"Too Old!"

I really should know better
Jumping up and down
With teenagers
Like a lunatic
I can't vault
The perimeter fence like them
So I head to the corner to lead
The old guard charge
Through the gate.
Tears of joy
Hugs and kisses
Some strangers
Some not
All bonded by a love
Of Dulwich Hamlet
(Ok, I sneakily admit
One ot two I might have
Looked for as a little excuse...!)
Cup presented
All Over
Done and dusted.
Not on your nelly!
Dancing in the clubhouse
Prancing on the pitch
Not just delirious fans
But with the players no less!
Our heroes!
As one:
And me..desperate
But too scared to
Give little Erhun
A peck on the cheek
(In case I get carried away!)
It's getting late
Time to wind down...
No way!
We really are old enough
To know better
Dancing on the roundabout
At Goose Green
Passing cars hooting
In celebration!
Finally got to bed
Twelve hours after kick off!
I woke up ecstatic!
On top fo the world
With aching shoulders
Tired muscles
Old ulcer wound on my foot
Opening up and
Hurting like hell.
But who am I to complain?
Cham-pee-oh-nees,
CHAM-PEE-OH-NEES!
Ole, ole, OLE!

　
Dulwich Poet 28th May 2013

(Celebrating Dulwich Hamlet winning the Ryman League Division One South, yesterday)

"Job Done!"

Good things come to those who wait
Either by chance or by fate
There it was this morning in black and white
Front of the 'Non League Paper',to my delight!
Gavin & boys with trophy high
Enough to make grown men cry.
In front of a massive four figure crowd
Understatement to say I'm proud.
I was as keen as a little child
Dashing onto the pitch delightfully wild.
Players and fans all as one
Title clinched deed been done.
So many fans I could hug and kiss
Smorgasbord of youth I could take the piss!
Sheer delight. Pure emotion
Making worthwhile a life of devotion.
Sadly my nephew's not part of the team
But when we held the cup in the bar, boy did I beam!
No longer part of Gavin's plans
But willing us to win in the stands.
I wanted to tell Kalvin I love him so
But some things from proud uncles
Are best unsaid you know.
Now it's the day after
And just sinking in
I am stuck with this almighty grin!
All those freezing nights in godforsaken holes
Howls of despair at missed open goals
Travelling to Home Counties outposts
For games postponed
And absolute rubbish
When we just went home and groaned.
That was what yesterday was for
When we saw young Xavier score!
Who could have forseen a bond so strong
Late evening on the pitch
Team and fans one throng
Dancing and hugging pure delight
Partying into a special night.
Going crazy at Goose Green
Fans old and new living the dream.
It was a rite of passage for some
Faithful old father bringing his son
Others did it in reverse
One brought his dad for the first time
In forty years!
That personal family bond
Among the cheers.
I thought of my big brother
Who took me here when I was seven
Culminating in this football heaven.
I cried on the pitch
And more when I got home
And I'm sure I wasn't alone.
A special memory to bottle and keep
I was actually proud to have a weep.
If you think that's silly I don't give a damn
DULWICH HAMLET is part
Of what I am.
Sure some of the youngsters
Might think I'm weird and strange
But I've got their respect and won't change
Hope they just like me for what I am
One of Dulwich Hamlet's
Most passionate fans.

Dulwich Poet 28th April 2013

(Some thoughst on yesterday, the day my team, Dulwich Hamlet, were crowned Ryman League Division One South CHAMPIONS! Namechecking: Gavin is the First Team Manager; Kalvin is my nephew, made over a hundred appearances for the side, before Gavin released him, earlier this season)

"Today"

Is the day
That makes it all worthwhile.
For all those years
Of blind loyalty
And foolishness
Traipsing all over
The south of England
In love with something
That rarely reciprocates.
You can follow your Arsenals;
Your Chelseas; Man. Uniteds et al
But trust me...
Reading the back of 'The Sun'
And catching a game on the telly
Does not make you
A fan like me.
Tell me have you done
Any of these for your team:
Cried at a play-off defeat
Missed goals making players tea
Stumped up a players booking fine
Been chased by your arch rivals
All the way across Figges Marsh
Then into the railway station
And then down the track
Spent whole mornings working on the pitch
To make sure games go without a hitch.
Got to away games to find they're off
Gone sick for games with a pretend cough
Supporting Dulwich Hamlet
Has ruined more days
Thank I care to think
Making my mood deseperately sink.
I can cope with that
Live and learn, I say
But please today
A small return
Against all the odds.
We CAN go up
And as I no longer
Alcohol sup
I should be able to
Enjoy the glory
No more ruining it
With a drunken story.
In my heart I believe
We WILL pick up the point we need
But I've followed The Hamlet far too long
It's in my head I need to be strong.

