It's a tough time at Christmas
Facing a dinner times two
Perhaps turn up after the second
But for dessert what to do?
You've managed to avoid double turkey
Thankfully too late
But what else can you do
When dessert's plonked on the plate?
It's not a gigantic portion
Just a generous slice
But not even touching it
I fear you'll pay the price.
You'll not upset Mr. Kipling
Or whoever does Tesco home brand
For this culinary masterpiece
Was done by my sister's own hand.
She may say she's not upset
For an argument small beer
Just a spoonful or two would have done
For you to be together next year!
In the future when she dumps you
What more could you have done to stay?
In truth you'll get your just dessert
For not toying with that play on Christmas Day.
Would it really have hurt
To try that slice of cake
That's how you work a relationship
A bit of give and take.
Even I thought it was tasty
Which was a bit of a surprise
But you not having a single spoon
Almost brought tears to my eyes.
Was it too much to ask for
A homemade piece of cake
The one that your loving partner
Took several hours to make.
When it comes to festive decorum
You were hardly cream of the crop
Would it really have been that awful
To scrape a mouthful off the top?
But that's what you get from east London
Standards are rather low
We really can't expect any better
From the likes of Bethnal Green or Bow.
Our South London family thought it was delicious
Sponge and cream divine
So at least our Christmas wasn't ruined
By an East End boy out of line.
Dulwich Poet 26th December 2016
(My sister's partner, Eddie, came round to my brothers on Christmas Day, he was stuffed, and couldn't eat anything as he'd been round to his family beforehand. He couldn't even manage some of the delicious homemade cake my sister had made. I, being me, ribbed him a lot, and he said I should write a poem about it. I'm not sure if he was joking, if it was a challenge, or both...)
Monday 26 December 2016
Sunday 18 December 2016
"Christmas Treat"
Sitting in an Old Skool boozer
It would have been posh back in the day
Here on the Sunday before Christmas
It's where the poets come out to play.
I've come here to listen
Be entertained for free
Most of these are propa Old Skool
Which is what I want to see.
None of those beards from Shoreditch
Or Dalston hipsters up their arse
Working class poetry from the heart
Observations being first class.
A West Ham fan spouts his nonsense
But his stuff ain't bad
Problem is I can't stand the 'Ammers
Secretly I'm trying not to get mad.
Today's not about football boundaries
Whatever side of the river you live
It's about working class unity
And what you have to give.
Save anger for the posh cunts
And the revolution that's slow to come
Not to be wasted on a poet
Even if he's a West Ham tosser...and some! ;-)
Sorry I can't let go...
I'm Sarf Lunnon and prahd
That's what football does to you
It can divide an anonymous crowd.
I need to keep my two lives separate
Think about the message of what we write
Football's for the terrace
A wound-up poet ain't right.
Time to chill at the Betsy
Supping my orange & lemonade
In awe of the talent reading
Knowing I'll never make their grade.
Content to be on the fringes
Part of this poetry thing
It's the highlight of my Christmas
Despite the joy it's supposed to bring.
I get my pleasure from football
Yesterday we lost to a late goal
This is ideal for my 'pick-me-up'
To get out of a depressing hole.
Football's generally not for enjoyment
In all honesty it's a curse
That's why I so love poetry
My escapism's in verse.
I can stay true to my roots
Knowing who I am
If I've got to mix with a few posh cunts
I no longer give a damn.
I'll mix with anyone
As long as you're decent at heart
Provided you're for the poetry
Rather than wanky art.
For all poetry means to me
Jot down what's in your head
It's a bonus if you're working class
A leftie and a red.
The day's been a celebration
Of poetry & being working class
If you happen to be a lah-di-dah interloper
I'd ride with it and let you pass.
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2016
(On the Sunday before Christmas I went to listen & enjoy a Poetry all-dayer, at the Betsy Trotwood pub, in Farringdon. A great mix of working class poets to listen to, but one or two posher people in the audience...)
It would have been posh back in the day
Here on the Sunday before Christmas
It's where the poets come out to play.
I've come here to listen
Be entertained for free
Most of these are propa Old Skool
Which is what I want to see.
None of those beards from Shoreditch
Or Dalston hipsters up their arse
Working class poetry from the heart
Observations being first class.
A West Ham fan spouts his nonsense
But his stuff ain't bad
Problem is I can't stand the 'Ammers
Secretly I'm trying not to get mad.
Today's not about football boundaries
Whatever side of the river you live
It's about working class unity
And what you have to give.
Save anger for the posh cunts
And the revolution that's slow to come
Not to be wasted on a poet
Even if he's a West Ham tosser...and some! ;-)
Sorry I can't let go...
I'm Sarf Lunnon and prahd
That's what football does to you
It can divide an anonymous crowd.
I need to keep my two lives separate
Think about the message of what we write
Football's for the terrace
A wound-up poet ain't right.
Time to chill at the Betsy
Supping my orange & lemonade
In awe of the talent reading
Knowing I'll never make their grade.
Content to be on the fringes
Part of this poetry thing
It's the highlight of my Christmas
Despite the joy it's supposed to bring.
I get my pleasure from football
Yesterday we lost to a late goal
This is ideal for my 'pick-me-up'
To get out of a depressing hole.
Football's generally not for enjoyment
In all honesty it's a curse
That's why I so love poetry
My escapism's in verse.
I can stay true to my roots
Knowing who I am
If I've got to mix with a few posh cunts
I no longer give a damn.
I'll mix with anyone
As long as you're decent at heart
Provided you're for the poetry
Rather than wanky art.
For all poetry means to me
Jot down what's in your head
It's a bonus if you're working class
A leftie and a red.
The day's been a celebration
Of poetry & being working class
If you happen to be a lah-di-dah interloper
I'd ride with it and let you pass.
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2016
(On the Sunday before Christmas I went to listen & enjoy a Poetry all-dayer, at the Betsy Trotwood pub, in Farringdon. A great mix of working class poets to listen to, but one or two posher people in the audience...)
"Hair of the Dog"
When you're feeling rotten
'Hair of the dog' is the cure
But then what happens
When the Youth Team are just as poor?
Not based on performance
But chucking away a lead
It's bad enough when it's First Team
On a Sunday it's not what I need.
I don't expect success
Wall-to-wall joy
Been following Dulwich for decades
Over forty years man and boy.
The wrong result on a Saturday
I can't even cry in my beer
Have to rely on the youngsters
To being me Sunday cheer.
Now it's double bubble
The pain is twice as bad
So winning at Kingstonian tomorrow
Is the only way to stop me feeling sad.
That's the thing with football
Dulwich Hamlet are my life
So when any team loses a game
I'm battered with inner-strife.
I take it really personal
You might think it weird
But it's more than just something to do
Supping craft beer and trimmed beard.
I'm not one for Christmas
Even though it's so near
So come on Dulwich Hamlet
Win tomorrow for my seasonal cheer.
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2016
(I wrote this the day before Dulwich Hamlet won away to Kingstonian, on Monday 19th December. On the Saturday we'd lost, make that been mugged, two one, when we were at home to Tonbridge Angels. On the day after I saw the Youth Team lose at home to Phoenix Sports, which didn't lift my footballing mood, as a Youth Team win often does after a First Team defeat...)
'Hair of the dog' is the cure
But then what happens
When the Youth Team are just as poor?
Not based on performance
But chucking away a lead
It's bad enough when it's First Team
On a Sunday it's not what I need.
I don't expect success
Wall-to-wall joy
Been following Dulwich for decades
Over forty years man and boy.
The wrong result on a Saturday
I can't even cry in my beer
Have to rely on the youngsters
To being me Sunday cheer.
Now it's double bubble
The pain is twice as bad
So winning at Kingstonian tomorrow
Is the only way to stop me feeling sad.
That's the thing with football
Dulwich Hamlet are my life
So when any team loses a game
I'm battered with inner-strife.
I take it really personal
You might think it weird
But it's more than just something to do
Supping craft beer and trimmed beard.
I'm not one for Christmas
Even though it's so near
So come on Dulwich Hamlet
Win tomorrow for my seasonal cheer.
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2016
(I wrote this the day before Dulwich Hamlet won away to Kingstonian, on Monday 19th December. On the Saturday we'd lost, make that been mugged, two one, when we were at home to Tonbridge Angels. On the day after I saw the Youth Team lose at home to Phoenix Sports, which didn't lift my footballing mood, as a Youth Team win often does after a First Team defeat...)
Saturday 26 November 2016
"Que Sera Sera"
It's a perk of being a club official
I'm on the Team Coach today
On the way down to Winchester City
Third Qualifying Round drawn away.
They may be a division below us
But form goes out the door
The cup's a great leveller
So let's hope we don't play poor.
The form we're currently in
Should be far too strong
Without being too confident
What could possibly go wrong?
Hopefully come ten to five
I'll be grinning like a Cheshire cat
Alternatively there's the option
My weekend's gone totally flat.
With a bit of hope and luck
We'll go a few more rounds
Drawn in far-flung northern holes
Visiting weird places and grounds.
