Men

The male of the species, a strange thing indeed,
Be they gentlemen, blokes or just geezers,
Carnal, erotic and sexy when hot
But when cold – like Zanussi fridge-freezers.
Through the tantrums and sulks, they blow hot and cold
Moods changing as fast as their fashion,
One minute ‘hands off’ and ‘leave well alone’,
The next, its all amorous passion.
Yet predictable too, in that world of their own –
They just need to know they really matter,
Need the lads to applaud every sporting success
And a woman – their ego to flatter.
But why stop at just one? Why not have a few more?
Because some blokes are truly just players,
They just think with their dicks, got their brains in their pants,
Nowt inside when you peel back the layers.
Never say what they mean, never mean what they say,
They just sweet talk to keep the girls hanging,
Convincing themselves ‘every hole is a goal’
They couldn’t care less who they’re banging.
Yet it’s all just an act – nothing more than a front
Insecurities guiding their action
And in terms of a cure, nothing works quite as well
As a week with their cocks put in traction.
But they’re not all the same, some are even good fun
For those moments of unbridled pleasure,
So if yours puts you first and he’s good in the sack -
Then keep hold, he’s a National Treasure!

Two Sides of a Child

Incessant babble, words with no end
Thoughts verbalised in confusion
Preoccupation and manic disquiet
The spark builds into a profusion.
Restlessness grows, the spirit unfurls
A character in animation
Relentlessly now, the tirade secretes
A vision of inner elation.
Reckless, unstable, a volatile flame
Bursts into life, all consuming
Tense and unruly, out of control
Destruction and chaos now looming.
Words spilling out, a flurry of bile
Obscenities wildly escaping
Anarchic unrest and torturous sounds
My heart and my soul they are raping.
No bonds and no chains, no verbal restraints
A barrier to the molesting,
Just waiting until the impetus wanes
The furore inside at last resting.
Distant detachment, solemnly creeps
Reticence leaving you pensive
Sullen indifference and quiet unease
Isolation maintains the defensive -
Til inertia creeps, the waves subside
The sea inside ebbing and flowing,
And a momentary armistice
A glimpse of serenity showing.
Gentle now, the fight burnt out
A moment of peace there to capture
A precious reminder of sweetness inside
An instant of unbridled rapture.
Tenderness shared and pacts reconciled
The volcano for now it lies dormant,
Yet eternal awareness forever on guard
An onslaught of words the informant.

WHY?

Why are we drawn to challenges?
Why don’t we cut ourselves some slack?
Why do we always fall in love -
With those who just can’t love us back?
It leaves us empty, unfulfilled
The heartache, wondering, questions why?
Like addicts crave a promised hit
Forever searching for that high.
Anticipation draws us in
Delirious , out of control
As manic head and heart collide
Pursuing their elusive goal.
In moments fraught with clarity
Consciousness seeps and thoughts provoke,
Awareness and uncertainty
Remind of every promise broke
Yet fortitude is swept away
With utterance of wants and needs
As once again all will dissolves -
Expectantly your hunger feeds
A thirst that just cannot be quenched
An appetite not to be filled
As disappointment once again
Wipes every trace of hope instilled.
Back and forth emotions swing
The habit formed, the pattern set
And then you start to count the cost -
Your heart and soul, a priceless debt.

What Women Want?