Dulwich Poet 27th April 2013

(More pre-match wittering, from the last Dulwich Hamlet game of the season, where we need a point to be crowned champions, at home to Burgess Hill Town)

"Butterflies"

All I can think about
Is an old 1970's sitcom
I don't know the collective term
But it is a million of them
Doing somersaults in my stomach.
A quick goal or two
After three o'clock
Will calm my nerves
At the right end.
Like Martin Luther King
'I had a dream'
But mine was promotion.
The League title never even occured to me
But now we stand on the brink
Of finishing top of the table
For the first time since
Nineteen Seventy Eight
When I was still at primary school
Too young to realise
What an achievement it was.
Now I am too scared to dream
Good things just don't happen to me
Maybe today-just for once
That theory will be proved wrong.
Good things come
To those who wait.
Well, to be honest
I am forty six,
Going on sixty six
And I don't feel as if
I have much waiting left
So today is as good a day as any
To even things up
Before either my body packs up on me
Or I decide enough is enough.
Life is an existence
Not a celebration.
Please let today be
An exception to that rule.

Dulwich Poet 27th April 2013

(I wrote this on the bus to the ground. If my team, Dulwich Hamlet, avoid defeat today at home to Beugess Hill Town, we will be the Ryman League Division South champions, having lost in the play-off final in the last two seasons)

"Unclean"

Moving toward
The back of the upper deck
Mistake!
I can see it's empty
But haven't seen why
My nose tells me though
Old Boy dirty clothes
Unwashed
Battered trainers
With holes in.
That was me just over
A decade ago
Except I was a lot younger
Though my body was as old as
That chap is now.
Right now
This very moment
I am not thinking
"What a pen and ink",
"Have a wash",
Or simply "You smelly cunt!"
No, I am not judging
But in contemplation
Rather than indignation
Simply grateful
That the drunk on the bus
Is no longer me.

Dulwich Poet 24th April 2013

( I am an alcoholic, sober for nearly eleven years. In my bad drinking days I hardly washed, & could stink out buses like a man did on the 176 bus earlier this evening. He acted as if he was 'normal', just like I used to...)

"Booze Bus"

I shouldn't really be aboard
Self discipline of the highest accord
I even bought drink for the raffle
With no urge to have a snaffle!
In the past I'd have been
As drunk as a skunk
Not caring what anyone thunk
Being stuck on here sober isn't so bad
At least I remember, for which I'm glad.
Back in the seventies racism was rife
It was an every game way of life
Looking back our fans were a disgrace
Too cowardly to say anything to your face.
But now our support is unique
Blending in together week after week
Young and old as good as gold
All welcomed into the Hamlet fold
Teachers and preachers
Mix with teds and dreads
Genuinely mad people
Happily off their heads
Even some Turks going berserk
And working class Cockneys
Should to shoulder with
City Boy Mockneys together
No problems at all in any weather
As long as you don't have a pop
At the colour of a players skin
At Dulwich Hamlet you will fit in
Everyone UNITED for Pink 'n' Blue
Whether you're Old Skool dinosaur 'Rabble'
Or rather posh nouveau new
More songs and flags than I've ever known
Seeds of the future are being sown
The strength of a club
Is in it's collective fans' soul
The "St. Pauli of South London" can be our goal!

Dulwich Poet 21st April 2012

(After a first attempt at writing about Dulwich Hamlet supporters on the coach to Herne Bay yesterday, which didn't go in the direction intended & released some personal & private thoughts from the old days, I had another attempt, and think this one is ok to share, in my real name, on Facebook)

"All Aboard The Skylark"

Back in the old days
For I am at the phase
Of my life that I can say that
Without so much of an eyelid bat
When we last came top of a table
So long ago it sounds like a fable
We didn't struggle to fill a bus
But often two without a fuss!
One was quiet for old farts
The other noisy with young upstarts
Every game wherever we went
Across London, northern Home Counties;
Surrey, Sussex or Kent
Under the wing of Pat and Ron
St. Albans, Bromley, Harwich & Parkeston.
The prices were pennies rather than pounds
I still recall Pat the Rattle's sounds
No modern satnav to do the biz
Same old cry: "Does anyone know where the ground is?"
I was only a boy back in seventy eight
So I paid the kiddies rate.
That trip to Finchley door to door
Too many people so paid half of a half
To sit on the floor
People on the pitch as soon as Ossie score'
But it wasn't the post-war record
As 'suddenly' Jover had got more!
Usually the coach went back on the dot
But that day was as good as it got
All on the pitch sprayed with bubbly
Given a glass by Alan Smith luvvly jubbly!
Actually the first drink of my life
Starting decades of alcoholic strife...
Back in those days the coaches were packed
You had to find a seat with a bit of tact
The back of the coach was a no-go place
Where you had to be a Hamlet face
The real reason was the pre-internet dawn
They always shared tame top shelf porn!
In them days they were also shamefully racist
Crudity of the lowest base-ist.
Truth is I knew they were mugs
Too cowardly even to be proper thugs.
That's why now I talk to younger fans
Treating them as adult as we all can.
Certainly not because I want to prey
Which DID happen back in the day.
"Don't sit next to Bob the Coat"
Always hushed with a nod & a wink
It was enough to make me think.
But when you're just eleven and want pocket money
It doesn't matter if he treats you funny.
In the Seventies it wasn't just Savile, Rolf Harris
And the showbiz crowd
If you liked younger kids it was effectively allowed.
To be fair he was a creep but sound
I did what he wanted for a couple of pound.
Thankfully those days will never return
It is so wrong as society has learn'
My only regret being silent at the time
Letting him get away with his crime
Is any other boys he may have hurt
Should have beaten him into the dirt.
Just because what he did to me I thought was nice
Doesn't mean others never paid the price.