Another couple of victories
And this Trophy begins to tease
Imagine a visit to the arch
If we perform and don't freeze.
After today it's five rounds to Wembley
Stranger things have occurred
In truth I'm not sure what they are
Humour me and take my word.
I know it will never happen
But until we lose there's hope
In truth if we ever got to Wembley
I don't know how I'd cope.
I'd be shedding tears of emotion
Crying all through the game
Even if we went and lost six nil
My life would never be the same.
To see The Hamlet at Wembley
It only happens in my head
The fans of North Ferriby and Morpeth Town
I bet that's what they always said.
I know the chances are minimal
But I still dream every year
Until that moment we're knocked out
In my head it's all so clear.
That childhood dream I secretly cling to
A Pink & Blue Wembley Way
No matter how distantly impossible
I live life for that just one day.
Come three o'clock I'll be louder
An extra special cheer
We can do our bit like the players
Sat at the rear.
Twenty miles to Winchester
Two hours until the game
If we suffer a shock defeat
I'll only have myself to blame.
I was wearing my lucky socks
But are they on the wrong feet
Such a superstitious nature
Of fans all over
Our fault when we're beat.
But the inquest's for later
Cos I don't think we're going to lose
From where I'm currently sitting
In my 'Going to Wembley shoes'.
Dulwich Poet 27th November 2016
(I wrote this on the team coach to Winchester City, who we went on to beat in an FA Trophy third qualifying round, which is a 'mere' six rounds from the final next May, at Wembley Stadium. Five to go!)
I'm on the Team Coach today
On the way down to Winchester City
Third Qualifying Round drawn away.
They may be a division below us
But form goes out the door
The cup's a great leveller
So let's hope we don't play poor.
The form we're currently in
Should be far too strong
Without being too confident
What could possibly go wrong?
Hopefully come ten to five
I'll be grinning like a Cheshire cat
Alternatively there's the option
My weekend's gone totally flat.
With a bit of hope and luck
We'll go a few more rounds
Drawn in far-flung northern holes
Visiting weird places and grounds.
Another couple of victories
And this Trophy begins to tease
Imagine a visit to the arch
If we perform and don't freeze.
After today it's five rounds to Wembley
Stranger things have occurred
In truth I'm not sure what they are
Humour me and take my word.
I know it will never happen
But until we lose there's hope
In truth if we ever got to Wembley
I don't know how I'd cope.
I'd be shedding tears of emotion
Crying all through the game
Even if we went and lost six nil
My life would never be the same.
To see The Hamlet at Wembley
It only happens in my head
The fans of North Ferriby and Morpeth Town
I bet that's what they always said.
I know the chances are minimal
But I still dream every year
Until that moment we're knocked out
In my head it's all so clear.
That childhood dream I secretly cling to
A Pink & Blue Wembley Way
No matter how distantly impossible
I live life for that just one day.
Come three o'clock I'll be louder
An extra special cheer
We can do our bit like the players
Sat at the rear.
Twenty miles to Winchester
Two hours until the game
If we suffer a shock defeat
I'll only have myself to blame.
I was wearing my lucky socks
But are they on the wrong feet
Such a superstitious nature
Of fans all over
Our fault when we're beat.
But the inquest's for later
Cos I don't think we're going to lose
From where I'm currently sitting
In my 'Going to Wembley shoes'.
Dulwich Poet 27th November 2016
(I wrote this on the team coach to Winchester City, who we went on to beat in an FA Trophy third qualifying round, which is a 'mere' six rounds from the final next May, at Wembley Stadium. Five to go!)
Saturday 19 November 2016
"Spud-u-Like"
I'm in love with you dear potato
That's why you look like a heart
You'd look great on my dinner plate
I never want to be apart.
Boiled rather than plain
Still edible and nice
I'd have a gentle nibble
If you were on a bed of rice.
But you look your sexiest
Covered in green sauce
Double pie, mash & liquer
Perfect as a main course.
I still like you traditional
Sliced up for a main dish
Lashings of salt and vinegar
You can't beat chips with battered fish.
Or slowly baked in the oven
Covered in a cheesy melt
Never mind how fattening it is
You can always buy a new belt.
But you're not always my favourite
If covered in garnish and spice
Then you seem like an arsy spud
Dashing to the bog ain't nice.
But that's enough nastiness
It's time for my lunch
Perhaps you know what I'll have
From this poem you'll have a hunch!
Dulwich Poet 19th November 2016
(A mate posted a picture of a potato on Facebook. His missus thought it looked like a heart. He thought it looked like an arse. I thought it looked like a potato...)
That's why you look like a heart
You'd look great on my dinner plate
I never want to be apart.
Boiled rather than plain
Still edible and nice
I'd have a gentle nibble
If you were on a bed of rice.
But you look your sexiest
Covered in green sauce
Double pie, mash & liquer
Perfect as a main course.
I still like you traditional
Sliced up for a main dish
Lashings of salt and vinegar
You can't beat chips with battered fish.
Or slowly baked in the oven
Covered in a cheesy melt
Never mind how fattening it is
You can always buy a new belt.
But you're not always my favourite
If covered in garnish and spice
Then you seem like an arsy spud
Dashing to the bog ain't nice.
But that's enough nastiness
It's time for my lunch
Perhaps you know what I'll have
From this poem you'll have a hunch!
Dulwich Poet 19th November 2016
(A mate posted a picture of a potato on Facebook. His missus thought it looked like a heart. He thought it looked like an arse. I thought it looked like a potato...)
Friday 18 November 2016
"I'm Supposed To Enjoy Myself..."
Farewell 'Paper Tiger'
I won't read there again
Sitting on a late bus home
I'm picking up my pen.
I got to the venue at half seven
Now I'm on the 185 bus
Gone twenty past eleven!
I declined my chance to read
As time was getting short
I could've squeezed one poem in
That's what the comperes thought.
The night had over-run
With people gassing and hogging time
Worst were the rambling comperes
Which to me was a crime.
They're supposed to make things go smoothly
Sorting out times and the list
Instead of adding extra people
Plus the ones they've missed.
Is it too much to ask
To have my four or five minutes on stage
Is that really too difficult
So fucking hard to gauge?
This much disorganisation
For some it's part of the fun
Even though I enjoy other poets
For me this night is done.
It's going to be way past midnight
Before I get to bed
And that's too much of a sacrifice
When I've not even read.
I made the right decision
As I just caught this 'early' bus
Walking out of the door at the end
Without creating a fuss.
Sometimes these thing happen
But it's occurred before
Feel like I'm being taken for a mug punter
When the organisation's so poor.
My 'not turning up' won't be noticed
I'm sure I won't be missed
The night will still be popular
They'll always fill their list.
But for me poetry's a hobby
If I listen or read
And if I no longer enjoy it
This isn't what I need.
In truth it's not about reading
If I can't I don't care
But when I'm on a list and expect to
It's about timing and being fair.
So many other alternatives
All over our great city
I won't be let down by a 'Paper Tiger'
Which is a bit of a pity.
For Jason is a decent bloke
Kind with a warm heart
But this was too much of a shambles for me
So it's time for us to part.
I wish him well in his endeavours
And all he sets out to do
A man I'll respect for all he does
But with 'Paper Tiger' I'm through.
Maybe I'm too harsh
Cutting my nose to spite my face
But if I end up not enjoying it
I know I've been in the wrong place
Dulwich Poet 18th November 2016
(I went to a regular monthly poetry night, but it was a bit chaotic. People added to the list, despite being busy, others going over time, the comperes 'chatting' far too much. In the end it over-ran, not for the first time, and people were asked to cut short what they were going to read. They seemed surprised when I said I wouldn't bother at all...I scribbled this on the bus home.)
I won't read there again
Sitting on a late bus home
I'm picking up my pen.
I got to the venue at half seven
Now I'm on the 185 bus
Gone twenty past eleven!
I declined my chance to read
As time was getting short
I could've squeezed one poem in
That's what the comperes thought.
The night had over-run
With people gassing and hogging time
Worst were the rambling comperes
Which to me was a crime.
They're supposed to make things go smoothly
Sorting out times and the list
Instead of adding extra people
Plus the ones they've missed.
Is it too much to ask
To have my four or five minutes on stage
Is that really too difficult
So fucking hard to gauge?
This much disorganisation
For some it's part of the fun
Even though I enjoy other poets
For me this night is done.
It's going to be way past midnight
Before I get to bed
And that's too much of a sacrifice
When I've not even read.
I made the right decision
As I just caught this 'early' bus
Walking out of the door at the end
Without creating a fuss.
Sometimes these thing happen
But it's occurred before
Feel like I'm being taken for a mug punter
When the organisation's so poor.
My 'not turning up' won't be noticed
I'm sure I won't be missed
The night will still be popular
They'll always fill their list.
But for me poetry's a hobby
If I listen or read
And if I no longer enjoy it
This isn't what I need.
In truth it's not about reading
If I can't I don't care
But when I'm on a list and expect to
It's about timing and being fair.
So many other alternatives
All over our great city
I won't be let down by a 'Paper Tiger'
Which is a bit of a pity.
