Your Breaking News Ain’t Breaking Us

Penned because the amount of media coverage on José Mourinho being appointed as manager of Manchester United is slightly ridiculous, and because I’m fed up with casual observers of football asking me ‘what I think about it.’ I don’t like it, as it happens, but the milk was spilt months ago and life (and the club) moves on. Carefree.

It’s breaking news, they tell us, but we’ve heard it all before.
We knew that it would happen so we’re not that shocked or sore.
And all the ‘fans’ of other teams are hot upon the case.
They cannot wait to see the look on a Chelsea die-hard’s face.
Well let me tell you this, my friend, the story’s not that new.
Your breaking news ain’t breaking us, cos we’re Chelsea through and through.
We loved a man who once was king, and special in our eyes.
But football is a business and so nothing’s a surprise.
The managers, they come and go, some loved, and others not,
It’s throw your car keys in the mix,
Now let’s see who we’ve got.
It’s a swingers Premier League party
And they swap it all around.
So your breaking news ain’t breaking us,
It’s just another round.
It’s breaking news on the BBC, on Five Live and on Sky.
But it’s not real news for the die-hard fan,
So you will not see us cry.
It’s another case of a love we’ve lost,
Who has gone to someone new.
But your breaking news ain’t breaking us.
We’re Chelsea through and through.

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Links:
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NOT Just Saying: Carol’s comments on feminism, fashion, food and folly
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soap, Neighbours

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We Didn’t Want Him Anyway

It’s fine, it’s cool, it’s all okay,
We never even saw him play,
He’s mercenary, or so I’m told,
He’s injury-prone, he’s fat, he’s old,
And well, besides, it’s fair to say,
We didn’t want him anyway.
He’s lost his pace, he’d never fit,
I’m really glad we’re out of it,
And now our rivals have closed in,
We’ll just stay quiet and smug and grin,
They’ve bought him and they’ll rue the day,
Cos we didn’t want him anyway.
He’ll start a game and then he’ll fade,
A would-be, could-be masquerade,
He’ll soon regret his move I’m sure,
Week-in, week-out, he’ll never score,
And we’ll be several points ahead,
Their title challenge will be dead.
He only went there for the pay,
And we didn’t want him anyway.

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Closing In

We’re closing in, and so we sit on edge of seat,
In the midst of it
On Transfer Deadline Day.
We’re closing in, and so we wait
With baited breath and there we’ll stay,
Until we hear the deal is done,
For our hope and season in the sun.
On Transfer Deadline Day.
We’re closing in and he’s been seen,
On plane from Spain and looking keen,
In local supermarket and
He’s bought a house, we understand.
Oh how he’ll change the team around,
We’re certain to be Wembley-bound,
Because of Deadline Day.
They say he say he is the next big thing,
He’s quick and handy down the wing,
Bigger than Messi, better than any,
Rich in skill and envy of many.
He’s not come here for higher pay,
No, he wants to play, and play.
For us, on Deadline Day.
He’s seen on Sky Sports News in shirt,
And all the rival fans feel hurt,
They’ll say we nicked him, it’s not fair.
And then they’ll say that they don’t care,
Because he’s rubbish anyway.
Hurrah for Transfer Deadline Day.
The players come, the players go,
And Jeff just loves to tell us so.
The net is spread and time is ticking,
Nerves are fraught and keyboards clicking,
Fans awake with hopes and dreams,
Of new messiahs for their teams.
And then next game it’s down to earth,
You see how much your new boy’s worth,
Fifty million squandered and
His strike ends up in the top of the stand.
But you didn’t want him anyway.
And you curse the Transfer Deadline Day.

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The Blame Game

You can blame it on football, if that’s what you choose.
You can blame it on class, you can blame it on booze.
You can blame it on all those who follow the game,
You can call us all racists and say we’re the same.

But – it wouldn’t be right and it wouldn’t be true.
Cos, to say it’s just football’s a short-sighted view.
Take a look in your pub, take a look in your street,
In your workplace, your shops, at the people you meet.

Their views might be covert, their minds are closed shut
As they utter their cliché “”I’m not racist, BUT …”
So don’t link me with haters whose views I despise,
Don’t hit me with rants or your Daily Mail lies.