Dulwich Poet 21st April 2013

( This poem was supposed to start out as one about coach trips to away games, inspired by our trip to Herne Bay, yesterday. A few people jokingly say I should write one, but it didn't go in the direction I thought it would, with me writing about an old fan, now dead a fw years, who used to molest me, so this is one that I won't be putting in my real name on Facebook)

"Short and Sweet"

Someone said to me yesterday
They like my poems
That I put on Facebook
(He's also a rare lucky one
Who knows where to find the rest)
But I'm not going to digress.
He told me that
They are far too long.
Can I write some short ones?
So short and sweet
I'll keep it neat
No need for names
Phoenix from the flames
Can we do the sleeping bag properly
As I was too drunk to remember
My last attempt!

Dulwich Poet 21st April 2013

An old friend of mine, who I had a crush on, when I was firmly in the 'closet' in the mid-nineties, is fine about it nowadays, and we have a great joke together...well sometimes,eh mate! Back in the nineties we all stayed overnight on a clubhouse floor at football tournament in Hitchin & I tried to get into his sleeping bag, but was too drunk to remember. At the time I was mortified, but now wish I'd been better at it! )

"Through The window"

Leaning on the wall
T-shirt weather  now
Almost midnight
But not what you'd call
A balmy summer evening.
I see the three of you
Through the window of my bus home.
One being held up by the window ledge.
The next swaying,
Cigarette cupped in hand
And you holding court
Arm animated
Pint sploshing
Without spilling a drop.
I have no doubt you are
The perfect pub philosopher
While I have some thoughts
Of my own.
Make that a flashback
To my old Friday nights.
When I was younger
I was drunk down
The Old Kent Road
With a friendly tear up
For a late one.
Then through my twenties
Into my thirties
It was just the drink
Far too drunk to even think
How many people
I bashed-just with
My nasty drunken tongue.
Time after time after time
I could see myself
Just like 'The Swan' I am seeing
At the West Wickham traffic lights
Except I was an obnoxious ugly duckling
Being drunk most nights.
But I thought I was normal
How wrong I was.
Not that I'm ashamed.
The most important thing is
I'm not like that today.
Life's not perfect
But I'm not propped up by pubs.
That's it
Nothing else to say.
Sometimes actions do
Speak louder than words.

Dulwich Poet 19th April 2013

(On the way home last night, from a wedding reception, my bus stopped at a junction, at the lights, outside a pub. Three blokes were standing outside, clearly a bit drunk. It got me thinking about my drinking, I'm now nearly eleven years sober)

"Wedding Night Yomp"

You might have a misconception
Of a wedding reception
If I told you the groom
Was a dustman by trade
You'd probably say
Jolly well played
As if it was
Some sort of achievement
To have a lovely do at
A Golf Club
With real posh cupcakes!
I'm not a social type of bloke
Though a million times nice
Now I'm only on coke
(The fizzy kind, mind!)
Maybe it's my low expectations
That I brought on myself
Through alcoholism
And being a horrible
Selfish bastard
That has seen me ruin nights like these
Totally drunk doing as I please
Being too pissed to realise
Which is no excuse mind,
That I come to appreciate
How kind it was to be invited
As an evening guest.
Once I found it
Got lost for a bit.
Bit if a disaster all my fault
Made my night almost come to a halt.
First I left the invite with details at home
My own error, can hardly moan
At least I had the place in my head
The map in my memory would do instead.
Jumped off the bus far too early
Turning my good mood somewhat surly
But eventually I was back on track
Or so I thought until ready to crack!
Round in circles over a golf course
Ready to turn back full of remorse
Tripping up in a bunker of sand
Cuts, scratches from hedges all over my hand.
Shirley by night
Is not a sight
I ever want to see again
But it was worth all the pain
And at least it didn't rain!
So glad I persevered
Just to see Malcolm's eyes light up
As if The Hamlet had won the Cup
To see me there.
He really did care
Even though I was
Just another guest
He made me feel
As if I was the best.
His warmth and pat on the back
Made me so glad
I did not about turn to go home
For the special feeling
Beccause I had shown.
I didn't stay long
Not to have been there
Would have been so wrong.
All that happened
By forgetting the venue was
I wound myself up and
Wasted a bit of time
All in all not a crime
What would have been
Was not being seen
At all! And learning
How ordinary folk
Lead ordinary lives
In their own special way.
I'm learning, I think
But need to blink
Pinch myself
And count to ten
It's like I'm only just
Starting life again.

