Much have I travelled to football groundsAnd many goodly teams and players seen;On many songs and chants have I been keenWhich fans in fealty to their heroes sound.At one club where debts of millions were foundDeep-pocketed Maxwell ruled, arrogant and meanYet never did I see a change of sceneTill I saw fanzines selling all around.Then  [ more ]

it was a week or 2 agothat i heard of mr lowea funny namea rather large frameand a few goals to showi do not mean to moanbut surely via the phonethey could have found itthat made the titdecide to stay at homewas it an international cap?did he lose his map?or was it his visionto look  [ more ]

Another season of disappointmentTime again to take sanctuary in the bosom of youthFor in times of despair ignorance is blissInnocent she lay awaiting the swaying bullHere comes Graham…..OxoMan

Her voice rang out in tears, but the wife of Davis had not heard a thing,No messenger brought the truth of how her husband made his stand insideAshton Gate, She was weaving at her loom, deep in the high halls,Working Tim Flower’s braiding into a dark yellow folding robe,And she called her well-kempt women through  [ more ]

Anthrobus, you’re not very good,At scoring goals, even though you should,Cos it’s your job, what you get paid for,Fuck’s sake, even Murphy has scored more!Two goals in seventy-odd games?A general reluctance to not shoulder the blame?A lack of awareness, of control, and of skill?Who’ll fuck it up this week? Don’t worry, Stevie will!Oh Stevie, Stevie,  [ more ]

I wandered lonely as a cloudWho follows Oxenford from vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowdOf ghosts in yellow and black frills;Upon the Manor is where you seek ’em,Fluttering and dancing round Joey BeauchampStuart Butler, The Stroud Football Poets

For fucks sake this can’t be trueI don’t want to believe my eysI watch this shit in yellow and blueand witness players in disguiseWhy can’t I get a job like that?where I can fuck about all dayand whilst sober I can look like a twatbefore going to collect my payThe collective intelligence of the entire  [ more ]

The small but gifted wingerrecalls, as he rounds his fourth defenderand leaves him prostrate behind,with the empty goal at his mercythat he is allergic to the potent mixof sweat and Old Spiceand, having shaved that morning,he fluffs his shot entirely.

The captain, big and strong,fearless and brave,wears his captain’s armband with pride.It is his badge of courageand symbolises his arrival as aleader of men.As a callow youth he dreamedof holding aloft the FA Cupas captain of the winning teamand now, here he is,leading his side onto the hallowed turf.Okay, so the Manor’s not quite Wembley,and  [ more ]

Mention John Byrne’s hair or a field goal once more and I’ll retune my radio‘Shoot Budgie shoot’ Brenda Mercer would fervently moanI wish that Fox’s sports editor wasn’t covered in pock marks and who the hell is Clive WattsJon Murray’s stars bear no resemblence to a player’s performanceAnd all those people who you romantically linked  [ more ]