For Jason is a decent bloke
Kind with a warm heart
But this was too much of a shambles for me
So it's time for us to part.
I wish him well in his endeavours
And all he sets out to do
A man I'll respect for all he does
But with 'Paper Tiger' I'm through.
Maybe I'm too harsh
Cutting my nose to spite my face
But if I end up not enjoying it
I know I've been in the wrong place
Dulwich Poet 18th November 2016
(I went to a regular monthly poetry night, but it was a bit chaotic. People added to the list, despite being busy, others going over time, the comperes 'chatting' far too much. In the end it over-ran, not for the first time, and people were asked to cut short what they were going to read. They seemed surprised when I said I wouldn't bother at all...I scribbled this on the bus home.)
Friday 28 October 2016
" What's in a name?"
I walk past a poster for Ronald Snijders
And wonder if you're a snidey cunt
Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh
And you're just a Dutch James Blunt.
Dulwich Poet 28th October 2016
(There were posters all over Amsterdam for a concert by this singer)
And wonder if you're a snidey cunt
Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh
And you're just a Dutch James Blunt.
Dulwich Poet 28th October 2016
(There were posters all over Amsterdam for a concert by this singer)
"Contemplating"
I'm relaxing in the Begijnhof
Such a quiet place
Surrounded by untold tourists
Who've found this 'secret' space.
Only a few hours until
I'm London bound
Chilling with book and biro
In this so-called hallowed ground.
Sat alone on a bench
Watching the world go by
Notebook and pen for poetry
Comes easy when I try.
This birthday trip's been marvellous
No stresses calm and content
A bit like I've been feeling
Since I found a room to rent.
I'm not a man of money
I just survive and cope
When I am felling down
It's the poetry gives me hope.
I don't know what the future holds
I've got no crystal ball
But now I've turned fifty
I've got to set the 'rest of my life' stall.
Half a century of insecurity
Half a century of waste
Now I've probably got less than half of that left
It's time for reality to be faced.
What has happened has happened
I can't change the past
I really need to believe in myself
It's time to change at last.
Yet I can't shake off this weirdness
Not sure if I can cope with 'inner-calm'
When I've spend decades thinking
I belong on the 'funny farm'.
So many things I want to do
In whatever years I've got to live
I want to do what's right for me
And know I've got so much to give.
Maybe this holiday is telling me
It's time to sort out my life
I am really fed up with having
An existence full of strife.
Who knows if I can do it
But it must come from within
All of my negativeness
Needs to be chucked in the bin.
I love my Dulwich Hamlet
But sometimes it wears me down
I sense the time ain't too distant
For me to get out of town?
By that I don't mean leaving London
My city's in my heart
But maybe I should be less involved
Making a fresh terrace start.
Finish the projects I'm planning
Then taking a BIG step back
Just going to games as I please
Getting my life back.
Going to other games
Being able to pick and choose
In truth it doesn't matter if I'm there
For The Hamlet to win or lose.
I love what I do
Helping my Club gives me pleasure
But maybe not too far in the future
I want my spare time for MY leisure.
At the moment that's the future
There's still this season and next
I'm not just going to walk away
Just put it in context.
All I'm looking at
Is doing what's right for me
And if that means being less involved at Dulwich
Then what will be will be.
Dulwich Poet 28th October 2016
(I wrote this before I left Amsterdam earlier today. Sat in a 'hidden secret' on the tourist trail, a small hidden square, by a chapel, just off of the main shopping streets. Depsite all the toursits, still very peaceful)
Such a quiet place
Surrounded by untold tourists
Who've found this 'secret' space.
Only a few hours until
I'm London bound
Chilling with book and biro
In this so-called hallowed ground.
Sat alone on a bench
Watching the world go by
Notebook and pen for poetry
Comes easy when I try.
This birthday trip's been marvellous
No stresses calm and content
A bit like I've been feeling
Since I found a room to rent.
I'm not a man of money
I just survive and cope
When I am felling down
It's the poetry gives me hope.
I don't know what the future holds
I've got no crystal ball
But now I've turned fifty
I've got to set the 'rest of my life' stall.
Half a century of insecurity
Half a century of waste
Now I've probably got less than half of that left
It's time for reality to be faced.
What has happened has happened
I can't change the past
I really need to believe in myself
It's time to change at last.
Yet I can't shake off this weirdness
Not sure if I can cope with 'inner-calm'
When I've spend decades thinking
I belong on the 'funny farm'.
So many things I want to do
In whatever years I've got to live
I want to do what's right for me
And know I've got so much to give.
Maybe this holiday is telling me
It's time to sort out my life
I am really fed up with having
An existence full of strife.
Who knows if I can do it
But it must come from within
All of my negativeness
Needs to be chucked in the bin.
I love my Dulwich Hamlet
But sometimes it wears me down
I sense the time ain't too distant
For me to get out of town?
By that I don't mean leaving London
My city's in my heart
But maybe I should be less involved
Making a fresh terrace start.
Finish the projects I'm planning
Then taking a BIG step back
Just going to games as I please
Getting my life back.
Going to other games
Being able to pick and choose
In truth it doesn't matter if I'm there
For The Hamlet to win or lose.
I love what I do
Helping my Club gives me pleasure
But maybe not too far in the future
I want my spare time for MY leisure.
At the moment that's the future
There's still this season and next
I'm not just going to walk away
Just put it in context.
All I'm looking at
Is doing what's right for me
And if that means being less involved at Dulwich
Then what will be will be.
Dulwich Poet 28th October 2016
(I wrote this before I left Amsterdam earlier today. Sat in a 'hidden secret' on the tourist trail, a small hidden square, by a chapel, just off of the main shopping streets. Depsite all the toursits, still very peaceful)
Thursday 27 October 2016
"The Wally at Zwoll-ie"
Tonight I nearly fucked up
Almost got into a fluster
Saved by the best Cockney bullshit
That even I could muster.
Zwolle versus Venlo
The last game I was going to see
What could possibly go wrong
To a mild-mattered bloke like me?
I take my seat one hundred and seven
In Row 18 of their "Ultra's" stand
But it seemd quite mild-mannered
Yet almost got out of hand.
Just before kick-off
Two blokes say something in Dutch
I just shrug my shoulders
Which doesn't please them much.
When I say I'm English
They say I'm in their seat
But I know I'm in the right
So I've got the fuckers beat.
I flash them my ticket
To prove I'm in the right place
That's when they threaten me
Spouting bullshit to my face.
The trouble with Dutch fuckers in general
Is they all stand about six foot ten
And this bloke was eight inches taller than me
Probably a bit more again!
I said "What's your fucking problem?"
I could also give it large
Just to let him know as always
The English were in charge.
Then he came out with the classic words:
"Do you want a fight?"
Inside I was shitting myself
This wasn't going to be my night!
I pointed to the cameras
With all the bravado I could muster
Wishing I was carrying
An old-fashioned knuckle duster.
So him and his mate took a pew
In the seats next to mine
Maybe if I kept it zipped
During the match I'd be fine.
But no he wouldn't leave it
He wouldn't let it lie
There was a strong chance I would kiss
What teeth I've got left goodbye.
'So us English we think we're tough'..
But the' Dutch hooligans are the best'
For fuck sake stop your bullshit
You're becoming a pest.
I let him rabbit on
There's bullshit and porky pies
But then I made the 'mistake' of smirking
At one of his hurdy gurdy lies.
He had just told me
Zwolle was Holland's biggest firm in size
Then I used poetic licence
Which took him by surprise.
When I said: "So what I'm Millwall"
He lost all of his hate
Staring he went to shake my hand
And said "Oh, sorry mate".
That should have been it all over
But he picked up his phone
All I understood was 'hooligan' and 'Millwall'
I never felt more alone.
Coming up from the terrace
Came two more blokes looking mean
I really hope I hid it well
Turning a sickly green.
They weren't as old as me
But you could see they knew their stuff
You didn't need to ask them
If they stood their ground when it got tough.
I'm glad my fright didn't show
My luck was about to turn
They asked about the famous Bushwackers
And wanted to listen and learn!
I didn't know their contacts
So had to make it up on the hoof
Saying I was really at the old Den
When I was naughtier in my youth.
I actually got away with it
Tales I began to regale
But then when I said I was at Luton
How could I really fail?
As for this game it was a home win
So everyone was happy
But I declined a post-match pint or two
I wanted to leave rather snappy.
I said I was leaving rather sharpish
Made out I had an early flight
But not before I shook hands
And bade them goodnight.
Turns out they're welcome in London
An 'open invite' to my place
Which they were really chuffed at
Thinking it rather ace.
Except I made up an email
And said my name was John
A masterful piece of deception
Their dreams of Cold Blow Lane gone!
Dulwich Poet 27th October 2016
(Last night I saw the last match on my Dutch trip, at PEC Zwolle. The game ,ahem, interesting...as one of their fans tried to stir up trouble with me...luckily I talked my way out of it)
Almost got into a fluster
Saved by the best Cockney bullshit
That even I could muster.
