Watch And Weep.
It's no fun watching free to view TV these days,
It's all ugly reality shows, most deserve to be cut,
Who cares what Stallone mumbles or Kloe says?
And who can bear the sight of Kim's latest big butt?
So now we're going to expand our viewing horizons,
We're getting the Sports And Movies Sky Big Deal-
Now I'll see something I can keep my jaded eyes on,
Seeing top class football live at last held huge appeal.
When we had the Sky Sporting Package installed
'The beautiful game's our Premium Product' they said,
Bloody boring and yawn inducing it should be called-
After watching yesterdays 'game' I'm left brain dead.
I'd glazedly seen the Palace versus Forest game,
It proved to be an interminably long hard watch,
If riveting live entertainment was Sky's high aim,
What I saw was bargain basement, not top notch.
Both teams drudged away, all to lose, little to gain,
All I saw was 90 minutes of dour defensive tedium,
90 long minutes out of my life I won't see again,
Sky's Premier Show is now my unhappy medium.
(For what its worth, a nil-all draw- and that flattered both teams. I'd grade it a Z-)
Song for another (hopefully entertaining) lament is Wilco 'Sky Blue Sky.'
Mucked Up.
We've come to the bitter end of Transfer day...
Steve Parish has tucked his Buxton wallet away,*
Today Steve chose to be penny wise and not invest,
Spending cautiously is in his the clubs best interest.
Steve takes all the unspent cash back into the vault,
Steve takes all the fans criticism with a grain of salt,
Steve cares not if the fans voice their discontent,
What leaves Steve bereft is seeing money spent.
Steve can't bear to part with the club's transfer fund,
If he has to pay for progress he'd rather stay moribund,
He won't be pressed to buy, won't have his arm twisted,
Steve stays aloof, cool as ice, calm headed, tight-fisted.
Doesn't matter that we need reinforcements up in Attack,
Steve perceives a bargain, buys a cheap Arse Centre Back!**
We need to push Forward- we get Bargain Bob Rob Holding!
Who else foresees another year of defensive lapses unfolding?
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Though our two Strikers have both(!) struck a purple patch
Scoring and ably assisting well in the Wolverhampton match-
Time (and their past record) will show when the goals dry up
Might not Steve regret he didn't cough up the cash and buy up?
Then when the Palace fans troop into the ol' home ground
Might not they wonder where the rare goal will be found?
And as we draw yet another blank, rue our Strikers lack of luck
It's a win, and money in the bank for Steve 'Scrooge McDuck.'
* Steve Parish, Chairman and de facto paymaster of Palace.
** Arse = Arsenal Football Club.
Song for this one is 'St Stephen,' the Grateful Dead.
(Posting this as the madness of the last-minute scramble for new players, the desire to bag a bargain just before the last window of opportunity is about to slam shut. Talk about panic buying!)
Mucking About.
As the summer transfer season grinds to its end
Palace's reasoning remains hard to comprehend,
Our offense remains poor, woefully thin and threadbare,
But don't beg to Management- we'll get no change there.
We need a striker, an upgrade on Eddie Edouard,
Someone who doesn't make scoring look so hard,
Eddie gives it his very best, but he's no goal-getter,
But anything's better than second-string JP Mateta.
We need a new winger, with close control, fast and fleet,
Someone who can chip over a ball, not trip over their feet,
We need two more offensive players, or one who can score,
So what welcome addition is this, walking through the door?
Why, it's Dean Henderson, our new back-up goal keeper!
A decent Number Two- but couldn't we get one cheaper?
Buying a spare 'keeper makes sense to rich Manchester City
But here at Palace a Twenty mill 'keeper empties the kitty.
So, what is in store for the long-suffering fans in the stands?
Another year of the asses in the Boardroom sitting on their hands?
Making do with a bare-bones squad, being run on the dirt cheap?
The bosses laughing it up in their suite as the fans stand and weep.
Could, should our Board do something rare... and play fair?
Gamble on picking up a Diamond Ace, or even a lousy pair?
But if they hold their hand and we can't even take on a loan*
I bet the Club base will be wanting blood from hearts of stone.
So, another year of too few goals scored and muddling through,
Another regrettable year of Mateta, Eddie, and, fitfully, Ayew?**
When might the tight-fisted ownershit ship at Palace learn
That being relegated to the Chumpionship is a poor return?***
*A loan- lending a player signed to another club for half or a full season.
**Jordan Ayew; once a goal-scorer, now a hard working drone- but painfully goal shy.
***Championship- down a level from the Premiership.
Song for this unsporting kick to the head- or the ass, or the nuts of the tightwads who head
up Palace- is the Pretenders, 'Brass In Pocket.'