If you look a bit deeper instead of just spouting,
You’ll see it goes further than pissed morons shouting.
For a racist’s a racist, wherever they roam,
In the pub or at football, or closer to home.

In a church, in a school, in your ‘nice’ village hall –
So it’s not ‘football’s problem’ – it’s one for us all.
Now, cut out the blame with your “I was just saying.”
It’s futile, it’s pointless, and I’m just not playing!

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How They Destroyed The Beautiful Game

Here are the FA Big Buck Bear Premiership Soccer Results
Chelsea Fulham Lions 22, Manchester Glazier Devils 21
Tottenham Hillbilly Cocks 18, Hull City Tigers 6
Liverpool Toffees 8 Cardiff Redbirds 6
Newcastle Red Sox 14 Sunderland Magpies 14
Norwich Tractor Boys 7, Southampton Blue Sox 16

Charlton Palace Rovers versus Manchester City Reds is a late kick off.
This virtual match is due to be screened by Sky sports channel 5,322 on the Supa Socca Midnight Special show.
Game to start at 2 am UK time.

And that concludes the total renovation, annihilation, globalisation and destruction of the sport that was once fiercely contested by good honest people.

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Warning

Poet Jenny Joseph declares:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

I shall not wear purple. But I will probably do other inappropriate things…

Warning

(With apologies to Jenny Joseph)

When I am old, I won’t be wearing purple.
Instead I’ll wear a Chelsea shirt in bed,
And I shall not be good, or not be careful,
And I will let red wine go to my head.
When I am old, I’ll run around at matches
And be completely mad and never care.
And if we win some trophies in the future
I’ll dance about in Chelsea underwear.
And when I’m old, if folk are disapproving
I’ll tell them that my mind has truly gone
Then they will show me care and understanding,
No one will know for sure if it’s put on!
But when I’m old, if I should need a scooter
To scoot along the pavement in the town,
I’ll spot a Gooner, then I’ll smile so sweetly
And oh so accidentally run him down!

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Ossie – King Of The Bridge

When I was a girl, I wished you were mine,
The man in royal blue, our number nine,
I dreamed of you and sang your name,
I cheered with others at the game.
The hero we all loved so much,
The ball at your feet with a long throw from Hutch,
King Ossie, what a man.

Each silky skill we marvelled at,
As you played with Chopper and The Cat.
Those football cards of yesteryear
With your face on, we held so dear.
And memories of you live on.
You’re in Blue Heaven but still never gone.
King Ossie, what a man.

You lived your life in colourful style:
The King’s Road set, the cheeky smile,
The curly locks, the heart of gold,
Always time for the young and old.
A born entertainer, Chelsea and proud,
Who played with his heart to the roar of the crowd.
King Ossie, what a man.

As the years went on and my son grew,
I knew he’d come to love you too,
And I told him tales of days gone by,
And you shook his hand and it made me cry.
I felt so proud he’d finally met
The player the Shed will never forget –
King Ossie, what a man.

Well, they say that only the good die young,
You were taken too soon but your name’s still sung.
And the banner’s unfurled for that rising young star,
Over Land, Sea and Leicester, or wherever we are.
For the joy that you brought us will leave us never –
Ossie, King of the Bridge for ever.
King Ossie, what a man.

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The Ardent Armchair Die-hard Supporter

He’s the ardent, armchair, die-hard supporter
With the long suffering wife and a football-hating daughter
Whom he’s named Keegan, Paisley, Toshack or Shankly
(Though he’s never been to Anfield himself, quite frankly.)

He’s the ardent, argumentative pub cheering fan,
Who can yell at the telly and drink like a man
And his mind is obsessed with his ultimate dream –
To father a child named after the 1999 Man United treble winning team!

He’s the tough and the terrifying touch-line dad
Who shouts foul abuse when when the ref makes him mad.
One day they’ll all see that his son has the skill
To score goals for England, he’ll show them, he will!

He’s the ultimate Big Man, the football geezer
He doesn’t do cooking, save pies from the freezer,
He’s bought all the tee-shirts on away day crime
Or so he will claim, he was a legend in his time.