Dulwich Poet 19th April 2013

( I went to an evening wedding reception, earlier tonight. A really nice bloke, who's a fellow Dulwich Hamlet fan invited me. I thought there would be loads of us, and I would be one of many from behind the goal. turns out there were just a selct handful of us from football, which was a bit of a humbling thought, that he'd asked. It made the effort worthwhile, as I forgot to bring the map, and got lost on the adjacent golf course, then headed th wrong way, when I got off it! I got there almost two hours later than expected. This poem is about my gratitude for the invite, and also about how uneasy I feel at these events, as I just turned up at them to get drunk, without a care for anyone else, at these type of things, which-with the obvious benefit of 'sober hindsight'-explains why I got so few invites to them. Without knowing or recalling, I am ashamed to say I have been told in the past how I ruined some events, making women burts into tears, with my drunken behaviour. If you had the misfortune to ever witness me at my worst, I humbly apologise...)

"Boston"

It's a marathon
Not a sprint
So you shouldn't
Be bombing it.
You just can't comprehend
How your life will end
Too soon
Before the finishing line.
Goodnight sunshine.
They say ice hockey is a tough sport
Not me, I thought.
26.2 miles
Four dead in two days.
One by mother nature
Three by a bastard son's hand.
Almost incomprehensible
In our Western world
As the mayhem and gore unfurled
In real time on Twitter
Body parts flying like litter.
But while I am shocked to the core
It's not the dead I feel sorry for
Not that I wanted you to depart
From head to toe blown apart
Nothing can be done for you.
You're gone. Deceased.
Not coming back.
My heart goes out to
Those who went to watch a race
Now scarred with a smashed up face
Or no arm. Or a leg lacking.
For ever.
Your body wrecked by a bomb
Almost a hundred years
After the Somme.
The cruelty of man
Some things never change.

　

Dulwich Poet 17th April 2013

( I wrote this after the bomb blasts at the Boston Marathon, in the USA, and the natural death of a marathon runner in the Brighton Marathon, in the UK, the day before. I was left thinking the ones who died in the blast were the lucky ones, the maimed have the rest of their lives to suffer. And the man who collapsed and died in Brighton...he died young, but died quickly, doing something he loved. No pain. Perhaps he was lucky in death too?)

"On The Buses"

Waiting to go home
After a Cup Final
London Old Boys Challenge Cup
Which understandably
May have been below
Your footballing radar.
At the bus stop
Waiting for my 176
When a P13 pulls up
It shouldn't
At a request stop.
"Bloody idiot", I thought
I never stuck out my hand
And clearly nobody getting off.
Doors open.
I choose politeness.
I certainly don't want
The bus to Streatham.
"Not for me mate"
Only for the driver to state:
"I saw your shirt.
Good luck Dulwich
Hope you get promoted"
Doors close
And off he goes.
Leaving me both
Gobsmacked, jawdropping
And a great big grin on my face!

Dulwich Poet 17th April 2013

(I went to the the London Old Boys Cup Final tonight, at Champion Hill. Old Hamptonians 2, Old Meadonians 0. At the bust stop, after the match, a complete stranger, a passing bus driver wished my team, Dulwich Hamlet, luck in our promotion push. Made my night!)

"Busman's Holiday"

They say you never should Judge a book by it's cover
But for this one
I have no choice
For the cover is the voice
"Overdue Notice"
by David Drake.
I have no idea what he would make
About me writing a poem
About him writing poems!
Imagine!
A whole book of stuff
About my job!
Not thin pamphlet style
But one that will take
A fair while to read
Cover to cover
With a real spine
Not a hand made
Cobbled together effort
Under an ancient
Gestetner jobbie!
Libraries have an unfair reputation
Derided by much of the nation
A bit like poetry.
But writing ditties
About them.
Really?
Whatever next?
Who knows?
You can't tell with prose
Just, as I said
You can't judge a book
By it's cover
Likewise a poet from
The nib of his pen.

　

Dulwich Poet 17th April 2013

(I've been reading a poetry book, by an American professional Librarian, every single poem about libraries. I am an unqualified/'unprofessional' full time Library Assistant, in an inner London council public library, my job for over 26 years)

"Haiku"

I have no idea what you're about
But I've discovered you exist in the Poetry Library
And not a clue if this is one but who cares?

Dulwich Poet 14th April 2013

( A 'haiku' is some sort of three line poem, originating from Japan, apparently. There are books and magizines devoted to them in the Poetry Library. I'd never heard of them before I started using this library)

"Written For Me?"

