Sup, Bro?
All things must pass;
Still, lets raise a glass
To gone-too-soon Chet,
No, not forgotten just yet.
He’d not want us to cry,
He’d rather see a dry eye,
He was all about fun and laughs
And his life was never lived by halves.
Now, if he were standing here
He’d say ‘Cheers’ and sink his beer,
So here’s to a fine uncle and big brother,
And, thinking of Chet, who’s keen on another?
Toss In The Towel.
Poor Stephen Kearney, Warriors coach, he’s had it tough,
Dealing with myopic moronic inept referees is bad enough
But he has to try to coach Warriors who have ‘focus Issues,’
A team trait that’s had his many predecessors reach for the tissues.
The Canberra Raiders waltz in to the Warriors home town;
By half time our unlucky Warriors are already thirty points down,
The players wonder why Sweet-As Stevie Cuzzy Bro’s mood is foul-
Just ’cause the boys haven’t turned up he’s throwing in the towel.
They feel for Steve, but ‘Hey Bro, chill it’s just another Saturday,
Win or lose, we Warriors get well paid, even if we can’t, well… play,’
No wonder poor Steve looks lost, dismayed, distraught and distressed
That’s the attitude that has him clawing at his hair, and, soon, his chest,
This dispiriting woeful effort is the latest blow to the Warrior coaches pride,
Alas, poor Kearney, another aspiring coach whose spirit has just died,
It’s his lot to join that sorry lot of ex- Warriors coaches Stevies a broken man-
Well, Stephen, welcome to the club, you’re not the only broken-hearted ex-fan.
No Up-side.
Ask any woolly-headed mountaineer
What drives them, up here
And they say, with their rareified air
While looking down on you, ‘coz it’s there.’
A friend told me of ascending delights,
I told her of my morbid fear of heights,
She told me my fears should be overcome;
Time to step up, not succumb.
In front of my supposed peers
I could put behind me all my fears,
Now I see those fears as well founded
And I wish I’d stayed better grounded.
At crack ‘o dawn the nightmare began,
After four hours in a jam-packed van
I stepped out to see Mount Aspiring,
A sight that left me coldly perspiring.
Twelve keen climbers looked out on yon hill,
Of no concern to climbers of moderate skill,
But I gazed up at that peak with trepidation
And made it my business to find a comfort station.
Then they showed me the ropes, and the carabiner,
This lash-up did nothing to cheer my demeanour,
Jokes about being in this all together
Left me literally at the end of my tether.
Then we set off on the epic trek,
Five minutes left me a wheezing wreck,
Then when the misty schist turned to snow
I glanced longingly at the land, far below.
My friend, so sweet, so kind
Seemed sick of dragging my sorry behind,
She frowned down as I was looking up,
I think she regretted us hooking up.
From above we heard someone stumble.
Our sure-footed leader had taken a tumble
And as far as as this learner climber could tell
Our chance to reach our peak drastically fell.
Flashing past us our leader flew
Followed by his ashen number two,
Then numbers three to nine…
And so on, down the line.
My ascent had been a slow tedious climb
Still, my descent could be in record time,
And I raised my eyes in the fervent hope
I wasn’t at the end of my bloody rope.
We had one chance at life-
I saw her sawing with her knife;
Such heartfelt prayers are said
When life is hanging by a thread.
As the rope grew taut
I felt our time grow short
She sliced and diced madly but
Sadly, we never made the final cut.
We felt our hopes begin to slide
As the trusty rope stayed firmly tied,
Her old social climbers became a drag
Till their declining friendship hit a snag.
We rushed towards the deadly drop
Only to be crushed against a rocky outcrop,
The pain of the impact one would not believe,
But the agony of the wedgie I could not conceive.
We’d stretched our luck, I’m afraid,
For though the rope was thin and frayed
We watched our future possibilities unravel
Both knowing we were highly sick of travel.
Came a sound, like a rifle shot
And we were free of that clinging lot,
Climbing down, a mutual passion was found,
Safely down, we fell together, kissed the ground.