Zwolle versus Venlo
The last game I was going to see
What could possibly go wrong
To a mild-mattered bloke like me?
I take my seat one hundred and seven
In Row 18 of their "Ultra's" stand
But it seemd quite mild-mannered
Yet almost got out of hand.
Just before kick-off
Two blokes say something in Dutch
I just shrug my shoulders
Which doesn't please them much.
When I say I'm English
They say I'm in their seat
But I know I'm in the right
So I've got the fuckers beat.
I flash them my ticket
To prove I'm in the right place
That's when they threaten me
Spouting bullshit to my face.
The trouble with Dutch fuckers in general
Is they all stand about six foot ten
And this bloke was eight inches taller than me
Probably a bit more again!
I said "What's your fucking problem?"
I could also give it large
Just to let him know as always
The English were in charge.
Then he came out with the classic words:
"Do you want a fight?"
Inside I was shitting myself
This wasn't going to be my night!
I pointed to the cameras
With all the bravado I could muster
Wishing I was carrying
An old-fashioned knuckle duster.
So him and his mate took a pew
In the seats next to mine
Maybe if I kept it zipped
During the match I'd be fine.
But no he wouldn't leave it
He wouldn't let it lie
There was a strong chance I would kiss
What teeth I've got left goodbye.
'So us English we think we're tough'..
But the' Dutch hooligans are the best'
For fuck sake stop your bullshit
You're becoming a pest.
I let him rabbit on
There's bullshit and porky pies
But then I made the 'mistake' of smirking
At one of his hurdy gurdy lies.
He had just told me
Zwolle was Holland's biggest firm in size
Then I used poetic licence
Which took him by surprise.
When I said: "So what I'm Millwall"
He lost all of his hate
Staring he went to shake my hand
And said "Oh, sorry mate".
That should have been it all over
But he picked up his phone
All I understood was 'hooligan' and 'Millwall'
I never felt more alone.
Coming up from the terrace
Came two more blokes looking mean
I really hope I hid it well
Turning a sickly green.
They weren't as old as me
But you could see they knew their stuff
You didn't need to ask them
If they stood their ground when it got tough.
I'm glad my fright didn't show
My luck was about to turn
They asked about the famous Bushwackers
And wanted to listen and learn!
I didn't know their contacts
So had to make it up on the hoof
Saying I was really at the old Den
When I was naughtier in my youth.
I actually got away with it
Tales I began to regale
But then when I said I was at Luton
How could I really fail?
As for this game it was a home win
So everyone was happy
But I declined a post-match pint or two
I wanted to leave rather snappy.
I said I was leaving rather sharpish
Made out I had an early flight
But not before I shook hands
And bade them goodnight.
Turns out they're welcome in London
An 'open invite' to my place
Which they were really chuffed at
Thinking it rather ace.
Except I made up an email
And said my name was John
A masterful piece of deception
Their dreams of Cold Blow Lane gone!
Dulwich Poet 27th October 2016
(Last night I saw the last match on my Dutch trip, at PEC Zwolle. The game ,ahem, interesting...as one of their fans tried to stir up trouble with me...luckily I talked my way out of it)
"Getting What You Pay For"
Well what were you thinking
Despite looking sparkling and nice
What do you expect for a pound
There always is a price.
Never mind Halloween
What a load of shite
Better to use your inflammable wig
For the Guy on Bonfire Night.
Just in case you never saw the warning
I hope safety's not in their hands as well
If you bought a fire extinguisher for a pound
Good luck you'll burn in hell.
I really don't understand people
Who expect quality for a quid
I only expect such gullibility
From a five-year-old little kid.
At least a child won't see
The top shelf stocked for leisure
Now they're selling a slim vibrator
To improve a ladies' sexual pleasure.
You've really got to be desperate
Except for 'Secret Santa' at the office
But don't give it to the one
You want to share that mistletoe kiss.
Regardless of your sex
For your fanny or up the arse
The nicest thing I can suggest
Is keep your money and walk past.
Don't believe that rubbish
About one size fits all
Spend your pound on hours of fun
With carrots from the market stall!
Dulwich Poet 27th October 2016
("Poundland recalls flammable Halloween wig" said a recent newspaper headline...well that's where this poem somehow originated! )
Despite looking sparkling and nice
What do you expect for a pound
There always is a price.
Never mind Halloween
What a load of shite
Better to use your inflammable wig
For the Guy on Bonfire Night.
Just in case you never saw the warning
I hope safety's not in their hands as well
If you bought a fire extinguisher for a pound
Good luck you'll burn in hell.
I really don't understand people
Who expect quality for a quid
I only expect such gullibility
From a five-year-old little kid.
At least a child won't see
The top shelf stocked for leisure
Now they're selling a slim vibrator
To improve a ladies' sexual pleasure.
You've really got to be desperate
Except for 'Secret Santa' at the office
But don't give it to the one
You want to share that mistletoe kiss.
Regardless of your sex
For your fanny or up the arse
The nicest thing I can suggest
Is keep your money and walk past.
Don't believe that rubbish
About one size fits all
Spend your pound on hours of fun
With carrots from the market stall!
Dulwich Poet 27th October 2016
("Poundland recalls flammable Halloween wig" said a recent newspaper headline...well that's where this poem somehow originated! )
"Illegal Upgrade'
What's that big number?
It says ONE on the door
Even I know it stands for 'First Class'
To keep out all the poor.
Now here comes the ticket collector
Sat in second class I'm fine
But those two getting kicked out of the posh seats
Really make me want to whine.
They're speaking the local lingo
So to me it's double-Dutch
But looks like they got away with it
The admonishment's not much.
Where's the paying extra
A supplement or a fine?
It was so fucking obvious
That they were out of line.
Got no no problem with freeload upgrades
So long as it's not posh on the fiddle
I bet these are the sort of rich fuckers
Who block up the aisles of my Lidl.
I'm now keeping fuming quiet
From La-Di-Dah suits-wrong time and place
Getting close to dinosaur class war mode
Desperate to punch them in the face!
(I wrote this a train from Amsterdam to Zwolle, when I saw two men asked to leave first class, right by me)
It says ONE on the door
Even I know it stands for 'First Class'
To keep out all the poor.
Now here comes the ticket collector
Sat in second class I'm fine
But those two getting kicked out of the posh seats
Really make me want to whine.
They're speaking the local lingo
So to me it's double-Dutch
But looks like they got away with it
The admonishment's not much.
Where's the paying extra
A supplement or a fine?
It was so fucking obvious
That they were out of line.
Got no no problem with freeload upgrades
So long as it's not posh on the fiddle
I bet these are the sort of rich fuckers
Who block up the aisles of my Lidl.
I'm now keeping fuming quiet
From La-Di-Dah suits-wrong time and place
Getting close to dinosaur class war mode
Desperate to punch them in the face!
(I wrote this a train from Amsterdam to Zwolle, when I saw two men asked to leave first class, right by me)
"Dutch Boys"
What is it about those Dutch boys
They are just so pretty
My eyes are popping out of my head
In every town and city.
Even their 'ugly' ones
Are not bad at all
And I can't help but wonder
Are their cocks a big as they are tall?
Of course I'm old and ugly myself
So I know to look but not touch
And anyway at my age
It's just a small tingle in my crotch!
But there's nothing wrong with dreaming & imagination
Storing un my pervy memory bank
All to be unlocked and recalled
The next few times I wank.
Dulwich Poet 27th October 2016
( Is it me or are Dutch men really gorgeous to look at? )
They are just so pretty
My eyes are popping out of my head
In every town and city.
Even their 'ugly' ones
Are not bad at all
And I can't help but wonder
Are their cocks a big as they are tall?
Of course I'm old and ugly myself
So I know to look but not touch
And anyway at my age
It's just a small tingle in my crotch!
But there's nothing wrong with dreaming & imagination
Storing un my pervy memory bank
All to be unlocked and recalled
The next few times I wank.
Dulwich Poet 27th October 2016
( Is it me or are Dutch men really gorgeous to look at? )
Wednesday 26 October 2016
"Utrecht in the Cup"
Half an hour before kick-off
The seats are starting to fill
The lure of the Dutch Cup
That's how I get my thrill.
I hope it's a better game than last night
Not the best I've ever seen
But the opposition were decent on Sunday
The boys in Groningen green.
I'm sat here as a neutral
Not supporting either team here
But as I'm in the home end
When Utrecht score I'll cheer.
I'm hoping for a few goals
Which will be rather nice
Perhaps a red card or two
To add a bit of spice.
Pleasantly surprised at the ticket
We've got so much to learn
Happy it's only ten euros
I haven't got money to burn.
The programme was for gratis
Given away free on the gate
Made sure I grabbed an extra
For a pikey collector mate.
The game was so one-sided
As if Groningen were scared to try
Utrecht were like Dulwich
Waving chance after chance goodbye.
Extra-time was looming
Only two minutes added on the clock
The fact there was even a late winner
Came as a total shock.
The home end going apeshit
Beer thrown in the air
I'm absolutely covered in it
Down my back & in my hair!
