit of fuss no ifs or buts! the whole world sees the dutch are serious the first four years of this decade sees those presumptuous pups come home to victory parades with four euro cups! beyond belief but it is so! feyenoord win the first then ajax notch three in a row when even juve’s crushed by teamwork that’s tenacious continuous zip and zing vigorous, vivacious the total football thing! ach, that last verse’s ineptly sprung sneaking in unseen world cup finals left unsung as if they’d never been! first, holland v west germany munich, seventy-four the home team edged to victory two - one the full-time score another place, another time buenos aires, seventy-eight a game aggressive and sublime as the gauchos leave it late and sweat an extra half an hour before they can prevail 3-1 the score! a shift of power on fifa’s ratings scale from the glamorous brazil (the only five-time winners) to a team of thrill and spill who feel they’re but beginners bit-part players in a story a zonking soccer thriller entrancing stuff! more world cup glory thanks to a substance swiller all his skills and tricks are there (mexico city, eighty-six) west germans struggle and despair at diego’s latest fix his repertoire’s beyond compare they’re led a merry dance yes, they draw level, to be fair but fail to spoil romance with minutes left they’re all askew as he wriggles from midfield a pass! a goal! they lose 3-2 destiny! their fate is sealed and maradona can fulfil his own due destiny before he bellyflops downhill on a junkie spree but now as captain he’ll collect football’s greatest prize and tango it as fans expect and kiss it to the skies do you mind his wondrous wriggle in the previous round how we raised a worldwide niggle when the cokehead found shilton’s net with a shifty hand neither ref nor linesman saw how we howled and yowled for england our resentment running raw at such a gross injustice vile curses on his soul! well, that’s when millions of us miss the greatest ever goal! imagine! he receives the ball on his magic foot with speed and poise phenomenal assurance absolute from his own half he goes his left peg in control leaves five defenders comatose wrongfoots the guy in goal our quarter final tie is lost! they win the match 2-1 our side is maradona tossed subdued by superman! listen, you’re again off-beam skewing out of touch heedless of your chosen theme the football of the dutch you always seem to manage it the art of the erratic trotting out some fancy bit then getting all ecstatic about this vital influence on the state of play it’s dicks like you with little sense who lead good fans astray it’s you who’s thick! it’s just a trick we english are spoonfed our media masters choose to pick what can or can’t be said the tales i’ve just been telling exemplify their creed bad news is just for selling it’s what we like to read aren’t most of us in fact avid for such stuff? naughty articles attract we never get enough! and they’re cobbled rough and tender teasing to each taste see, for instance, yon defender famously unchaste fast and loose but . . . what’s the matter what have i said now? you yawn and mutter at my patter furrows scar your brow this is not a time to yawn there’s lots of things to do our football’s rotting, weak and worn overhaul is overdue we must rebuild it strong and tall buoyant once again it’s england’s football after all the legacy of englishmen yes, once upon a loyal time when mammon wasn’t king our noble anthem sang sublime through stand and terracing its heartfelt and united roar inspired the nation’s best and ninety minutes’ sweat would pour from the lions on each breast but now a verse or two will do as both teams stand in line perhaps a band, a singer too and chorus girls divine then handshakes from the VIPs a duke and a duchess who put the players at their ease and wish them all success he’s charming and she’s beautiful neither shallow nor severe but diligent and dutiful instilling ample cheer not only in our wembley team but also in the guests a most effective p r scheme in premier interests we claim our game’s respectable beloved of every class it’s socially acceptable compared to certain crass and sniffy sports pursuits fussy and rule-ridden that no more lure the moneyed suits than does a fetid midden you jibe and jabber! what’s your point? and should we give a damn? your words are jangling out of joint your rhythms jar and jam and why this silly, sudden switch from maradona and the dutch? did you judge it best to ditch the bits that bore us overmuch? you’re being rude! you rarely listen to everything i say you’re happy only when i ***** on how our media convey – hey, that’s enough! and will you please put down that twitchy pen we’ve got no wish for a reprise of all that guff again all that creative writing in our daily press radio rabbles fighting and babbling to excess tv panels stacked with guys who flourished yesterday so sharp and wise you don’t realise they’ve nothing new to say which doesn’t matter since they’re bold well versed in yackety-yack play each session as they’re told and rarely get the sack ach, dammit, i meander forgetful of my plan i’m fickle and i wander like any normal fan yes, here it is! i mind it now i need to compromise i’ve got to sort this mess somehow so i’ll apologise for all my deviations all my wonky shifts my selfish inclinations and accidental drifts aye, we’ll do a double deal no more guff from me if i can run my royal spiel and interrupted eulogy two eulogies, to be exact diego and the dutch two soccer miracles in fact not often seen as such but first i’ll finish what i said about our fa’s role their sphere of influence widespread east to west and pole to pole they orchestrate a global show the like there’s never been and not one trick they do not know to bring new millions in for instance, they have access to glossy royal swells whose very presence seals success because it sells and sells premier clubs with cashflow cares for scads of foreign money to fat cat multi-millionaires from lands of milk and honey like russia and india each with aspirations believing it’s a good idea to join a league of nations the premier has twenty teams and