Does anyone remember
Nick Berry
'Eastender' off the telly
Maybe before you were born?
Later PC Rowan of Aidensfield.
Other claim to fame
Pop Star!
"Every Loser Wins
Once The Dream Begins"
How prophetic
If I dare compare
Four games to go
One of them in hand.
I can touch that title
It's in my grasp
I can already picture
That pitch invasion.
I am ready to hug the players
My fellow fans
Old skool dinosaurs
From the original 'Rabble'
And the nouveau posh
Johnny Come latelys.
I love them all
Even kissing
A blow up giraffe
Called Ged for a laugh.
Most of all though
I want to grab
Gavin Rose
As one of his loyal
Pink & Bue Army disciples
Bear hugging him
Unable to speak
Shedding tears of joy
For him
In return for the ones
He held back
When we lost a Bognor
In the play-offs last season.
Four games to go
We can 'afford'
A loss and a draw...
If I were to look back
Life's always been pretty crap
My lowly purpose on this planet
I've come to accept
A long, long time ago.
No matter how much
Worse it gets
If we win this title
Even if I live to be a hundred
I will die happy.

　

Dulwich Poet 14th April 2013

(Yesterday Dulwich Hamlet beat Walton Casuals 5-0, to go three points ahead of Maidstone United, who lost at home to Faversham Town, at the top of the Ryman League Division One South. We have a game in hand, with four games for us left to play)

"Taking In The View"

On the balcony
Relaxing
Admiring the sights
From the heights.
High tide Eiver
Calm but controlling.
To my left Big Ben bonging
Behind a section of the London Eye
Across the water is
Charing Cross Station
Gateway to Trafalgar Square
Heartbeat of our nation.
As if you need a reason
To love London Town.
Nights getting lighter
And the sun is brighter
Bringing joy to my heart
Summer snapping due to start.
You don't need money
To be content
Just as well
My pennies are spent.
Far too many bills
And debts to pay
The South Bank is great
To escape for a day.
From the very spot
Where I currently stand
Is the most magnifecent new treasure
In our entire land
That building opposite holds
The very Savoy Hotel bed
Where they found
Maggie Thatcher DEAD!

　

Dulwich Poet 14th April 2013

(Standing on the fifth floor balcony of the Royal Festival Hall, overlooking the River Thames & admiring both the view, as well as appreciating it such a nice place, even if you have no spare money)

(And this poem is actually incorrect, she died at The Ritz, which is not on the river)

"My One Man Festival"

Here I am
Atop the middle class kingdom
Former working class fiefdom
Looking down From London's crown
The Royal Festival Hall.
Culture palace for the poor
Or concrecrete carbuncle
From after the War?
Back in her day Maggie thought
It haemmorrhaged cash
Thankfully others weren't so rash
Granted it doesn't get much
Council Estate trade
To affords it's joys
You must be well paid
But there's nuggets of gems
That are free
For folk on tight budgets
To go and see
Lots of no charge events
Through summer on the South Bank
Even busy toilets to share a wank! ;-)
Revolving exhibitions photos and art
Always something to warm your heart.
Or just watch the people go by
A simple way to make time fly.
But what I return for most
Is on floor five
The Poetry Library
Keeping my brain alive.
I'm a working class man
Reclaiming a middle class castle
I've become such a fan but
Feel like a trespassing rascal.
Love it!

　

Dulwich Poet 14th April 2013

( I was at the Royal Festival Hall today, & was standing out on the open balcony on the fifth floor when I wrote this. The place was built for the 'Festival of Britain in 1951, remaining slums cleared, on waht was essentially one huge bomb site, after the Second World War)

"Putting A Name To A Number"

I hope you're not a prude
Thought I'd try something rude
Sadly only in my head
I've got no-one to share a bed.
It's not as if I'm being greedy
Can't be a beggar if I am needy.
Not after a fancy deluxe
Four poster style
Just someone to squeeze
In one for a while.
All I want is a top to tail
Anyone will do I'm not
After a Gareth Bale.
Though with thay human chimp
I'd love to roll in the hay
A crying shame he is not gay.
Any idea why he's on my mind?
Well since penning poems
At the start of the year
And been publishing
Them all on here
Each and everyone is all one
And this one is number sixty nine!

Dulwich Poet 13th April 2013

(This is the 69th poem I've have written, since I began at the start of January, just over three months ago...and so it felt right to mention a fantasy 'sixty nine'!)

"Times Are A Changin' "

Almost a season
With my feet under the boardroom table
Haven't done most of what I've been able
Ideas I've had thick and fast
The simple bit is running them past
Old duffers sat at the table
Not even willing,never mind able!
Their main priority is the boardroom spread
Oblivious to the fact the Club could soon be dead!
Not that it's something I worry about
I haven't got any financial clout.
Shed my anger and harness my hope
The only way I can cope
It's great on the pitch and behind the goal
So that's where I see my future role.
"All un this together" say the ConDem coalition
But at Champion Hill we can bring it to fruition.
Take the '12th Man' as your proof
Our fans backing is through the roof
Despite Martin saying it was doomed to fail
Got no time for his negative wail
Slowly but surely wer'e digging into our Club
And that there really is the crucial rub
Nobody knows what the futre may hold
But even so now we must be bold
If you're not religious time to pray
For genuine fans to have their say.
You don't have to be tied to the comatose Trust
Whose only mantra is shares are a must.
But they finally got the offer to buy
No response-they're suddenly shy!
Helping safeguard the Club is their shout
While the padlock's glued shut
On their bank account!
Don't get me wrong I've no magic wand
I don't know what's next year or beyond
It's too early to jump through hoops
One step at a time and rally the troops
Reaching out, getting more people in
Helped by the fact the team generally win.
Reach out to our local community
With our Pink & Blue hand
It's got to better than
Burying your head in the sand.

