Christmas poem #4


While the not-so-super Superhoops are tucking
into Lucozade and oranges, the crush in
the gents’ is the usual bastard. Nominally banned,
language and smoking give it large behind the stand.
On the pitch, some wrapped-up kid – our matchday mascot
loves his really crap kickabout with Jude the Cat.

Next is one of those cheap-laugh amusements where fans
are spun round until they’re dizzy. With no balance
left to whack the ball beyond Jude, they stagger off
toward a corner-flag – much like the manner of
my toddle home after last week’s all-afternoon-
and-evening senior management Christmas do.

When the Pride of West London at last reappear,
I just about summon the semblance of a cheer.

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