five of these today belong to foreigners with dreams who’ve come a long, long way to indulge romantic notions with spendaholic glee perhaps enjoy sublime emotions like cup-final ecstasy imagine! you’re so nervous, trembly ignorant, unorthodox should your team win through to wembley you’ll be ushered to a box a royal box! the ultimate! so celebrate non-stop win or lose, a wondrous fate you’ve made it to the top! which is where the tv masses glimpse you on a balcony smirking nicely, clinking glasses with a king and queen-to-be the premier has twenty teams and five of these today belong to guys who don’t chase dreams and come from the USA faceless fellows, ever wary of the public eye not complying with the carefree image of a yankee guy no, they aren’t buddy-buddy socially they’re scarcely known neither are they fuddy-duddy theirs is a private zone wily in the ways of money wise to every wangle whether it’s an offshore journey or a bonus tangle they fix a cold and cyber eye on electronic deals alert to patter sweet and sly from flattering imbeciles once a week across they come and sit among the brothers watch the match and haw and hum while fifty thousand others howl and yowl, success obsessed possessed by a blissful theme yes, we’re the pick, the very best the premier’s dream team! chants and songs and war cries bellow from each fan rejoicing at such splendid buys by their aspiring man who’s nice and kind and filthy rich and signs a super side whose source of wealth is something which is never specified something which is often said of many wealthy men far-fetched, no doubt! they forge ahead and now they’re owning ten of our top twenty league teams with players of world class the sweet f a’s great global dreams have really come to pass and it’s farewell to old saint george his fabled cross and banner to play this league we must disgorge the fusty english manner which certainly we cannot do for we’re lagging miles behind because our coaching end in view puts body over mind behind the times! outmoded drills! old-school frills gone obsolete! where now the groovy new-look skills those fluid moves so sweet? we’ll soon hark back to that same theme but meanwhile chew on this our apparatchiks frame a scheme of fortune, fire and fizz and nothing like it in the world a league of sheer class in ninety-two it was unfurled to an astonished mass of football fiends everywhere from china to peru who one fine day became aware of something rare and new the english premier, it was styled spiced with special features five-star in excellence, the child of brainy, backroom creatures no need to list particulars of its many leaps and bounds though the flow of foreign superstars still startles and confounds spurious feedbacks night and day creative facts and figures furtive dealings and foul play scoops for dirty diggers there’s a *****ty, rotten smell of dishonesty and greed folk in power know fine well why nationwide we need to curb the rich excesses of our leading clubs those regular successes in local/global pubs mornings, nights and afternoons our topmost outfits thrive amassing weekly fortunes on telly channels live and isn’t it our sweet f a that implements the scheme helping clubs with debts to pay to swim against the stream and isn’t it our supersides huge box-office hits who have the talent that provides those last gasp benefits! there’s at least a hundred losers in our subdivisions and since beggars can’t be choosers they bless all rescue missions they struggle with the rising costs wages, rents and taxes as unrelenting debt exhausts and nothing much relaxes their frantic quest for wherewithal to fund half decent squads they sigh for santa claus to call or some daft fan with wads of splendid lottery winnings from saturday’s big draw they tend to such imaginings but now they gawk in awe at this official little cheque no phoney, god forbid it’s from the f a’s chief exec for a million quid how it’s spent is up to them - perhaps in desperation some will splash it out to stem the threat of relegation while some who strive to rise and rise and pocket millions more will look to sign well-seasoned guys who already know the score yes, their goals will win promotion to the top division but they’ll scoff at any notion of personal ambition in the premier, they’ll say strikers aren’t normal we could never play that way so skittishly informal so fast and fierce and prickly mean-minded mavericks who come alive too quickly with sudden shifts and snicks who streak through crack defenders leaving tacklers in despair while panicky goaltenders clutch at empty air ach, damn and blast, i’m way adrift i wobble once again why would it want to yaw and shift my bolshie biro pen or is it that it gets upset for a proper reason our national game is under threat from a plague of treason? listen, here’s the brutal truth it’s due to fat cat stealth unchecked, unscrupulous, uncouth in pursuit of wealth on fire to make more fortune rake in more lolly, lots and lots the premier’s so opportune for our new patriots! and soon those swooping buyers their management and squads defensive maestros, forward fliers are scooping scads and scads with celebrated set-ups eternal clubs at hallowed grounds always chasing leagues and cups and reaching final rounds now chelsea and the arsenal man city and united too employ good multi-national managers and players who spend each season chasing a european slot a top four premier placing puts mints of money in the pot earlier, mind, you heard me curse the foreign owner ratio well, other data’s even worse in our big league portfolio actually it’s ten - ten the latest owner score but english v non-englishmen is tempting more and more opportunist punters bulls and bears and stags fame and fortune hunters waving offshore flags to buy a business unique where they will make a kill and pocket millions week by week and never pay a bill! some say f a finances run on duff accounts in freakish circumstances with fabulous miscounts but don’t expect me to explain the scams some folk assert which may be subtle or insane whatever, i regret i’m in a binding hurry and haven’t got the time to weep and wail and worry our game is