He’s the ardent, armchair die hard Blue.
Each day that he lives, his devotion is true.
AND HE KNOWS MORE THAN ME, AS HE LIKES TO REMIND ME –
He’ll push in at the bar if he’s standing behind me.

He’s the ultimate armchair die hard Gooner
He would have supported them so much sooner –
But he used to be Leeds when younger and thinner,
And they went to pot and he needed a winner.

He’s the ultimate replica shirt wearing bloke
See him out in the street with the like-minded folk
See them out at King’s Cross if their rivals have lost
Dishing out their abuse and showing us who’s boss.

Well you picked on the wrong woman, Ultimate Man
Go back to your armchair from where you began,
I may be a female but I know my facts.
I am a die hard and you’re just an act.

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The Toddler’s ABC Of Football

A’s for Away Fans who shout naughty things,
There’s always a fat man at whom your fans sing!

B is for Burgers, all greasy and yuk,
If you don’t get poisoned it’s just by sheer luck.

C is for Corporates, flash suits and ties,
They sit in glass boxes and never eat pies.

D is for Diving like some players do.
They land with a thud and then roll around too!

E is for Eng-er-land when men with big bellies
Drink cans of lager and shout at their tellys.

F is for Flags on poles, waved very high,
And the man in the front yells you’ve poked out his eye!

G is for Going Down, it’s called relegation,
The fans weep and scream and then shout in frustration.

H is for Half Time, you stand in a queue,
When the second half’s started you’re still in the loo!

I is for Injuries, see players groan,
Then the stretcher comes on and they walk on their own!

J is for Jammy, like some teams in red,
And all their supporters have got a big head.

K is for Kick Off times, made for TV.
In the olden days, matches all started at three!

L is for Losing which makes fans quite cross,
And for Linesmen with whom players argue the toss.

M is for Mascots, all bouncy and funny,
Like a bee or a wolf or a bloody great bunny!

N is for New Grounds, no history behind them,
Stuck miles out from anywhere so you can’t find them!

O is for Offside, a goal disallowed
When the man with the flag disagrees with the crowd!

Q is for Quiet grounds where fans sing no more.
They just clap politely if their team should score.

R is for Referees – fair, firm and kind,
But sometimes supporters suggest that they’re blind!

S is for Sending Off, players get mad,
As the ref waves his card they yell “You’ve got no dad!”

T is for Time Added On at the end
When a manager’s watch becomes his best friend.

U is for Unfair, when referees seem
To be a big fan of the opposite team.

V is for View when the game is a thriller
But you might not see from behind that big pillar!

W’s for words that are not always nice,
Don’t say them in nursery, take my advice!

X is in eXtra time when no goals are scored,
You’ll want to go home cos you’re getting quite bored.

Y is the Youth squad whose players all dream
Of being old rich and foreign just like the first team!

And Z is for Z list, the girls who hang round
To catch all the players when they leave the ground!

@ Carol Wood
July 2009

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Save our Claudio

Oh the irony! This poem was written in 2004. I’m posting it in 2016, the season in which Claudio Ranieri has taken no-hopers, relegation-material, Leicester City to the Premiership title.

Listen, Kenyon!

We’re only supporters so what would we know?
We follow the Chelsea wherever they go,
In good times and bad we are there in our blue
What we think won’t matter to people like you.
The money men rule and the fans are just pawns –
But this ain’t Man U and our badge ain’t got horns.
So maybe no trophies have lately been won,
Cos building success is not easily done.
Remember how Blackburn so rapidly fell
One season of glory and back in their shell.
We’re only supporters so why should you care
As long as the money is going to be there?
We don’t have a say, we just carry on cheering,
Whilst people like you carry on never hearing.
Don’t think we aren’t grateful for being mega rich
But what we love most is that team on the pitch,
The man in the dugout who came here from Rome
Who won all our hearts and made Chelsea his home.
He’s honest and true and a man of good grace
And faces the press with a smile on his face
But we’re only fans so we don’t have a right
To voice our opinions or put up a fight.
You do what you want and you say you’ve got reason,
To scrap a good man at the end of the season,
We’ve faith in our Claudio, so he should stay,
Remember that Rome wasn’t built in a day.