Baubles and bangles, diamonds and pearls -
Are these the things that attract the girls?
Wined and dined with candlelit meals?
Out on the town in a flash set of wheels?
I guess that’s ok if you want to impress
The Essex girl in her little black dress,
But we’re not all the same, not ‘one size fits all’
What about those who don’t wanna play ball?
Some of us girls want a little bit more
Than your average flash Harry, abrasive bore.
We don’t all crave to be loved and adored
Some of us girls are more self assured.
We don’t dream of swapping wedding rings,
And we don’t need some bloke clipping our wings.
We want independence, we want our own life,
We want to be more than just someone’s wife.
Or a trophy to show off whenever it suits
For some arrogant twat, too big for his boots.
We’re not desperate, we have our own minds
And we’re in no rush for a tie that binds.
You can keep your smooth talk, your tongue that flatters
Just be straight with us, that’s all that matters.
Be who you are, no airs and no graces
And try lifting your heads and talk to our faces.
Though your eyes may be drawn to our tits and our arses
We’re really not flattered by your drunken passes.
By your crass wolf whistles, your brash cat calls,
No thanks very much, we want blokes who’ve got balls.
A man who can make us all laugh ourselves silly,
Who thinks with his head and not with his willy.
A man who’s honest, a man who is straight,
Who can talk to us just like he’d talk to a mate.
But who knows what we want, who knows how to please,
Who knows how to flirt and who knows how to tease.
Who knows how we tick and what buttons to press,
Who knows foreplay’s more than undoing our dress.
Coz men and women, like a hand and a glove
Aren’t really that different when push comes to shove.
So it’s not a tall order, not too much to ask -
Trouble is no man seems up to the task!!

All in the mind

Tears and laughter, no space in between them
A world of confusion behind troubled eyes
Darkness surrounds you, then suddenly sunlight
Enveloping lows before rapturous highs.
The shutters go down, you retreat into silence
Your eyes avoid contact, your face gives no clue
Furtively creeping, hiding your footsteps
Hoping nobody notices you.
You know they can see you, they track every movement
Filling your voids, every inch of your space
Enveloping, smothering, it's now all consuming
This harrowing plague of demons you face.
They mock and deride you, all talking in whispers
Tortured isolation for you has no end
No escape from this nightmare, your head now your prison
Each thought deep inside you, they twist and they bend.
Intensity building into a crescendo
Their laughter so manic, their sneers like a knife
Wounding intently, savagely cutting
Ripping to shreds every inch of your life.
And yet in your veil of encompassing shadows
From the torment that haunts you, you know there's an end
If you take the path towards understanding
Nirvana will greet you and the wounds they will mend.

The Gamble

He tries to recall how he had come to be here. What on earth had he been thinking of? Had he completely lost it? He is not at all sure. The details seem sketchy now and somewhat blurred in his alcohol induced haze.

Jumbled images of a heated exchange take shape in his mind. A fiery, bitter explosion of words appear through the fog; followed by the angry slamming of a door, urging him forward to seek sanctuary.

The sheen of solid oak, soon concealed beneath an array of empty glasses - their soothing contents consumed in gluttonous haste. A kindred spirit nodding in agreement, puts an understanding, yet somehow persuasive arm around his shoulders and the fog clears a little more.

As if in a dream, he takes in the scene: seedy back room of a pub; four figures arched over a beer-stained, cigarette scorched table - its ash-speckled surface littered with notes. Copper and silver coins reflect in empty bottles. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air - a cloud of poisonous gas shrouding everything beneath. How could he possibly be part of this scenario? He isn't sure what to do next. In one hand he is holding yet another liquor filled vessel, in the other, he holds his destiny.

He studies the cards in his hand, confident of their worth. Yet anxious. As he places another bill onto the ceaseless expanse in the centre of the table, the realisation of his own depletion of funds painfully obvious. How has he let it get this far? Why has he let it get this far? He has no answers to these questions. The only certainty right now is he is definitely not in the same league as these underworld hustlers.

More notes are surrendered. Firmly, he fixes his gaze on the overflowing ashtray - like volcanic remains - its contents spill over. Resolutely, he continues to stare. He knows he has to keep calm. But does he look calm? He has no way of knowing. He can feel his head pounding. He imagines the blood, coursing through his veins. Can they see those veins throbbing in his temples? Beads of sweat begin to form between the grooves of his furrowed brow - as if in unison with the droplets beginning to emerge between the taut blades of his shoulders.

He knows he is holding three very good cards, yet he also realises he doesn't have the resources to continue. How much longer can they hold out?

