Write up by Roger.
– to be read in the style of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’
It is an ancient footballer,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy spiked grey hair and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
Basque does some great Sangria
And I really want a drink;
I don’t want to hear your old mans’ tales,
If that is what you think.’
He holds him with his aggressive gaze,
He cannot choose but hear,
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The downbeat footballer.
‘The pitch was wet, the game was set,
Some people got there late,
Down the Valley, on Pitch 2,
Phoenix were to meet their fate.
The game kicked off and things looked good
Despite some occasional slips,
Dave punched a ball out from a corner
Whilst Adam licked his lips.
A three week drought was ended then,
As some passing broke us through,
The goalie went right, Adam shot left,
His goal-streak began anew.
One-nil up at half time and
The enemy seemed dead,
Tim’s sister swooned at our use of width,
And Ganes even tried to head.
But then, they grabbed a goal, O Christ!
This half looked like a slog,
The blinding sun made passing fun,
Particularly in a bog.
A glimpse of hope, as their defence broke,
Patrick hit the back of the net,
We were back in the lead and just had to pray,
Their long balls would fail to beget.
But lo! A Phoenix throwing found their dwarf,
Who was marking him? Who knew!
He skinned two, then three, and shot with glee,
To even up: 2-2!
Throwings, throwings, everywhere (particularly down the left hand side),
But still our attack faltered,
Decs ended up in centre back,
Our strategy thus altered.
With minutes to go, we won a corner,
Only for it be called goal kick!
After 90 minutes of unpunished late tackles,
We concluded the ref was a p****.
They long-balled again, but this time there was
Confusion across our back line,
A man was found, he thumped a round,
They led, with little time.
Phoenix had come back from the ashes
Of the first half, and we were beat,
Even a Vinnie Jones-style tackle from Patrick,
Failed to rouse the Elite.
But who to blame? Ross missed a sitter,
The fault is his methinks,
But then my memory of the whole match is clouded,
By Greg’s night of leaving drinks.’
The Footballer, whose hair is spiked,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Basque patron
Turned towards the exit door.
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder, wiser, hungover man,
He rose the morrow morn.
Adam – 3
Patrick – 2
Steveo - 1