@ Carol Ann Wood
April 2004

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Once upon a terraced time

Once upon a terraced time,
The history books would have us know,
When football was for working men,
And suited gents just didn’t go,
The game was ruled by those who cared,
And not the monied, corporate hand,
When it was quite alright to sing,
And not against the rules to stand.

Once upon a terraced time
When shirts were for the men who played,
And if the match was dull and drab,
Still on those terraces we stayed
To cheer until the bitter end
No fourth official’s time to add
The goals were ours, and ours alone,
No TV cameras to be had.

Once upon a terraced time,
When men made cars and mined for coal,
Before the kick off times were changed
Before our football sold its soul,
The ordinary folk could cheer
And cloth capped men felt rich and proud
To see their team and drink their beer
Amongst their fellows in the crowd.

We cannot have our terraced time
The camera’s gaze is here to stay,
But we can fight for football’s soul
And for the right to see them play.
You knock us down but we’ll be back
We will not let you kill our sport,
We will re-claim what once was ours,
For true supporters can’t be bought.

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If…

With apologies to Rudyard Kipling

If you can sit for season after season
Week in, week out, no matter what the score.
If you can always find a valid reason
For optimism, then go back for more.
If you can watch them stave off relegation
And still believe the team is on the up.
If you can take the sheer humiliation
Of getting thrashed by Man U in the Cup.
If you can feel your deep emotions stirring,
If you can feel your stomach twist and knot.
If you can take the penalties occurring
And then stay proud and loyal, no matter what.
If you can sample pies just filled with jelly,
If you can wait forever in a queue.
If you can wave, in case you’re on the telly
All over land and sea (and Leicester, too).
If you can smile through tears when we’re defeated,
If you can slate the ref, but still walk tall.
If you can sing until the game’s completed,
And know that you have given them your all.
If you can travel miles as dawn is breaking,
Whenever SKY dictates the whistle blows.
If you can sit and shiver, cold and shaking,
In order to endure those highs and lows.
If you can take your passion and your glory,
And pass it on (like those before have done)
Then you are truly part of Chelsea’s story.
And what is more, you’ll be a man, my son!

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The Night We Were Robbed

On a night at the Bridge we were robbed of our dream
Of a visit to Rome with our proud football team.
We were robbed of a final for one certain reason –
UEFA said no to the same as last season.

A ‘blind’ man from Norway ignored every claim.
One penalty scored would have finished the game.
But he was an expert on stitching us up
To make sure we’d no chance of lifting that cup.

Our die-hard support is no stranger to loss,
We’ve lived through the bleak years when games were pure dross.
We’re no glory hunters who think we’ve a right
To land every trophy and win every fight.

We’re real fans, not plastic, who follow our club
And not from an armchair, and not from a pub.
We sing loud and proud and we sing in the stand
Whatever the fixture, all over the land.

We smile in our glory, we suffer the bad –
But this smells of corruption and that’s why we’re mad.
UEFA have got what they wanted (for now.)
We will be back one day and win it somehow.

Then Mr Platini can kiss Drogba’s arse
But meantime, the Champion’s League is a FARCE.

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Oh for the Cup Winner’s Cup

Oh for the Cup Winner’s Cup
That trophy they made obsolete
I’d still take the highs and the lows
I’d still take that Tromso defeat
When Jonathan Pierce got a trifle excited
“It’s snow joke for Chelsea,” he said
And on the return leg we sorted it out
And turned it around on its head.
Oh for the Cup Winner’s Cup
With Dennis and Zola et al
When small teams came calling
It all seemed such fun
In fact, we were having a ball.
Oh for the Cup Winner’s Cup
First conquered in 71
I loved it, I loved it, so why did it end
Just when we were having such fun?

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The Football Fan’s Trap

And so it’s the end of the season,
Your scarf is all sweaty and smelly
Your team has gone down on goal difference
There’s pain in your heart and your belly.
You’ve spent all your salary threefold
On tickets and programmes and crap
And what did you get in return for it all?
Being caught in the football fan’s trap?

You think of the day of that cup tie
With promise of glory to come
Two nil up by half time and cruising
Till the goalie fell flat on his bum
But what will you do with your weekends
On your sofa with plate in your lap
Bored out of your brains with repeats on TV
It’s part of the football fan’s trap.