The stench is making me wistful
That beery aroma gave me a fright
I keep calm by clinging to the fact
If I was drunk I wouldn't be here tonight.
For having stopped my drinking
I can go to games like this
One of the many little bonuses
Of not being on the piss.
I'm really enjoying my travels
Venturing to grounds & places I wouldn't see
Right now I'm totally contented
With a new lease of life for me.
Dulwich Poet 26th October 2016
( Tonight I was at FC Utrecht versus FC Groningen in the Dutch FA Cup)
The seats are starting to fill
The lure of the Dutch Cup
That's how I get my thrill.
I hope it's a better game than last night
Not the best I've ever seen
But the opposition were decent on Sunday
The boys in Groningen green.
I'm sat here as a neutral
Not supporting either team here
But as I'm in the home end
When Utrecht score I'll cheer.
I'm hoping for a few goals
Which will be rather nice
Perhaps a red card or two
To add a bit of spice.
Pleasantly surprised at the ticket
We've got so much to learn
Happy it's only ten euros
I haven't got money to burn.
The programme was for gratis
Given away free on the gate
Made sure I grabbed an extra
For a pikey collector mate.
The game was so one-sided
As if Groningen were scared to try
Utrecht were like Dulwich
Waving chance after chance goodbye.
Extra-time was looming
Only two minutes added on the clock
The fact there was even a late winner
Came as a total shock.
The home end going apeshit
Beer thrown in the air
I'm absolutely covered in it
Down my back & in my hair!
The stench is making me wistful
That beery aroma gave me a fright
I keep calm by clinging to the fact
If I was drunk I wouldn't be here tonight.
For having stopped my drinking
I can go to games like this
One of the many little bonuses
Of not being on the piss.
I'm really enjoying my travels
Venturing to grounds & places I wouldn't see
Right now I'm totally contented
With a new lease of life for me.
Dulwich Poet 26th October 2016
( Tonight I was at FC Utrecht versus FC Groningen in the Dutch FA Cup)
Tuesday 25 October 2016
A Den Haag Return"
A pilgrimage I've been putting off
A return to the other DHFC...
For the ones called Den Haag
Are the cloggie team for me.
They're not known as the Dutch Millwall for nothing
Their hard core hooligans are mad
But for me it was simply the initials
I know that makes me sad.
I'm not adverse to naughtiness
I got nicked here in Ninety-Two
I was stopping off on my way to Sweden
Bumping into a Den Haag crew.
I had to join in fighting the local Old Bill
When it kicked off at the station
Getting nicked with a hefty fine
As well as deportation.
So I missed the European Championships
Bang went my spare dosh
You could say in more ways than one
They had me under the cosh.
I've not been back to see them
Though I keep an eye on the table
In truth I'm not a real Den Haag fan
But I'm happy to wear that label.
The new ground's an out-of-towner
The passion is still there
But for soul and character
In truth it's rather bare.
Not that I'm too bothered
It's just nice to return
The ten euro ticket was a gift from a friend
Handy without money to burn.
Talking of burning
What's that smell in the air?
Seems like I'm in the spliffing stand
Almost floating on air.
Nearly as high as the famous satellites
Telstar up above
The one the away team are named after
What's there not to love?
Certainly not the football
It's not the greatest game tonight
Untold foreign insults and catcalls
Pepper the air as is a supporter's right.
But in cup football a win's what matters
No matter how it's done
There's really no law of the game
That says football must be fun.
The home crowd have a reputation
And they moan like Millwall too
I can't understand what they're saying
It's like being in a zoo.
I'm happy for a win
I'd have settled for that before the game
Gotta say through my 'hoolie-tinted' glasses
Compared to the old ground it's not the same.
There goes the final whistle
It's getting cold where I'm sat
Only one thing left for me to do
Going to the club shop for a woolly hat.
Dulwich Poet 25th Ocotber 2016
(Den Haag are my favourite team in the Netherlands. Tonight I visited their new ground for the first time. It is well over twenty years since I saw them play...)
A return to the other DHFC...
For the ones called Den Haag
Are the cloggie team for me.
They're not known as the Dutch Millwall for nothing
Their hard core hooligans are mad
But for me it was simply the initials
I know that makes me sad.
I'm not adverse to naughtiness
I got nicked here in Ninety-Two
I was stopping off on my way to Sweden
Bumping into a Den Haag crew.
I had to join in fighting the local Old Bill
When it kicked off at the station
Getting nicked with a hefty fine
As well as deportation.
So I missed the European Championships
Bang went my spare dosh
You could say in more ways than one
They had me under the cosh.
I've not been back to see them
Though I keep an eye on the table
In truth I'm not a real Den Haag fan
But I'm happy to wear that label.
The new ground's an out-of-towner
The passion is still there
But for soul and character
In truth it's rather bare.
Not that I'm too bothered
It's just nice to return
The ten euro ticket was a gift from a friend
Handy without money to burn.
Talking of burning
What's that smell in the air?
Seems like I'm in the spliffing stand
Almost floating on air.
Nearly as high as the famous satellites
Telstar up above
The one the away team are named after
What's there not to love?
Certainly not the football
It's not the greatest game tonight
Untold foreign insults and catcalls
Pepper the air as is a supporter's right.
But in cup football a win's what matters
No matter how it's done
There's really no law of the game
That says football must be fun.
The home crowd have a reputation
And they moan like Millwall too
I can't understand what they're saying
It's like being in a zoo.
I'm happy for a win
I'd have settled for that before the game
Gotta say through my 'hoolie-tinted' glasses
Compared to the old ground it's not the same.
There goes the final whistle
It's getting cold where I'm sat
Only one thing left for me to do
Going to the club shop for a woolly hat.
Dulwich Poet 25th Ocotber 2016
(Den Haag are my favourite team in the Netherlands. Tonight I visited their new ground for the first time. It is well over twenty years since I saw them play...)
Monday 24 October 2016
"Birthday Meeting"
It's a Monday night without football
And I'm sat on a tram
I've no idea where it's going to
I don't give a damn.
For today I turned fifty
And I've just been to A.A.
An English speaking meeting
Where I shared and had my say.
Over fourteen years sober
Life's not perfect but I strive
Can't believe I reached half a century
And I'm actually still alive.
The way I was going
I was killing myself
The amount I was drinking
Wasn't good for my health.
Alcopops on the train to work
Just to keep me calm
Ten pints or more in a day
Was no cause for alarm.
Now I'm sat down contented
Riding the Amsterdam tram tracks
The only drink that I need
Is a bottle of Pepsi Max.
I have no hesitation
I'm a better person for sure
Though even without alcohol
I can still be rude and a bore.
I prefer to think I'm 'forthright'
More honest than blunt
But don't expect me to hold back
If you're a bit of a cunt.
To all my friends who supported me
Right from the very start
I just want to humbly thank you
From the bottom of my heart.
To my brother and sisters
Who know how low I could sink
How I regret everything I've done
When under the demon drink.
I really should know better
When our old man died of booze
But that's the thing about alcoholism
It doesn't let you choose.
So far I've been lucky
No relapses and I'm clean
As for the future...
Well that remains to be seen.
I've got to reamain vigilant
The danger IS that next drink
The temptation doesn't go away
No matter what you think.
Those temptations may get lesser
As the years go by
But the devil still whispers on my shoulder
Encouraging me to try.
You may think it's really awful
I've turned fifty all alone
But spiritually through sobriety
Look how much I have grown.
Tonight I spoke at a strange meeting
I was chuffed with applause and a cheer
All from a room of strangers
Because I turned fifty without a beer.
Dulwich Poet 24th October 2016
(Today is my 50th birthday, and I went to an English speaking meeting in Amsterdam this evening. Without a doubt, if I had not have stopped drinking, I would not have reached the age of fifty...)
And I'm sat on a tram
I've no idea where it's going to
I don't give a damn.
For today I turned fifty
And I've just been to A.A.
An English speaking meeting
Where I shared and had my say.
Over fourteen years sober
Life's not perfect but I strive
Can't believe I reached half a century
And I'm actually still alive.
The way I was going
I was killing myself
The amount I was drinking
Wasn't good for my health.
Alcopops on the train to work
Just to keep me calm
Ten pints or more in a day
Was no cause for alarm.
Now I'm sat down contented
Riding the Amsterdam tram tracks
The only drink that I need
Is a bottle of Pepsi Max.
I have no hesitation
I'm a better person for sure
Though even without alcohol
I can still be rude and a bore.
I prefer to think I'm 'forthright'
More honest than blunt
But don't expect me to hold back
If you're a bit of a cunt.
To all my friends who supported me
Right from the very start
I just want to humbly thank you
From the bottom of my heart.
To my brother and sisters
Who know how low I could sink
How I regret everything I've done
When under the demon drink.
I really should know better
When our old man died of booze
But that's the thing about alcoholism
It doesn't let you choose.
So far I've been lucky
No relapses and I'm clean
As for the future...
Well that remains to be seen.
I've got to reamain vigilant
The danger IS that next drink
The temptation doesn't go away
No matter what you think.