As he digs his keys into his moist, clammy palm, they serve as a sharp reminder of all he has left - his house and car. Taking the keys from his pocket, he scrutinizes the faces around him for clues. Dare he do it? Such a question is futile, as he already knows there can only be one answer. The keys reclaim their place in the worn folds of his pocket.

"Sorry lads, you've cleaned me out", he confesses.

Steadying himself, he rises to his feet, steering himself to the door. Leaving the robbers to count their ill-gotten gains, he retreats - a little poorer financially, yet infinitely richer in wisdom.

No Early Exit

Champions League, the Mestalla again

A win last time - but that was then,

Now Mourinho's gone, Avram's in charge

And the Chelsea boo boys are giving it large.

His whole appointment as clear as mud

Angry and bitter, they're out for his blood,

They want it fixed and they want it now -

Welcome to Chelsea Grant, take a bow.

Show us some passion, show us some grit

Show us you're not an incompetent tit,

Get out there fighting, give it some wellie

Show us there's fire inside that belly.

The past has gone and there's no looking back

The options are clear here, success or the sack.

It's not that we're awkward, impossible to please,

It's more we don't want our club brought to its knees.

So show us some spirit, show us some guts

Show us Abramovich isn't nuts.

Get the boys sorted, fire them up -

And for god's sake, keep us in this cup!!

What we Need

As sad as it is, the 'Special One's' gone

The mourning is over, it's time to move on.

As hard as it is, as much as it hurts -

Get them heads up and play for your shirts.

Roman and Kenyon let everyone down

Giving us Grant - an unqualified clown,

But he's just temporary - along for the ride

So sort yourselves out and play with some pride.

The world is watching and ready to mock -

From "all conquering heroes" to "laughing stock".

So its time for the captain to gee the lads up

If we want a bit more than the Carling Cup.

We need Drogba fit doing what he does best;

We need Sheva to prove that he's up to the test;

Joey, Wright-Phillips, giving hell on the wing;

A capacity crowd with a reason to sing;

We need Lampard back, feeding balls through;

Or banging in goals - we could do with a few;

We need Terry and Ricky to shore up defence;

And Essien on form, as ever - immense;

We need Obi Mikel to wear softer boots;

We need Stamford Bridge to get rid of the suits.

In short, we need passion, commitment as well,

And we need the officials to all go to hell.

So chin up lads, just do what you do best -

Because we are the Chelsea so fuck all the rest!!

Big Mouth Strikes Again!

St. James' Park's in disarray
"sleazy soccer bosses play away".
Freddie Shepherd and his sidekick Hall -
been there, done that, had a ball.
These businessmen in collars and ties
are dirty perverts in disguise.
Brothels to strip clubs, fuelled by booze,
their big mouths made them front page news.
They boast of leading vice-filled lives
and lusting after associates wives.
In a list of insults which grew and grew,
Newcastle lasses were first in the queue.
Next came Shearer - they called him a bore,
on Tyneside they've broken the unwritten law.
Gillespie drinks too much they say
and Gascoigne's done - he's had his day!
Lineker, Albert and Tony Banks -
they relegate to the "useless" ranks.
But their biggest attack of all has to be
their verbal attack on the Toon Army
- who will not forgive, nor will they forget -
their loyalty faces the toughest test yet.
They love the club and all it is worth
but at its helm is the scum of the earth.
So you had no choice but to walk away
- for you are the "dogs" and you've had your day!!

The Golden Fleece

"Glory, Glory Man United", the home crowd proudly sing
But the only sound the fat cats hear are the cash tills as they ring.
Another new kit's on it's way - why do they need so many?
To bleed loyal supporters dry, of each and every penny?
Fans proudly show their colours and wear their shirts with pride
But 13 kits within 5 years, they've been taken for a ride.
Parents just despair of it as they're hit right in the pocket,
Whilst United rub their hands in glee as they watch the kit sales rocket.
No interest in domestic cups - too small for Fergie's liking,
As for their success in Europe - you could hardly call it striking.
And as the season's end drew near they were just like Mother Hubbard,
Fighting Arsenal for the points - to put silver in their cupboard.
So wake up Man United, at the top you may well reign,
But to most of your supporters, you're just a big financial drain.