You start to remember the laughter
The goals and the beers with your mates
The free kicks and offside decisions
The passion and heated debates
And maybe it might just get better
You wish that that next season would start
For die-hards can’t ever be parted
From the team that belongs to their heart.

And so you start counting the days off
Till the first ticket lands on the mat
You know that this year will be your year,
Cos its part of the football fan’s trap!

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League Ladders

I got so excited about my league Ladder
Which came free with Shoot every season.
Just a bit of cardboard with twenty two slots
For the twenty two teams
Of the mighty first division.
Oh how much fun it was going to be
Watching Chelsea move up the league
Week by week, until hopefully, in May, they would be top.
I knew it would happen. Of course it would.
When the first league table was printed in the paper,
(Usually after three games or so)
Chelsea were often around fourteenth.
But that didn’t matter …
There were lots of games to go
And, by May, they would be top. Of course they would.
September came and went, then October.
Then I got a bit bored waiting for Chelsea to be near the top,
And more than a bit cross about Leeds being there instead.
So I thought it wouldn’t matter if I swapped them around.
As the season wore on, I’d get madder and madder.
Leeds stayed bottom in my alternative table.
Chelsea were top. Except of course, they weren’t really.
I wish they still made League Ladders
And all fans could have their own alternative Premiership!

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He Doesn’t Go

Look love, you don’t seem to get it!
I know you mean no harm but why should I forget it?
Cos when I say he doesn’t go, he doesn’t go. Okay?
No way.
He won’t go just to ‘keep me company.’
And no, he doesn’t mind
And he lets me out on my own,
Far away from the female zone.
And yes, isn’t he kind!
He doesn’t go because he doesn’t like the game.
So no dear, no, men are not ‘all the same.’
And no you tosspot geezer, he is not gay.
But even if he was, so what.
Stick your homophobic neanderthal tendencies away
Where the sun don’t shine.
Cos if you can’t understand – fine!
Why would I drag him along
To make things right for you
Which you seem to think are wrong?
No, he doesn’t go, not ever.
Cos he won’t suddenly wake up one day and go “OOOOOH!”
And ask to come to football too.
Is that okay with you dear, or don’t you think he’s being a man?
After all in your world – as you tell me often –
It’s the male who is the football fan.
And did I ever tell you that you must be a time traveller
Living in the wrong year?
As this is twenty sixteen, love,
Not nineteenth century, dear!!

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For Matthew

Matthew wore his shirt with pride,
He loved his Chelsea deep inside.
A love that lasted down the years,
A million waves, a million cheers.

We’ll miss you, Matthew.

Matthew’s smile lit up the ground,
And spread to everyone around.
For all he gave our precious team,
His love, his faith, he built a dream.

We thank you, Matthew.

For those of us he never met,
He touched our lives, we won’t forget.
His dream lives on in every fan,
He really was a special man.

We’re cheering, Matthew.

And when we’re sitting in his stand,
We’ll follow everything he planned.
We’ll keep his blue flag flying high.
For Matthew’s love will never die.

We miss you, Matthew.

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Big Man

Roll up, big man roll up, come and have a go.
A woman in a Chelsea shirt, silly cow what does she know!
Bet she’s not a proper fan, bet she’s only been
A follower for a year or two, plastic know what I mean?
Roll up big men, gather round and talk tactics above my head.
Pretend that I’m not in the room, ignore what I just said.
But ignore me at your peril boys, I won’t just go away.
And I was there in Munich in that stadium in May.
And I was there when we were shit so you can’t pin that on me.
I’ve seen more than you and your armchair crew as you watch it in 3D.
So have a go if you really must but get your facts straight first.
I’m here right now to see the best, but I’ve also seen the worst.
So now I’ll have my moment and enjoy it while I can.
I’ll still be there if we’re crap once more.
Will you be there, big man?

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Rare Find

I’ve never seen a pig that flies,
Nor spied a moon that’s blue.
But I have seen a rarity,
I swear it’s really true.
The other day I met a man
Who thus inspired this ditty.
He told me he supports Man U
And lives in that same city!

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Warning

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Listen, Kenyon!

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