Same Old New Zzz
*
Here we go,
here we go,
here we go…
*
First half
Three people thick at the bar -
we only wanted a pint after work
but now we’re being forced
to sup from the World Cup.
I managed to avoid last week’s game:
England versus the USA. Woke up drunk
and went to get the papers, nearly puked
all over myself to see the gulf coast oil spill
roped-in to some absurd rivalry -
just another part-player in that funny old game…
how lame. “Inglan is a Bitch” by LKJ
immediately became my anthem of the day.
“Inglan is a bitch – there’s no escaping it.”
Why then
is my heart all-a-flutter
for a bunch of overgrown boys
singing Rule Brit-fucking-tania?
There’s a whistle, two bangs and
a multitude of whoops -
a shower of confetti
widens my lady’s
suddenly sparkling eyes.
It’s kicked off like New Year’s
at the end of time
and we’re swept away
like everybody else
in this place.
Cheap trumpets blare
seemingly built just to play
the theme from Dad’s Army
for one day only
fading away like Mayflies
that never got to mate.
Dud-dud dur dur dud-dud-dud
Dud-dud dur dur
drrrrrrrrrr…
Mate. Saint George can’t kill the dragon
if it’s already dead. He’s a pumped up
Don Quixote with a worm eating his head.
It’s hard to sustain the excitement
with so little happening on screen,
even the commentator has devolved
into pop-psychology: talking bollocks
about the effect of a lost ball
on the self-image of
Emile Heskey.
David Beckham
sits on the sidelines
in a snazzy grey suit,
my lady says she saw
the whole team getting off the plane
wearing the same – she reckons they
must’ve employed some snazzy
consultant who made them ditch
the 80s tracksuits
for a sexier look.
That may be -
but it’d take
a bowler hat & brolly
to really do it for me.
I’m starting to drift off,
see a vision of our boys
being led on to the pitch
by Steven Gerrard
swinging an incense censer
and holding aloft a crucifix…
Must be something to do with
the virgin-white
of our kit.
Then finally
something happens
and I snap out of it!
Heskey’s been hacked
and the crowd whistles
like a toothless old wolf
with its hackles up -
oooooooohhhhhhhhhhh
it’s like being back at school
for a second, everyone’s behind
the next push forward like
we’re gathered around a fight,
hungry for our mate to take
revenge and get a smack in…
Gotta love that mob
mentality! (or not.)
Then something wonderful happens -
the camera drifts like my wandering
attention to the end of Algeria’s goal -
some South African bird, a ruffled trampy thing
like a starling crossed with a pigeon,
is perched, oblivious, on the back of the net.
An omen if ever I saw one:
No violent punt
could disturb that bird’s
peculiar calm.
The football becomes a leathery egg
being bashed about
a green but barren womb:
There can be no cheering
ruffian lovechild while
that beautiful creature rests.
“I need a fag -
how long’s left?”
“About 10 minutes dear -
try not to think about it.”
So the game drags on
till the sacred whistle blows
and we join the mass exodus
outside for a smoke.
*
I go to take a piss
before the second half starts,
stare at the wall behind the urinal:
a collage of past events littered with
impulsive scrawls – my eyes rest on a small
sentence written in red biro:
“How do you keep an idiot in suspense?”
I chuckle while I tinkle and
my eyes wander once more -
they find the perfect answer -
“With free popcorn”
*
Second half
And so the whistle blows again. But this time
with rather less dramatic effect – the old apathy
is setting in, seems we feel slightly cheated -
sheepish like a proud wolf caught humping
the lewdly-dressed leg
of a prostituting poodle.
Will our lame mascot be able
to jump this hurdle?
I entertain myself with the idea
that some kid somewhere must be
locked away in his room
furiously masturbating
into a football sock,
climaxing at the exact moment
that the guy next to me shouts:
“Cum on England!” for the
gazzilionth time.
Three lions on your shirt -
a billion writhing tadpoles
gasping for air in the better half
of his trusty old pair!
I remember the good old days
of Gascoigne and Lineker
when England had integrity
and balls – one poor soul’s
now a drunk in a mental home,
the other soul’s been sold
for a thin slice of salty potato
in a crudely decorated packet
of tin-foil.
The game is really going nowhere,
and slowly at that. My mind is creating
nonsensical inanities, stuttering to itself
for no good reason: J-J-John T-T-T-T-T-Terry!
T-T-T-Twat with a triple T-T-T!
Beep Beep Beep-Beep-Beep
Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep
BOR-ING!
Beep Beep Beep-Beep-Beep
Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep
FOOT-BALL!
Then I notice the small invitation
in the top right-hand corner of the screen:
RED BUTTON: JOIN IN!
Man, that would be a scream!
A pitch invasion by a thousand flickering spectres,
couch potatoes transported by their TVs
straight to the centre
of this crazy spectacle!
This mass-hallucination
masquerading as reality!
I’m afraid I have to ask you
to think what we could achieve
if we put this kind of energy
into something that actually mattered!
T-T-T-T-Twats
drunk on milky cups
of titty-titty-tea!
Yes, I’m preaching
but then again:
this game is
like religion
for some.
So why not?
England might not suck -
but it seems
our imagi-nation does
!
Now the game is wrapping up,
limping disheartened
to the finish line -
but we won’t have it!
There may only be seconds
but at least there’s still time!
Even the slightest surge now earns
a chorus of oooooohhhhhhhzing COME-ONS!!!
But the fact that we want it so much
is simply not enough. Any one of us
would try harder than this for free -
to say nothing of a snazzy suit
and fifty grand a week -
but we’re not on the pitch.
England is a Bitch -
but we have to make her
OUR BITCH!
We have to cover her
all over
with luscious licks,
show her
we love her
while doing the twist!
We have to bend over backwards
to make it happen, all the while
avoiding the peril of going too far
and disappearing up our collective arse…
hole…
OUR SOUL!
PEOPLE!
IS AT STAKE!
And this is
one game
where a draw
just will not do.
So do
like the funky munky sez
and
NEVER
GIVE
UP!
Never Give Up!