(obviously written in the days pre-treble!)

Fry Up Or Out?

"Fry has cocked it up again", you hear the Posh fans shout,
They're sick of it, they've had enough and now they want him out.
They had promotion in their sights - League Champions they could be,
But Barry Fry received no cash, there was no spending spree.
He's hung on to his youths he said - they're worth their weight in gold,
So transfer deadlines pass him by with no-one bought or sold.
Division 3 they have to leave to quash supporters fears,
That if they don't achieve it now they could be there for years.
But fighting for a play-off place, their hopes are fading fast,
So think about it Barry Fry - this chance could be your last.

Fry Out!

Transfer deadlines pass us by
and what do you do Barry Fry?
Do you try to buy us class?
No, you just sit on your fat arse.
In fact, you even give away
players who can vaguely play.
So what's your point, just what's your aim?
It's clear that football's not your game.
A legend you aint gonna be,
that's how it goes, c'est la vie.
So, come on Fry, don't hang about,
we've had enough, we want you out!

Players, Pundits & Payola

Schmeichel loves his bacon
Ginola loves his hair,
For Gullit it is pizza
And Adams just don't care.
For Lineker it's Walkers
With Gazza by his side,
For Beckham it is Adidas
With Brylcream on the side.
Shearer's gone for Lucozade
Together with Big Mac's,
And Andy Gray with the England lads
It's Snickers that he backs.
Ronaldo's gone for Nike
Des Lynam for Right Guard,
And Southgate with his BullBoys shoes
Is offside by a yard.
So they've all got their adverts
In the commercial World Cup blitz,
Ant the only thing that's missing
Is FIFA's World Cup hits!

Media Meddling

Fergie was mad and his problem was Glenn,
He disliked the way Hoddle treated his men.
On the eve of the match he went to the press
And what he was doing was anyone's guess.
He'd got all upset coz his boy wasn't playing,
But you don't interfere and that goes without saying.
He felt the boy's treatment was all so unfair
And that for David Beckham, Glenn just didn't care.
He moaned at the way the press were involved,
And yet he'd done the same, so just what had he solved?
At the end of the day, Beckham did prove his point,
But as for his club and country - THE MANAGEMENT'S NOT JOINT.

Red Card Roulette

Dodgy refs and diving, it's really been too much,
players falling over when they haven't had a touch.
FIFA's rules are nonsense, refs don't know what to do,
whilst some are inconsistent, some haven't got a clue.
They started off so brightly, not a red card was around,
but FIFA were not happy so the refs were homeward bound.
The games were too exciting with play allowed to flow,
but playing the advantage says FIFA "it's no go!"
So then the madness started, it became a free for all,
players rolling over when opponents got the ball.
Sendings off and spot kicks with refs in hot pursuit,
as one after the other teams quickly followed suit.
It didn't get much better, it all went downhill fast,
but as far as all the cheating goes let's hope it's in the past.