Those temptations may get lesser
As the years go by
But the devil still whispers on my shoulder
Encouraging me to try.
You may think it's really awful
I've turned fifty all alone
But spiritually through sobriety
Look how much I have grown.
Tonight I spoke at a strange meeting
I was chuffed with applause and a cheer
All from a room of strangers
Because I turned fifty without a beer.
Dulwich Poet 24th October 2016
(Today is my 50th birthday, and I went to an English speaking meeting in Amsterdam this evening. Without a doubt, if I had not have stopped drinking, I would not have reached the age of fifty...)
"Birthday Haiku"
I'm fifty not out
No drinking that's not cricket
Raise a glass to that.
Dulwich Poet 24th October 2016
(Today is my 50th birthday, now over 14 years sober)
No drinking that's not cricket
Raise a glass to that.
Dulwich Poet 24th October 2016
(Today is my 50th birthday, now over 14 years sober)
Sunday 23 October 2016
"On Your Bike"
Here I am in Groningen
A proper two wheel town
Unlike the bodge job from Boris
Our ex-Mayor of London clown.
Zooming round the streets
Sometimes passengers back or front
Zipping in and out of pedestrians
Not acting like a cunt.
Even I could be converted
If I lived in this cycle city
Not a cat in hells chance of that
When the London ones are so shitty.
Trying to run me down
As they jump the lights
Just as well there's cameras
Or I'd be in a ton of fights.
Riding on my pavements
Tempers start to fray
Jump off if you want some
Go ahead punk make my day.
The Dutch have got it sorted
Cyclists kings of the road with pride
Sticking to their cycling lanes
I'll happily step aside.
Back home I really hate them
Would love to kill them dead
With chicken wire from war films
Decapitating their head.
I'd send them single file through their 'super' highways
Where we could all pelt them with eggs
Then we'd see how strong they are
Peddling their not quite Bradley Wiggins legs.
I really shouldn't say this
But I smile when they're under a truck
As long as it's a cyclist I don't know
I really don't give a fuck.
And don't get me started
On the ones that are such a pain
The smug 'better-than-me' tossers
Who bring pushbikes on a train.
Blocking up the doors
Chaos at every stop
When I dare to have a moan
You throw an indignant strop.
Your contraption takes up three spaces
Yet you've got a ticket for one
While the rest of us are squashed up
I wish I had a gun!
In Holland they have manners
Tinkling their cycle bell
To ours who try to take on lorries
I hope you end up in hell.
So three cheers to the cloggies
You're the cyclists I like
To those ignorant ones back in London
On your fucking bike!
Dulwich Poet 23rd October 2016
(I visited the Dutch town of Groningen today. It seemed the main mode of transport was a bicycle. As someone who has never been a fan of cyclists this poem is the closest you will get to 'praise' for them from me!)
A proper two wheel town
Unlike the bodge job from Boris
Our ex-Mayor of London clown.
Zooming round the streets
Sometimes passengers back or front
Zipping in and out of pedestrians
Not acting like a cunt.
Even I could be converted
If I lived in this cycle city
Not a cat in hells chance of that
When the London ones are so shitty.
Trying to run me down
As they jump the lights
Just as well there's cameras
Or I'd be in a ton of fights.
Riding on my pavements
Tempers start to fray
Jump off if you want some
Go ahead punk make my day.
The Dutch have got it sorted
Cyclists kings of the road with pride
Sticking to their cycling lanes
I'll happily step aside.
Back home I really hate them
Would love to kill them dead
With chicken wire from war films
Decapitating their head.
I'd send them single file through their 'super' highways
Where we could all pelt them with eggs
Then we'd see how strong they are
Peddling their not quite Bradley Wiggins legs.
I really shouldn't say this
But I smile when they're under a truck
As long as it's a cyclist I don't know
I really don't give a fuck.
And don't get me started
On the ones that are such a pain
The smug 'better-than-me' tossers
Who bring pushbikes on a train.
Blocking up the doors
Chaos at every stop
When I dare to have a moan
You throw an indignant strop.
Your contraption takes up three spaces
Yet you've got a ticket for one
While the rest of us are squashed up
I wish I had a gun!
In Holland they have manners
Tinkling their cycle bell
To ours who try to take on lorries
I hope you end up in hell.
So three cheers to the cloggies
You're the cyclists I like
To those ignorant ones back in London
On your fucking bike!
Dulwich Poet 23rd October 2016
(I visited the Dutch town of Groningen today. It seemed the main mode of transport was a bicycle. As someone who has never been a fan of cyclists this poem is the closest you will get to 'praise' for them from me!)
"Green With Envy"
I always get a programme
Yet I don't understand the lingo
As soon as I see a seller
My head explodes going 'Bingo'!
I only bought one
As they charge a euro and a half
Not that I collect stuff since I moved
Not even buying a scarf.
Sat in the corner
Match yet to start
I'm in such a good mood
Being a 'groundhopper' at heart.
An untra-modern stadium
Right on the edge of town
When I hear the words 'new-build'
I automatically frown.
But this place looks the business
All in Groningen green
Think I made the right choice
Really glad I've been.
I don't usually do top flight
So this match is a rare treat
And at only twenty one euros
A price that can't be beat.
Back home in dear old Blighty
League Two would cost more
Never mind the old Conference
Where you'd almost pay a score.
The Eredivisie might not be Premiership
But do I really care
I'm in such a mellow mood
That I'm warming to the mascot bear.
Mot long now til kick off
Writing poetry in my seat
As I've said many a time
Days like this you can't beat.
Dulwich Poet 23rd October 2016
(Today I went to FC Groningen v. AZ, in the Dutch first division, I really enjoyed it, writing this before the game...Groningen play in green, hence the title)
Yet I don't understand the lingo
As soon as I see a seller
My head explodes going 'Bingo'!
I only bought one
As they charge a euro and a half
Not that I collect stuff since I moved
Not even buying a scarf.
Sat in the corner
Match yet to start
I'm in such a good mood
Being a 'groundhopper' at heart.
An untra-modern stadium
Right on the edge of town
When I hear the words 'new-build'
I automatically frown.
But this place looks the business
All in Groningen green
Think I made the right choice
Really glad I've been.
I don't usually do top flight
So this match is a rare treat
And at only twenty one euros
A price that can't be beat.
Back home in dear old Blighty
League Two would cost more
Never mind the old Conference
Where you'd almost pay a score.
The Eredivisie might not be Premiership
But do I really care
I'm in such a mellow mood
That I'm warming to the mascot bear.
Mot long now til kick off
Writing poetry in my seat
As I've said many a time
Days like this you can't beat.
Dulwich Poet 23rd October 2016
(Today I went to FC Groningen v. AZ, in the Dutch first division, I really enjoyed it, writing this before the game...Groningen play in green, hence the title)
"Football at Fifty"
I'm sat on a cheap bus
Going to FC Groningen v. AZ
The last day in my forties
Not long til I'm dead.
Hopefully that's a while yet
It's day like this I'll miss
Thought they had gone forever
When I was seriously on the piss.
I love my cheap travelling
Even though my budget's tight
I must be the only tourist in Amsterdam
Not getting high as a kite.
My ultimate buzz is a new ground
When I have the pylons in sight
There's really nothing more beautiful
On a cold winter night.
This afternoon's a treat
Another Dutch top flight tick
If that makes me a 'groundhopper'
I'm prepared to take the stick.
You might think I'm crazy
But it's so much more than a game
I get to see museums and galleries
Think twice before calling me a name.
Been to so many places I'm not going to go again
So before you call me a 'sad git'
Breathe in and count to ten.
I'll have a few hours to kill
Strolling round the centre of town
Give me that over a Spanish beach
Getting pissed while burning brown.
My travels might not appeal to you
And I am all alone
But I am doing something that I love
So don't take this as a moan.
Walking round a strange town
Taking random snaps at my leisure
Today's my perfect 'birthday treat'
It's how I get my pleasure.
Tomorrow I turn fifty
The autumn of my life
Probably only a decade or two left
After half a century of strife.
My life is very simple
The last year's been so much stress
Don't want to give myself false hope
But it seems less and less.
Does it really matter
How many years I've got to live
It's not how old or young you die
But what you have to give.
Perhaps I should use my fiftieth birthday
To start afresh as if day one
Learning to have confidence and self-belief
The rest of my life has begun.
Dulwich Poet 23rd October 2016
(Today I am 49. Tomorrow I turn fifty. I am on my annual 'birthday holiday' and my treat to myself today was going to FC Groningen versus AZ. Two and a half hours each way on a bus)
Going to FC Groningen v. AZ
The last day in my forties
Not long til I'm dead.
Hopefully that's a while yet
It's day like this I'll miss
Thought they had gone forever
When I was seriously on the piss.
I love my cheap travelling
Even though my budget's tight
I must be the only tourist in Amsterdam
Not getting high as a kite.
My ultimate buzz is a new ground
When I have the pylons in sight
There's really nothing more beautiful
On a cold winter night.
This afternoon's a treat
Another Dutch top flight tick
If that makes me a 'groundhopper'
I'm prepared to take the stick.