mired in crime i’m asking a few questions actually two and hoping for suggestions from clever folk like you (no doubt the wise guys will advise on what i ought to do for instance, anal exercise with my sheets of ballyhoo smutty stuff! but then why not don’t i exploit their roles football’s most devoted lot loyal lifelong souls!) i’m getting morbid, damn it all! i ramble yet again it’s a condition medical and manifest in men who need to sober up a bit and lead a proper life change their habits and commit to normal trouble and strife here’s my two-ply question, then! how many premier squads are managed by pure englishmen and how many by nomads? you eye me with suspicion and query nervously if there’s ever been division on the issue previously no, not really! not to date our f a’s none too keen they discourage such debate on the media machine they do not welcome any fuss the stats will tell you why frankly, these are scandalous and clearly testify to premier indifference deliberate, in fact when leading clubs spare no expense spending fortunes to attract great go-getters from abroad proven leaders from elsewhere while they affect they can’t afford to bid for local flair yet we’ve got talent heaven-sent down through the divisions steady lads of natural bent ignored for top positions no, in the premier process their way of doing things cv’s of sterling englishness won’t pull any strings here’s a managerial list recently compiled by a tabloid analyst who’s joyfully profiled each and every single one of our league elite recounting how it all began and what they like to eat let’s check his list of twenty early on in may there’s nationhoods in plenty five home-grown, fifteen away: five maestros from the eurozone whose savvy rarely fails high fliers once and now high-flown plus a single soul from wales then three staunch lads of irish strain and five english patriots which leaves a scandal to explain who so many scots! are we all inferior to six marauding picts who likely smirk superior as the article predicts the busby, fergie, shankly tradition of success is an eternal legacy of trophies to excess! he also touches on a matter that bedevils many fans sure, officials puff and prattle but are there any plans to tackle arrant negligence imprudently contrived to discontinue the pretence our bankrupt league survived because faceless backroom bodies f a personnel became financial prodigies pledged to buy and sell a premier beyond compare a football ecstasy pursue each multi-millionaire each foreign prodigy create a league much envied on a global scale our management at long last freed of countless laws gone stale of rules and regulations bureaucratic sway officious irritations the ways of yesterday . . . hooray to that! long overdue! but why mention it again? we know all this as well as you it’s not exclusive gen! of course it’s not, smart alick but i’m not simply bleating nor am i fagged by rhyme fatigue - some things are worth repeating reminding us the f a vision a communal goal became a money-grubbing mission rich in goods and poor in soul which quickly overwhelmed them and all the plans they’d made their caring/sharing stratagem immediately mislaid then as profits multiplied on and off the pitch our redeemers softly sighed and watched their scheme enrich all sorts of football chancers gorging at the feast: well, we hadn’t all the answers but at the very least we created wealth and work revived a tired old game dispelled the apparatchik murk relit a fitful flame admittedly, we too got caught in the mammon whirl we too went spooning in the pot on the principle that if you draft a system which does wondrous well you’re being either daft or dim if you don’t compel an instant and official pledge to bonanza rank especially with your knowledge of every dodgy bank yes, we were wise and steady saw the way ahead the master plan was ready its writ would be widespread besides, the funding proved amazing enough for rocket bills quite soon we’d be erasing a trail of soccer ills we’d organise things better end discord and disorder soothe auditor and debtor root out the odd marauder we would be innovative daring, go-ahead lively and creative determined, as i said to advertise the sex appeal the beauty of our game its elegant apache steel its sweet and scalding flame with jack and jill approaches in ambitious schools with able foreign coaches spelling out the rules wow, what a novel notion! equal football rights! imagine the commotion picture the delights . . . you imbecile, it doesn’t mean each team picks them and us if it ever did, our premier scene would . . . ach, it’s ludicrous they only meant to splash some cash on needy women’s soccer a gesture very bold and brash indeed, a real shocker because who want to go and watch a bunch of sweaty lasses chase a football on a patch of weedy council grasses! hey, not at all! i can’t agree! you know, when i got home from my african safari no more, i swore, to roam i’d mope and prowl around the house annoying everyone and bellyache and gripe and grouse a disillusioned man until this day when home alone feeling wimpish and forlorn i went to switch on wimbledon with the curtains drawn but i have to channel hop may the lord be praised i press a button, then i stop very much amazed i’ve got a world cup final here home-spun by my thumb a stupendous atmosphere in a german stadium a classic! a terrific match! the united states against japan a video all fans should watch as often as they can two dream teams that both deserve more credit than they’ve got skill and speed, vim and verve they never skived but fought for every fifty-fifty ball for every bit of space they didn’t cheat or spit or brawl or dive in a crowded place they played with bite and beauty blending dash and guile they felt a bounden duty to go that extra mile for their loyal sisters and their country’s glory no, it isn’t solely misters who write our soccer story this chapter ended 3-2 for the women of japan it captures what is very true football’s good for everyone! (continuing) [comments] => 0 [counter] => 83 [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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