A Girl's First Time

The door closing behind me acts as a trigger, stirring the butterflies up within me. Anticipation bubbles up inside as if an active volcano, waiting to erupt. The closed door - a barrier now, between everything safe and familiar and everything yet to come - seems somehow symbolic and I know that, when I return, things will never be the same.
Mounting excitement animates me, charging me with energy. Its momentum controlling my movements, skipping along until almost running. All the time tugging at my father's sleeve as he walks calmly at my side. We make our way through streets and alleys, once almost deserted, now suddenly springing to life as shades of blue and white converge to form a heaving mass. Single word greetings exchanged with the occasional nod of acknowledgement as the throng drifts along, seemingly aimless, yet with its own sense of purpose and direction. Jostled along, I hold tightly to my father's hand, afraid I might be sucked into a hidden chasm and lost amid the surrounding sea of colour.
Gradually, the oceanic movement slows to the ripple of a stream as the ground swell ebbs steadily inwards. As I look up, great iron gates tower above, shielding the vast monument inside. I gaze in awe at the huge imposing structure around me - a flood of colour slowly seeping into every corner. I am captivated by emblem-clad figures that surround me, proudly displaying the crest of a lion as proof of their allegiance. I listen avidly, to almost intimate banter exchanged between them.
The sound of the whistle becomes a spark, igniting the match. The exhibition of skills drawing my attention like a magnet, capturing my concentration. Enthralled by the reaction it evokes, I watch fathers and sons in union and it fills me with envy.
Midway, the battle is interrupted briefly and, left savouring my first taste, I am hungry for more. I watch as the surrounding hordes refuel in haste - deliberating raucously between mouthfuls - and I know that my appetite could not be so easily satisfied as agitation spreads through me, increasing restlessness.
Finally, the mood changes to one of expectancy and, filled with anticipation, I welcome the return. Again engrossed in the display of genious, I find my voice merging with others as I pledge, in unison, my new found devotion. Gender and youthfulness a barrier no more as I discover intense passion deep within my adolescent frame.
Swiftly, all eyes focused, a lone figure breaks free from the pack; leaving the enemy behind, his path unhindered. Target clearly in his sights he aims his missile and fires with precision. It seems to take an eternity to reach its destination and the suspense intensifies. Then slowly, the sound creeps around the arena, at first as a murmur, a rumble of thunder, increasing in volume until the structure is filled with a euphoric roar. And me? Im totally and utterly hooked.

Passing a School Playground

The imps are with the angels
Behind the netted wall;
The squeals of pigtailed lassies,
The thump of boot on ball.
A bookworm in a corner,
The bully on his round,
Miss Showoff in her trainers
That cost a hundred pound.
A murderer's among them,
A few who'll make it rich,
Here's fame and shame in training,
But God knows which is which.

Felix Dennis

European Blues

Second leg and we're in Spain -
Cup Winners semi once again.
Like Copenhagen its 1 - all
Will we stand firm or will we fall?
A Mallorcan side so full of tricks
and the Leicester game knocking us for six,
Now the confidence on which we feed
Deserts us in our hour of need.
Then, they break fast - we dont defend,
European hopes come to an end.
And with domestic hopes now over too
Chelsea really are completely blue.
So, til next year - its c'est la vie
And by then at least, we'll have Rix free!!!

Just a Hiccup?

I'm well and truly gutted
it's the curse of Man United,
I thought this time we'd beat 'em
and I'd even got excited.
We outclassed and outplayed them
but it's just the same old story,
Whenever they come to The Bridge
it's always 'Glory, Glory'.
As if that wasn't bad enough -
with confidence now battered,
we gifted West Ham victory
when 3 points really mattered.
Back on track at Villa though
Vialli's men were gunning,
so watch out Arsenal and Man U -
coz we're still in the running!!!!

Coca-Cola, the Conclusion

In another Wembley final - Middlesborough we did meet,
They saw us lift the FA Cup after their 2-0 defeat.
This year it's Coca-Cola, a completely different game,
And their trump card is on the bench - Paul Gascoigne is his name.
Luca did not play himself, he thought that it was best,
In milestones as a manager, he'd passed another test.
Their trump card proved a joker who did nothing worthwhile,
Yellow-carded in 5 minutes - in true Paul Gascoigne style.
They forced us into extra time, but never did we worry,
We always knew it was our game, we weren't in any hurry.
Dennis Wise just battled on, he's got the will to win,
And Frank Sinclair was dynamite when he headed it in.
Di Matteo was outstanding, he claimed another goal,
And Frank Le Boeuf was just pure class, in his defensive role.
With passion and with spirit, we've won another cup,
The times are good at Stamford Bridge and things are looking up!!