You might think I'm crazy
But it's so much more than a game
I get to see museums and galleries
Think twice before calling me a name.
Been to so many places I'm not going to go again
So before you call me a 'sad git'
Breathe in and count to ten.
I'll have a few hours to kill
Strolling round the centre of town
Give me that over a Spanish beach
Getting pissed while burning brown.
My travels might not appeal to you
And I am all alone
But I am doing something that I love
So don't take this as a moan.
Walking round a strange town
Taking random snaps at my leisure
Today's my perfect 'birthday treat'
It's how I get my pleasure.
Tomorrow I turn fifty
The autumn of my life
Probably only a decade or two left
After half a century of strife.
My life is very simple
The last year's been so much stress
Don't want to give myself false hope
But it seems less and less.
Does it really matter
How many years I've got to live
It's not how old or young you die
But what you have to give.
Perhaps I should use my fiftieth birthday
To start afresh as if day one
Learning to have confidence and self-belief
The rest of my life has begun.
Dulwich Poet 23rd October 2016
(Today I am 49. Tomorrow I turn fifty. I am on my annual 'birthday holiday' and my treat to myself today was going to FC Groningen versus AZ. Two and a half hours each way on a bus)
Friday 21 October 2016
"Sober Football"
I'm at a club called Volendam
I've been here once before
The ground has completely changed
And I can't recall the score.
It would have been very early Nineties
As booze was just getting a grip
Soon every penny I had was spent on beer
As alcohol made me sick.
All I ever cared about
Was that I had my next drink
At times I almost lost my job and family
Taken right to the brink.
Today life isn't perfect
But it could be a lot worse
And thanks to this thing called poetry
I can clear my head with verse.
I wonder if I'd been 'normal'
How many grounds and trips I'd have done
Best that I don't look back in anger
And in sobriety have my fun.
For at least now I'm travelling
Even though I'm not rich
Instead of having a blackout
And lying in a ditch.
This is the start of my birthday trip
When I 'treat myself' for staying dry
Another year of recovery
Emotional enough to make me cry.
Not this very minute
And maybe not physically so
But mentally I'm still a mess
Generally being low.
If I'd carried on drinking
For sure I know I'd be dead
So does it really matter
That I feel messed up in my head?
I've let down a lot of people
Got friends and family I don't deserve
No wonder when I was really drunk
So many gave me a swerve.
I've had many a night
When I've gone home and cried
Thinking my life would have been better
If I'd jumped under a train and died.
Despite all that sounding negative
I'm grateful to the friends & family I've got
The fact they stuck with me and love me
Means an awful lot.
I often feel a fraud
With friends who only knew me drinking coke
They don't know the old drunk me
Hidden by my sobriety cloak.
All that shouldn't matter
It's a burden I'll always carry
But having just said all that
I'm as happy as the proverbial Larry.
I'm sat here to watch the football
Euro-Pop trash blaring out
Yet unbelieveably calm and contented
No longer a drunken lout.
Sometimes it's good to get away from Dulwich
Just here to watch a game
Much as I love The Hamlet
At home it's never the same.
Worrying about the club's future
Will we get that ground...
When will it be time to step back
Do I still want to be around?
For I love the peace and pleasure
Of my trips abroad
The outcome of this game won't ruin my week
It doesn't matter what goals are scored.
On nights like this I'm chilled out
Happy to be a groundhopping type of fan
Fuck the anoraky stigma
I do it because I now can.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2016
(Tonight I went to a football match at Volendam, in Holland. I've been there before, back in my drinking days, when I still managed to travel abroad before drinking got a grip, and I needed all of my money to fuel my alcoholism...this is poem about that...I think! It started off as a simple poem about the match...!)
I've been here once before
The ground has completely changed
And I can't recall the score.
It would have been very early Nineties
As booze was just getting a grip
Soon every penny I had was spent on beer
As alcohol made me sick.
All I ever cared about
Was that I had my next drink
At times I almost lost my job and family
Taken right to the brink.
Today life isn't perfect
But it could be a lot worse
And thanks to this thing called poetry
I can clear my head with verse.
I wonder if I'd been 'normal'
How many grounds and trips I'd have done
Best that I don't look back in anger
And in sobriety have my fun.
For at least now I'm travelling
Even though I'm not rich
Instead of having a blackout
And lying in a ditch.
This is the start of my birthday trip
When I 'treat myself' for staying dry
Another year of recovery
Emotional enough to make me cry.
Not this very minute
And maybe not physically so
But mentally I'm still a mess
Generally being low.
If I'd carried on drinking
For sure I know I'd be dead
So does it really matter
That I feel messed up in my head?
I've let down a lot of people
Got friends and family I don't deserve
No wonder when I was really drunk
So many gave me a swerve.
I've had many a night
When I've gone home and cried
Thinking my life would have been better
If I'd jumped under a train and died.
Despite all that sounding negative
I'm grateful to the friends & family I've got
The fact they stuck with me and love me
Means an awful lot.
I often feel a fraud
With friends who only knew me drinking coke
They don't know the old drunk me
Hidden by my sobriety cloak.
All that shouldn't matter
It's a burden I'll always carry
But having just said all that
I'm as happy as the proverbial Larry.
I'm sat here to watch the football
Euro-Pop trash blaring out
Yet unbelieveably calm and contented
No longer a drunken lout.
Sometimes it's good to get away from Dulwich
Just here to watch a game
Much as I love The Hamlet
At home it's never the same.
Worrying about the club's future
Will we get that ground...
When will it be time to step back
Do I still want to be around?
For I love the peace and pleasure
Of my trips abroad
The outcome of this game won't ruin my week
It doesn't matter what goals are scored.
On nights like this I'm chilled out
Happy to be a groundhopping type of fan
Fuck the anoraky stigma
I do it because I now can.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2016
(Tonight I went to a football match at Volendam, in Holland. I've been there before, back in my drinking days, when I still managed to travel abroad before drinking got a grip, and I needed all of my money to fuel my alcoholism...this is poem about that...I think! It started off as a simple poem about the match...!)
"Getting What You Pay For"
All ready for boarding
Queuing at the gate
Mutter, mutter have a moan
Looks like we're going to be late.
The chattering classes all around me
Having a bit of a grumble
In that irritating polite British way
Mumble constant mumble.
Well you get what you pay for
Complaining won't get you there quicker
And really what on earth do you expect
When the ticket cost less than thirty nicker!
At that price we're going on a plane
Taking us over the North Sea
I don't think half an hour's delay
Will really inconvenience me.
Last night I was held up longer
Going from Denmark Hill to Crofton Park
If you think this is something to gripe about
You're having a fucking lark!
Slagging off the airline
Criticising Ryanair
But not too proud or fussy
To pay their bargain fare.
Budget carriers aren't always efficient
But do what it says on the tin
You are getting on my nerves
I want to kick you in the shin.
Moaning middle class tossers
Who can afford to pay more
I want to stuff humble pie down your gob
On behalf of us working class travelling poor.
Thanks to Ryanair and Easyjet
I've made foreign friends while visiting grounds
The only thing I don't like about them
Is that the posh cunts aren't out of bounds.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2016
( I like budget airlines. It's the people who use them, but constantly moan about them I can't stand)
Queuing at the gate
Mutter, mutter have a moan
Looks like we're going to be late.
The chattering classes all around me
Having a bit of a grumble
In that irritating polite British way
Mumble constant mumble.
Well you get what you pay for
Complaining won't get you there quicker
And really what on earth do you expect
When the ticket cost less than thirty nicker!
At that price we're going on a plane
Taking us over the North Sea
I don't think half an hour's delay
Will really inconvenience me.
Last night I was held up longer
Going from Denmark Hill to Crofton Park
If you think this is something to gripe about
You're having a fucking lark!
Slagging off the airline
Criticising Ryanair
But not too proud or fussy
To pay their bargain fare.
Budget carriers aren't always efficient
But do what it says on the tin
You are getting on my nerves
I want to kick you in the shin.
Moaning middle class tossers
Who can afford to pay more
I want to stuff humble pie down your gob
On behalf of us working class travelling poor.
Thanks to Ryanair and Easyjet
I've made foreign friends while visiting grounds
The only thing I don't like about them
Is that the posh cunts aren't out of bounds.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2016
( I like budget airlines. It's the people who use them, but constantly moan about them I can't stand)
"Just Passing Through"
Farewell little Eindhoven
My stay was brief to say the least
Such is the nature
Of the onward travel beast.
You look all concrete
Modern Holland bland
Best to head up to Amsterdam
And the trip I've got in hand.
I glimpsed a bit of modern art
Out there on the street
In truth I wouldn't have minded a wander
Some of it looked neat.
But I've already explored the town
Way back in two thousand and six
That was on my 40th birthday trip
When a game at PSV was one of my picks.
And when you've done the football
There's no real reason to stay
So I'm on the train & heading north
Tonight I'll watch Volendam play.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2016
(Today I began a week long trip to Holland. I flew from Stansted to Eindhoven, going straight to the train station from the airport, to get a train to Amsterdam, where I am based)
My stay was brief to say the least
Such is the nature
Of the onward travel beast.