Dulwich Poet 13th April 2013

(Dulwich Hamlet are buzzing, both on the pitch & on the terraces. But the future is uncertain as the ground is up for sale, and there are two years on the lease. I joined the Club Committee at the star of the season, & feel some of the 'old guard' on there are just happy to contine their cozy existence, not interested in improving the crowds, or trying to promote the Club. I think are Supporters Trust are one of the poorest in the country, The '12th Man' is a single issue supporter led campaign to raise money to ADD to the playing budget, no strings attached, like an insistence for shares, or a say where any future transfer fees from sales of players funded gets spent. Since it's launch in December 2012 it has caught the imagination of our fans, & already raised over £3,000. I still have the hope that we can push ideas to help improve things, & gain our Club a unique reputation as an eclectic & passionate support base)

"Your Pinnacle"

Concord Rangers...Rovers
Whoever you are
I hope you have a huge party
Back in your bar
When you get out of your half full car.
Even a ride around
Your island of Canvey
In an open top bus
Although holding up the cup
Through the skylight
Of the roof of one of
Your multitude of caravans
Would be more appropriate.
Congratulations to you all
For vanquishing our mighty Hamlet
It clearly meant so much more to you.
I bear you no ill
On your four grand weekly wage bill
Well apart from your clown
Of a Tic Tac keeper.
Clough said Tomaszewski was a clown
You sir were
The whole bloody circus!
Shame really...
As it stopped us applauding at the end
With the usual style we intend.
The only other disconcerting thing
Was not realising we had to bring
Sunglasses at night
With all your MAGs so bright
Glowing orange sunbed tans
Radioactive once only big game fans.
As for the MAG tags
That's their mums and girls
Unable to do victory twirls
Due to their Essex girl stilleto heels.
In extra time they lowered our flags at the other end
Having realised the message it would send:
Their fans would have been outnumbered
Even by our banners!
It shows how bovvered I am that we lost
I can't really give a toss
For me it was a night to party
Have a singsong flags all arty
Nothing more, nothing less
Just shrugging shoulders
Ultimately second best.
If we go up in the league
It's lost in the mists of time
Getting promoted would be sublime
so enjoy your moment when you won the cup
The best of British but...
We couldn't give a fuck!
Be lucky!

Dulwich Poet 11th April 2013

(The report on the official Concord Rangers website included: 'A huge Concord following tucked behind the goal'; 'He then turned and marched towards the huge Concord "shed end faithful" to gee them up' and 'The final whistle rang out and the club as a whole reached the pinnacle of our existence to date.' Clearly it meant a bit more to them than us, as supporters, even though it would have been great to win.)

"Benched"

Army cadet boy
Smoking your roll up
On the bench
Waiting for your train
As I wait for mine.
All khakied up
As if you've been to
A kiddies fancy dress party
But clearly old enough.
And all that goes through my mind is...
I wonder if you're sixteen?
I think I am turning into
One of those dirty old men
My teachers warned me against.

Dulwich Poet 10th April 2013

(Waiting for a train on Staines Station this evening, I couldn't resist glancing at an attractive older teenager sat on a bench)

"Perfect Night Out"

Pouring down with rain
Soaked to the skin
In a crowd of twenty nine
All turned out fine
Even though
I really should be
Questioning my sanity
And shouting the odd profanity.
But...a win is a win is a win!

Dulwich Poet 10th April 2013

(It was raining all night, and I sat in an almost deserted football ground, getting soaked walking back to the train station, to see Dulwich Hamlet Reserves win 3-1 at Staines Town)

"Realisation Poetry"

I write because...
Well I've said it before
It's because I enjoy it
There's also the pleasant
Element of surprise
As I get into it
And the realisation hits home
That...hey, some of what I write
Isn't just ok.but quite good.
Not all of it mind.
Not all is Kipling of the cake kind
Plenty is exceedingly average.
But as I skim hundreds and thousands
Not off the top of cakes
But poetry on the shelves
Of the scruptuously tempting
Saison Poetry Library
I am struck by what is missing.
Where are my kind?
Working class geezers
Brought on Beezers
And Whizzer and Chips
From Council estates?
So hard to find
It's all middle class teachers
And preachers
From god forsaken places
Like the Orkneys
Or real life Craggy Islands.
Which shouldn't really surprise me
As there must be
Fuck all else to do
When surrounded by sheep
Unless you're Welsh of course.
So fair play th their poets
For finding the time.
Perhaps i'm being a little unfair
There are some working classers
Penning poetry out there
All far more talented
And better than me
But the definition of quality
Is in what you see.
Who knows if my stuff will ever be read?
Knowing my luck it will be after I'm dead
So I won't ever get published, though
Saves the grief of being rubbished.
But I'll carry on to prove a point
That you don't have to be able to print
A scrabble of letters after your name
Or write multi-sylable words
That confuse my brain.
If i can write poetry anyone can!
I shall stop now
As I don't know where this is going.
Reading it through from the start
Even though it's from the heart
It seems like I'm looking for...
Justification.
Well I don't need any.
I am a poet.
I am working class.
I am proud to be both!