Always Coca-Cola

At home to Arsenal, Coca-Cola cup,
Ruddi's gone, Vialli's stepped up.
3 times this season they've put us to shame,
Who the hell said "it's only a game"?
Vialli's up front with Zola and Hughes,
And Wrighty's out, that's a bit of good news.
Ten minutes gone - Sparky on the ball,
He turns, he shoots, it's level - 2 all.
Le Saux's gone down, Vieria red card,
Di Matteo's shot caught 'em off guard.
Petrescu's next, we're up 4-2,
It's brilliant, it's great, it's too good to be true.
Penalty conceded - back to 4-3,
A ray of hope, they think they can see.
But it's too late now, we've got them beat,
they're out of the cup - REVENGE IS SWEET!

Proud to be Blue

With the Cupboard full of silverware
in different shapes and sizes,
We're all dead proud of the Mighty Blues
and you can bet that Dennis Wise is.
Coz him and Clarke have stuck it out -
whether up, down, or mid-table,
Now after years of loyalty -
to celebrate they're able.
It started with the FA Cup,
then next came Coca-Cola,
Now the Cup Winners Cup is ours as well,
thanks to Gianfranco Zola.
Yet the doubters said we'd blow it -
as soon as Gullit had gone,
So now they can all just eat their words,
coz the Blues are marching on!!!!!

Dodgy Ref

The victim of shirt pulling -
Vieria lost the ball,
He decided to get stroppy
And incite a free for all.
Then Di Canio went mental
- was it something Keown said?
In the middle of the fracas
He completely lost his head.
The ref he was not happy
And he waved his red card high,
"That's enough from you Di Canio
- for you now it's goodbye".
"No way", said that Italian
"I'm having none of that",
And shoving him against the chest
He knocked the ref down flat.
But the ref's dive was pathetic -
though he thought no-one could tell,
Til he saw Keown was laughing -
So he sent him off as well.

We Was Robbed!

It started with a penalty
Thanks to some useful diving,
Simeone timed his fall just right
As Seaman was arriving.
1-0 down, we kept our heads
Our determination showing,
The ref points to the spot again -
They'd bought down Michael Owen.
1 all now, it's level terms
Then Owen's off and running,
The Argentines were left for dead,
His goal was simply stunning.
Scholesy could have wrapped it up -
It could have been just magic,
But they equalised just on half time
And it couldnt be more tragic.
Just back from the break we were
And Beckham got red carded,
It seems that in the half-time break -
His brain he had discarded.
With ten men now we took them on
Hopes never really wavered,
And when Campbell headed us in front,
It was a moment to be savoured.
But not for long apparently
The goal had been discounted,
And when a golden goal did not arrive
The pressure really mounted.
We lost again on penalties,
Who missed? It hadn't mattered,
Our heroes couldn't quite hold on
And our dreams had all been shattered.

England 2 Tunisia 0

Glenn's first test was Tunisia so who would he pick to play?
With the country waiting anxiously he had given nought away.
Neville was omitted and David Beckham too,
But Anderton was in the squad, what was Glenn trying to do?
Gascoigne had been left at home, Glenn felt he lacked the pace,
And he'd bought Paul Scholes in for the job to take on Gazza's place.
Now the lads' minds were all focused - on victory they were set
And as predictable as ever Shearer's first to find the net.
The second goal was just a dream, Scholes hit the perfect shot
So Glenn had really got it right, although his critics maybe not.
Scholes really played a blinder, even Anderton played well,
So just how far could England go? Only time would tell

Untitiled

Sheringham's caught out drinking
What should Hoddle do?
He'd kicked Paul Gascoigne into touch
Should he throw out Teddy too?
By leaving out Paul Gascoigne
Glen proved that he's got guts
But to kick out Teddy Sherringham
He'd be completely nuts.
He knew Gascoigne wasn't up to it
But he knows that Teddy is,
And there's no point sending players out
If they're not gonna do the 'biz'.
His decision to pick Anderton
Now that is thought provoking
If he thinks he can fill in for Le Saux
He must be bloody joking.
Yet we have to trust his judgement
And hope he's made good choices,
And get behind our National side
with all our hearts and voices.
But should we reach the quarter finals
And it's Germany we meet,
If it goes to bloody penalties -
Let's hope Southgate takes a seat!!!