You look all concrete
Modern Holland bland
Best to head up to Amsterdam
And the trip I've got in hand.
I glimpsed a bit of modern art
Out there on the street
In truth I wouldn't have minded a wander
Some of it looked neat.
But I've already explored the town
Way back in two thousand and six
That was on my 40th birthday trip
When a game at PSV was one of my picks.
And when you've done the football
There's no real reason to stay
So I'm on the train & heading north
Tonight I'll watch Volendam play.
Dulwich Poet 21st October 2016
(Today I began a week long trip to Holland. I flew from Stansted to Eindhoven, going straight to the train station from the airport, to get a train to Amsterdam, where I am based)
Wednesday 5 October 2016
"Seven Days On"
Football can be rubbish
Such a pile of cack
What a difference a week makes
The Dulwich boys are back!
From humiliation at home
Thrashed by an average Harrow Borough
To going on a long mid-weeker to Lowestoft
Three nil and more than thorough!
This one was for the Old Skool
Nay a new-veau fan in sight
Not that the small turnout detracted
From what’s been a brilliant night.
No more than twenty made the journey
By train, team coach and car
Quality rather than quantity
Every one of us a star.
Down the years we’ve suffered
Seen many a heavy defeat
That’s why such an emphatic win
Seems even more sweet.
Lowestoft is a tough place to go to
We’ve not won there before
The ‘Natural Born Pessimist’ inside me
Knowing we’ll lose for sure.
An early goal settles the nerves
We are the first to score
And when the third goal went in
I knew we’d win for sure.
No matter what the season holds
I’ll cherish tonight’s win
When I get to bed in the early hours
I’ll hit the pillow with a big grin.
In truth there’s no glamour
Being a Dulwich Hamlet fan
We must take our pleasure
In any little way we can.
The opposition fans and players
Couldn’t believe how good we were
But me…I always had the faith
I knew what could occur.
Personally, I don’t know much about football
But won’t call for the manager’s head
I can’t believe some of the comments
On messageboards I’ve read.
Though there’s been some shockers
Calling for the gaffer’s head is barmy
My colours are proudly nailed to the mast
One
of Gavin Roses’s Pink & Blue Army!
Dulwich Poet 4th October 2016
(It's been a bit of an indifferent start to the season, hopes are high for Dulwich Hamlet. But tonight we had an excellent win, three nil away to Lowestoft Town. I wrote this on the team coach home, which I am lucky enough to travel on, as a Club official.)
Saturday 13 August 2016
"Work Life Balance"
We're away to AFC Sudbury
The first game is here
So why am I so miserable
Unable to raise a cheer?
That's the problem with work
It pays for the games I go
But when I'm stuck in the library
The day drags ever so slow.
I can't be bothered about shelving
Or the Summer Reading Scheme
My mind's wandering off to Suffolk
The start of a new championship dream.
All afternoon I'll be clicking the computer
Checking the latest score
Even though I refreshed a minute ago
I'm desperate for more.
Nowadays we're spoilt rotten
Updates with just a click
In the old days before computers
It was bite your nails worrying sick.
When work was over
Rushing to the phone box in the street
Hearing some old scrote at the ground
Give bad news that we'd been beat.
Then you'd have to call back
Just to double check
In case you were being wound up
Turning into a nervous wreck.
Gutted when we lose
But glad you weren't there
Letting out a whoop of delight
But missing out ain't fair.
I really envy my fellow fans
Those who do an ordinary nine to five
Able to go every Saturday
Without pulling a skive.
Do you really think I'm bothered
That your James Patterson's not on the shelf
Or you can't find a book for your haemorrhoids
On the one that's marked 'health'.
All I'm interested in
Is have we scored a goal
From three until ten to five
I don't care about my library role
One last look at the terminal
To check that final score
Desperate for that big grin on my face
When it's time to walk out the door.
So I might have missed it
Three points on the board
What I want is a Dulwich victory
Now that will strike a chord.
Even when I'm stuck at work
And my mood is rather bleak
It's a victory that I wasn't at
That carries me through the week.
So come on Dulwich Hamlet
My boys in Pink & blue
Give your all for me today
And on Tuesday I'll do the same for you.
Dulwich Poet 13th August 2016
(It's the start of the new season, & Dulwich Hamlet are away, but I'm stuck at work! I work in a public library, and have to work every other Saturday)
The first game is here
So why am I so miserable
Unable to raise a cheer?
That's the problem with work
It pays for the games I go
But when I'm stuck in the library
The day drags ever so slow.
I can't be bothered about shelving
Or the Summer Reading Scheme
My mind's wandering off to Suffolk
The start of a new championship dream.
All afternoon I'll be clicking the computer
Checking the latest score
Even though I refreshed a minute ago
I'm desperate for more.
Nowadays we're spoilt rotten
Updates with just a click
In the old days before computers
It was bite your nails worrying sick.
When work was over
Rushing to the phone box in the street
Hearing some old scrote at the ground
Give bad news that we'd been beat.
Then you'd have to call back
Just to double check
In case you were being wound up
Turning into a nervous wreck.
Gutted when we lose
But glad you weren't there
Letting out a whoop of delight
But missing out ain't fair.
I really envy my fellow fans
Those who do an ordinary nine to five
Able to go every Saturday
Without pulling a skive.
Do you really think I'm bothered
That your James Patterson's not on the shelf
Or you can't find a book for your haemorrhoids
On the one that's marked 'health'.
All I'm interested in
Is have we scored a goal
From three until ten to five
I don't care about my library role
One last look at the terminal
To check that final score
Desperate for that big grin on my face
When it's time to walk out the door.
So I might have missed it
Three points on the board
What I want is a Dulwich victory
Now that will strike a chord.
Even when I'm stuck at work
And my mood is rather bleak
It's a victory that I wasn't at
That carries me through the week.
So come on Dulwich Hamlet
My boys in Pink & blue
Give your all for me today
And on Tuesday I'll do the same for you.
Dulwich Poet 13th August 2016
(It's the start of the new season, & Dulwich Hamlet are away, but I'm stuck at work! I work in a public library, and have to work every other Saturday)
Friday 12 August 2016
"Honouring The System"
In the extremely unlikely circumstance
Where I was offered a gong
Would I choose to accept it
When selling out my principles is wrong?
I'm not from African stock
So no forebears turning in their grave
I wouldn't say 'Yes' for the attention
That's not what I crave.
I'm just an ordinary fella
Who grew up in a council flat
Now well into middle age
All I've got is worthless tat.
Football egg cups from Hamburg
A toy football lorry from Cologne
If you think that's more than a little weird
Trust me I'm not alone.
Us football fans are magpies
We don't do things by halves
Boxes and cupboards packed tight with
Assorted programmes, hats and scarves.
I don't believe in the honours system
Reserved for cronies from hell
But I'm sure a medallion from the Queen
Is just the thing for Ebay to sell.
I wouldn't accept for the honour
It's not all about me,me,me...
But I'd love those posh crust-free sandwiches
With a dainty bone china cup of tea.
But most of all I couldn't resist
The chance of a Buckingham Palace pony
Unable to turn down a crap on her porcelain throne
Despite the honours system being baloney.
Actually, maybe I won't flog it
I quite like Mishi the Poet M.B.E.
And if you're not sure I'm serious
Go ahead and nominate me.
Dulwich Poet 12th August 2016
(Former professional footballer Howard Gayle, the first black player to appear for Liverpool, and now involved in the 'Show Racism The red Card' campaign, has turned down an MBE as it would be 'a betrayal to the Africans who suffered at the hands of the British Empire.)
Where I was offered a gong
Would I choose to accept it
When selling out my principles is wrong?
I'm not from African stock
So no forebears turning in their grave
I wouldn't say 'Yes' for the attention
That's not what I crave.
I'm just an ordinary fella
Who grew up in a council flat
Now well into middle age
All I've got is worthless tat.
Football egg cups from Hamburg
A toy football lorry from Cologne
If you think that's more than a little weird
Trust me I'm not alone.
Us football fans are magpies
We don't do things by halves
Boxes and cupboards packed tight with
Assorted programmes, hats and scarves.
I don't believe in the honours system
Reserved for cronies from hell
But I'm sure a medallion from the Queen
Is just the thing for Ebay to sell.
I wouldn't accept for the honour
It's not all about me,me,me...
But I'd love those posh crust-free sandwiches
With a dainty bone china cup of tea.
But most of all I couldn't resist
The chance of a Buckingham Palace pony
Unable to turn down a crap on her porcelain throne
Despite the honours system being baloney.
Actually, maybe I won't flog it
I quite like Mishi the Poet M.B.E.
And if you're not sure I'm serious
Go ahead and nominate me.
Dulwich Poet 12th August 2016
(Former professional footballer Howard Gayle, the first black player to appear for Liverpool, and now involved in the 'Show Racism The red Card' campaign, has turned down an MBE as it would be 'a betrayal to the Africans who suffered at the hands of the British Empire.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)