Dulwich Poet 10th April 2013

(As I flick through books in the Poetry Library, I realise how difficult it is to find working class writers from cities like London. There seem to be large number of writers who are religious men of the cloth, or from middle class dominated professions, like teaching. I have realised that while my poetry may be average, or even looked down on by 'poetry experts' as rubbish, it is important that I try to continue to write, as a rare worknig class poet...or maybe we're everywhere, but just don't get stuff published...?)

"Magic of the Cup"

Over half the crowd
Makes you so proud
Untold singing
With our bringing
Two hundred or more
Despite the score.
As an added bonus
We upset the League
By making the night
Magnificently nervy
For dinosaur duffer Topsy Turvey.
If you let old farts loose
They're going to cop abuse
If you want 'jolly good old bean'
Stick to the boardroom
Where you can't be seen.
On our day you can't match our support
Dulwich Hamlet passion just can't be bought
None of it manufactured
Like the Premiership game
Our raw passion puts them to shame.
We don't need to whip up the crowd with a trumpet
Or a dancing troupe centre circle showcasing your crumpet
We back our boys from the heart
Singing ourselves hoarse from the start
Not appreciated by the boardroom suits
None of them really give two hoots
As long as they have prawn sandwich style scoff
And on the big night act like a toff.
The men that matter know the score
As they stride through the dressing room door.
Cup Final lost...five more to go
We need to win five in a row
If promotion is won sod the suits
With their polite applause
Their praise will be mute
Those that matter
Will be on the pitch at the end
Going fucking mental round the bend!
The players won't be hugging
Old gits in the stand
They'll be dancing with the fans
All hand in hand
On the hallowed turf going barmy
Because we are the famous
PINK AND BLUE ARMY!

Dulwich Poet 9th April 2013

(Dulwich Hamlet lost 3-2 tonight, after extra time, in the Isthmian League Cup final, to Concord Rangers, from the division above. We have five league games left to play, win them all and we will go up as champions. Our support was superb this evening, practically non-stop singing, even when behind. Topsy Turvey refers to the Chairman of the Isthmian Football League, Alan Turvey, who was jeered & had derogatory songs sung at him, as he was presented to both teams, pre-match by a large number of Dulwich Hamlet supporters)

"Poetry Prude"

Silly me, should’ve known the score

What a fuss, right old furore

Seems you can have laugh, bit of a joke

Even got a facility to have a poke.

But dare mention masturbation

And you shock half the nation

We all do it, Kevin!

 That’s why your neighbour’s got six digits

They all like a little fidget

Find me a man who doesn’t and he’s a liar

Even an imaginary country squire

Maybe you’re prudish because you’re wed

Hides knocking one out in a garden shed.

We all do it, Kevin!

You can be so modern but so green

Things might be done but certainly not seen

Hope your young boys flush their teenage tissues

Really don’t want embarrassing family issues.

We all do it, Kevin!

You see a MILF or a GILF on a train

But don’t think about a bloke exactly the same

I’m a filthy beast it shouldn’t be done

Worse than that Philpott in ‘The Sun’

We all do it, Kevin!

Oh shock, horror! A naughty word

You really are being absurd

How much worse did you hear when nicking a crook?

Yet take offence at one line on Facebook.

We all do it, Kevin!

Am learning to express myself, like one on one

Sharing my poetry’s actually quite fun

Giving me the confidence to pen some more

You’re a football man you know the score!

And deep down…

We’d all like to do it, Kevin

Get over it!

Dulwich Poet 8^th April 2013

( A response to a comment made by someone, who questioned one line of a poem I put on my Facebook page, in my real name, after one line included –their words-me ‘knocking one out’, which they didn’t want to read)

"Publish And Be Damned"

Searching for more to devour
In the Poetry Library for an hour
A look and a flick
In half a tick
Then back on the rows
Depending on the rhyme
And how it goes.
A thin,fading pamphlet caught my eye
Truth be known can't tell why
Truthfully actually I can
But don't want you thinking
I'm a bigger fool than I am.
It's all in the name-
Dick Davis from the telly.
It might as well have been Mavis
So I could pretend
This was right up my Coronation Street.
For this wasn't
the 'Dick' I was after
(Ground floor toilets,
But that's another poem)
Not 'World of Sport'
That was in my thought
Who was Dickie in a bow
And a Davies on that show.
I took my four choices off the rack
Then had a tiny guilt attack
Even though I wouldn't have 'Dick' at home
The least I could do was read his tome.
'Size isn't everything' is perfect for him
Just six poems contained within.
I can't recall if they were good or bad
Am totally overwhelmed by a cloud of sad
For deep down I'd love to be published
Even if I'm critically rubbished
Don't want to put Dick the poet out of joint
But pray tell what was the point?
A mere two hundred was his print run
What was the point of having it done?
Just two copies here now left for rent
From the lot that's one per cent!
They haven't been issued since the century last
Without any interest decades past.
All that effort all that thought
If I'd done the same I'd be distraught
Accepting I'll never have my own book
My low self belief would be totally shook
Make the mistake of pretending to be half decent
And you'll be told it's the wrong place, which heard recent
Better that I know my place
And post secretly online while knowing my place.