The Ground

First a distant rumble, then louder, building up to the sound of a marching army. Stud after stud hits concrete as boots clatter up the tunnel. A splash of colour spills out, as if an overturned paint tin. Merging with green, it is greeted by the roar of a lion.
Silent expectation falls around the ground. Broken almost instantly by the piercing shrill of the whistle. The thud of leather on leather and the lion roars again. A sea of faces - waves rising up and down with each touch of the ball.
Hearts beat faster; pulses race; hopes are raised, dashed, then raised again. A thousand sighs hang in the air. Dejected, the waves subside. The sea stands still.
Discontented mutterings and tribal chantings become a steady hum - a machine's whurr, winding itself up and down.
Somewhere in between, the machine pauses awhile, fuel restocked. Steam swirls between cold hands, icicles clasping polystyrene. Amid mouthfuls, the post-mortem, every action dissected, every kick re-examined.
The lone figure in black emits forth his screaming siren and the hum of the machine is heard again.
With the crack of a marksman's weapon the leather bound sphere connects with steel. A thousand shutters go down, afraid to look. Muscle and sinew lunge forward. An outstretched arm fails to connect and the mass rise to an explosion. Their reward complete, anxious moments follow, urging the end to come. The siren, sweet now when it sounds, is lost amid the carnival.
Ant-like, the swarm moves towards exits, down concrete steps - grains of sand slipping through an egg-timer - and with them, all utterance gone.
This great sprawling structure deserted now, row after row abandoned, yet not completely. A single form, a lone silhouette hunched over a broom, surveys the grand auditorium. Once a battleground, now captivating in its tranquility. The lion's roar reduced to a whisper. The purr of passing traffic is heard once more.
The icy wind forces hand to collar; protective shoulders hunch against the cold. The figure moves deftly now, an enveloping chill its incentive. The broom, his vehicle, firmly driving out debris, relics left behind to mark the occasion. A tangled assortment of paper and tin, crumpled wrappers like gems, sparkling up at the lights.
Shadows cast bizarre shapes, silently creeping, sinister in their presence. Every inch of emptiness, a quarry to fill.
The silhouette pauses.
The rubble has gone. The debris is clear. Every trace of the explosion has passed. His toil here exhausted, there is no more to be done. His departure as silent as his entrance. His steps down the tunnel, no match for the army gone before.
With the click of a switch, desertion becomes total, the effervescent hiss of electricity as it is sucked out of the great beacons in the sky. Illuminated no more, darkness forms a blanket, wrapping itself around every inch of the arena.

Just Football?

How d'you convince those that refuse to hear
That it's not all hooligans fighting and beer?
To many supporters it's a way of life
To some, an excuse for a break from the wife.
For relief from those everyday stresses and strains
We'll travel long distance - cars, buses or trains.
Caught up in it all, anonymity is found,
To the conformists ideals we are no longer bound.
The supporters chants - full of razor sharp wit,
Whatever the occasion, there's a song that'll fit.
Quips shouted out for missed goals or missed passes,
Universally heard, "Oi ref, where's your glasses?"
Sometimes predictable, sometimes a pleasure,
At times, the unexpected wins we most treasure.
A chance to meet friends, catch up with some news,
Hold your head in your hands, go home with the blues.
No two matches the same, sometimes caught by surprise,
Others hardly daring to open your eyes.
Some defeats are harder than others to take -
Some games it's more than just pride that's at stake.
It's not just a game - it's so much more,
Because so many things can depend on "that score".
Businessmen, families, all creeds and all races,
The pain or the joy will be shown on their faces.
All this and more together is found
Inside the shrine we call - The Football Ground.