So read and heed the morale. gentle reader,
Don’t fall in the footsteps of your leader,
And don’t get roped in with your friends.
Here their sad sob story stickily ends.
Down In Hudddersfield Town.
Huddersfield Town’s future, so bright last June
Finally faded at Crystal Palace this dull afternoon,
It’s bound to be a silent, sad, sombre- and sober- coach trip
As the Terriers head back up North, down to the Championship.
By Xmas, Town knew it was gonna be tough at the top
But it’s a lot rougher when you’re the first team to drop,
To survive in the Premier League is a simple numbers game;
When Town tote up their losses all it amounts to is a crying shame.
If only Huddersfield’s brittle defence had been stronger
Or if their busy goalkeepers arms had been a little longer,
Or if they had a striker- or two- to pop in an occasional winner
The Terriers season mightn’t be finishing up a total dogs dinner.
Shake It Off.
I’m not saying I’m a religious man,
I’m more a godless Crystal Palace fan,
But trying to follow Hodgson’s odd squad
Leaves me believing there’s a devil, swear to God.
Off we went to Vicarage Road,
On the train up we drank- a load,
Arriving in a giddy state of inebriation,
But our loss meant ’twas premature celebration.
We’d gone into the Hornets nest and been sorely stung,
Now I stand, swaying, with heavy heart and head hung,
Thinking of how, again, our dreams of an FA Cup final
Swirl away, down the drain of a poxy Watford urinal.
Home Truths.
Oh, how the Crystal Palace fans love to roam-
They know there’s little joy in playing at home.
Eagles fans and players revel in their travelling ways
Since Selhurst Park offers ’em cold comfort these days.
The staff at Selhurst Park remain convivial and charming
But heaving out the welcome mat to Hove is most alarming.
And so goes the game, Deja vu, Palace do what we do best,
Letting Brighton Albion linger on, like an unwelcome guest.
Selhurst Park is becoming an Away teams Field of Dreams,
Surely we’re taking ‘charity begins at home’ to extremes.
All Downhill.
I’d been parked up slothfully on the couch
Hands comfortably folded on my spreading pouch
When my wife’s gaze went from the athletes on the telly
And settled reprovingly on my burgeoning belly.
So, I lay down my bottle of Bud and bowl of Lays
Vowing I would put behind me my couch potato days,
Out back in the garage lay my old bike, forgotten and dusty,
Abandoned, muddy, bespattered, cruddy and crusty.
Years ago I had enjoyed pedaling hell for leather
Braving life, limb and hypothermia whatever the weather,
Then I’d found myself out of luck, control and flying off course,
Now, after a decade of decadence, I was remountin’ the horse.
For hours I cleaned, checked, fussed and fettled,
Then back into the saddle I comfortably resettled,
The tyres gave a hiss of disapproval and began to deflate;
Time to pump the perishing tyres and lose some weight.
My old lycra shorts also fit a bit tighter
Than when I’d been fit and tons lighter,
But it takes a lot of guts to tighten and cinch
Pants that can fit, butt at a pinch.
Off I wobbled towards my happy trails,
Hoping to stay on the path, not go off the rails,
From atop the mount the way narrowly wound;
It’s impact on me would be most profound.
I looked down that slippery slope,
Offered up a prayer and the earnest hope
That the older wiser me had learnt from my mistakes-
Then simply prayer when I found I lacked brakes.
I found myself taking a high flying jump,
I scarcely missed landing on a sturdy stump,
How fortuitous my newfound Lord heard my heartfelt call
And had a handy bush of thorns to break my fall.
But it was not a happy landing,
I was left incapable of standing,
For a big boy’s mountain bike needs a stout brace,
And that brace struck me in my happy place.
Now I’m on my comfy sofa, laid back,
Hand uncomfortably cupping an ice pack,
Till I can stand and recover from the bars low blow,
No more a ‘mountain biking will this guy go.