Dulwich Poet 7th April 2013

( I was at the Poetry Library again, changing my books. I am working my way along the collection alphabetically, taking out whatever catches my eye. I spotted a very thin booklet called 'Visitations', by a chap called Dick Davis. There were two lending copies, the most 'recent' issue was late 1992)

"Men In Black"

I was struck today
Not by a lorry or a bus
But a juggernaut of thought
Where would we be
Without a referee?
Looks so easy from the side
This morning I almost cried
With laughter!
Advantage played-we go three down
You moan at him as if he's a clown
He offers you the explanation
I would say extremely patient
Then puts your nose out of joint
Responding to your second point!
It's not often I praise a ref
Generally they're Mutt and Jeff
Not to mention blind as bats
Hence we scream 'Bloody prats!'
Maybe I'm mellowing in my old age
Losing a lot of my youthful rage
Referee's aren't perfect
Decisions don't always even out
But we play at level eight
Yet expecting whistlers to be first rate.
They do it because they love the game
Do they honestly deserve all your blame?
(Granted it's also tax-free pay
The taxman doesn't have his day)
Don't get me wrong some are poor
But what about players who fail to score?
The man with the badge may be the runt of the litter
But is that a reason to be bitter?

Dulwich Poet 7th April 2013

(I saw the Youth Team today, we lost 3-0, but I thought the referee was superb, & made hardly any mistakes. One of the coaches from a younger team moaned about one or two of his decisions. He should actually have known better, as he is also a qualified referee!)

"Confusion"

You're looking puzzled mate
As you get on board at New Cross Gate
Elderly black gent
In your pork pie hat
Thinking you're stylish
Crombie coat & shirt
Though no cravat.
But you can't work out where
The hand rail's gone
A turn to the left, twist to the right
Then reassuring smile
As your hand grasps the vertical pole
Which was your safety goal.
If it was at all. Best to aim
To set some new ones
One is certainly needed
A shoe one!
Get rid of those spaceship silver things
That you've got on your plates!
Dear oh dear that really grates!
Where are my shades old man?
But who am I to judge?
With the free pair on MY feet
Courtesy of the NHS.
Best I ignore what you wear
Just a little smile; grin and bear
And take the advice
Staring me in the face
Clear and concise
In white on red on her bag
In front of the woman
In the ordinary shoes opposite
'Keep calm and carry on'

Dulwich Poet 7th April 2013

(A dapper elderly man got on the train, but he had these awful silverly shoes...well I thought they didn't suit him anyway...)

"Opposites"

The delights of the non-rush hour train

Working Saturdays

Has it’s compensations.

Like the drop dead gorgeous

Boy opposite.

Blond bleached hair

I’m no fashionista

Don’t know what you call it

Trimmed designer stubble

Way out of my league-

Even if I could knock off

A quarter century from my age.

Thankfully I’ve got my notebook

So am snatching glances

Rather than staring

Into his eyes

Which are hidden

Behind his shades.

His headphones in

So he can’t hear my thoughts.

His legs are crossed

So I can’t see

What I’m imagining

Bag acting as his table

As his half  gloved fingers

Tippity tap away

At his youthful

Computer phone device.

I know where I really want to be

As-even at my age-

I’m getting a funny feeling down below.

You glance over the carriage

Absent mindedly

Those lips turn upwards

From one of the corners

Into that cute half grin.

I like to think it’s because

You’re telepathic

And can read my thoughts

But in reality

You’ve just got a high score

On your computer game

And haven’t noticed me

....Never will.

I hate young men like you

Said without any malice

For it just makes me

Look back at myself

And realise…

How I’ve wasted my life.

But enough of that

Don’t spoil the moment

Fucking hell…

He just yawned!

Ooh…open wide!

I wish I had the balls…

To get my…camera out

So I could always

Have your image

In my memory bank

Instead of fading

When I next wank.

Wherever you’re going

Thank you for getting on my train

Even though I got on after you.

Shit! Here’s my stop!

One last peek

Through the window

Of a London Overground train

Standing on the platform

Of Surrey Quays Station

With you totally oblivious to the fact

You are what my dreams are made of.

Dulwich Poet 6^th April 2013

(My usual train journey to work, they are not packed on Saturdays, when I sat down there was a beautiful young man sat opposite…)