'Kremlin, We Have A Problem.'
Russia will show us who's best,
Vladimir's going to show the West.
Up up and up into outer space
Vladimir's rocket from Russia went,
Though fifty years late in the Space Race
It's well worth the roubles and the trouble spent...
Has to be worth every last red cent.
Vladimir, he keeps a keen interest;
Hope and pray Luna 25 passes the test.
Aimed to land on the Moon's pale face
The red rocket jets began their lunar descent,
All the Kremlin craft lacked was controlled grace-
And the Luna 25 landing turned into a seismic event...
'Sorry 'bout that, Mr President.'
Song that loosely ties in with this is the Fountaines D.C., 'Rocket To Russia.'
(Nope, not the Ramones, but close.)
Identity Crisis.
I've strived to be Woke but I must admit
Saying I'm lost for words ain't the half of it,
I don't want to be seen as a stupid ol' fu- twit
So, now if I call you something that doesn't fit-
Hey, I'm as confused as the next guy- gal- oh shit.
It matters not to me if you be Bi, Trans or Gay
But with such sexual diversity is everyone 'they?'
Things are different than back in my so simple day
So, if you see me looking at you in a confused way
Please excuse me, I really don't know what to say.
My daughter tries hard to educate me,
And I'm happy she's trying to update me,
And I don't want her hip friends to berate me,
But when I say the wrong thing, must they hate me?
Cut off my words, conversationally castrate me?
On being introduced to new young friends
I find my old customary words now oft offends,
Is 'partners' a term Wokepedia still recommends?
Seems I'm trailing in the wake of the latest trends-
Can't make heads nor tails of what 'say 'they" sends.
What crazy kind of world is this
When saying 'Mrs, Ms, Mr or Miss'
Means you've said something amiss?
Some way too Woke folk are taking the piss;
What's the term for 'asexually androgynous?'
I find I'm struggling to make much sense
Of a lot of this/their self titled reverence,
Yes, I'm stuck verbally in the past tense ,
So sorry, if I upset any ladies or gents-
Shit! That's bound to cause offence.
'Whaaat? I misspoke again?'
(I am trying, damned diligently, to speak right
But change has arrived it seems, like, overnight,
So sorry young 'uns, but I need
A little time to get up to speed,
And so if I make a mistake, speak out of turn,
Most y'all agree us Boomers are slow to learn.)
Song for this would seem to be the Eels, 'Nowadays.'
Peace In The Valley.
Robbie Robertson was one of the true greats,
Wrote songs steeped in American atmosphere,
Yes, he was blessed to play with great bandmates,
Whoever sung his songs, Robbie's words you'd hear,
But now only deep silence awaits.
Those long-ago endless days have passed so soon?
As twilight falls darkly do I feel a cold deathly shiver?
To Eternity's long slow march no-one stands immune,
Surely, I'll follow on, somewhere down the Crazy River.
But, I pray, none too soon.
The last line is an attempt at a touch of levity on a pretty sad bleak miserable day.
Songs for Robbie's passing are 'Somewhere Down The Crazy River' and 'The Shape I'm In.'
Forget Memory Lane.
I took a nostalgic walk down my old back street a few days back,
Now it's hard to see if it's still the same cracked pot-holed track,
There's cars parked up, jam-packed on both sides of the alleyway,
Far more than the miserable lot left out on display back in my day.
No car for us then- Pop trundled off to work peddling his Schwinn.
Outside Mrs Dutton's sat her Grey and Damson Austin A55,
For Mrs Dutton was non too keen on reversing down her drive
Or swervily backing up it, after a few too many Monday Tuesday Wed Friday drinks,
So it stewed out in the street, by Mr Brown's White Hillman Minx.
The Minx redolent of Brown Ale, the Austin of Beefeater Gin.
Housepainter Moody was next in lane, with his Morris Minor van,
None can recall the primary colour of the van of the painter man,
Mr moody saw it as a travelling palette, showing shades of all kind,
I saw it as an eyesore, a sign that Moody bastard was colour blind.
It looked like something Jackson Pollock had madly dashed about in.
Then came Mr Hollier, with a growing family to fill the big Chevrolet,
Good Catholic man, but no family plan- wife again in the family way,
Then wheezing Ol' Man Schemanski's antediluvian Glade Green V8,
Their smoking coughs soon to send both off to a dusty or rusty fate.
Puff fifty Lucky Strikes a day, soon 'nough Lady Luck will pull the pin.
Next was Mr Cotter's once prized but now parked big Cream Rover,
Getting whiter, due to a flock of homing pigeons regularly flying over,
No common car deserved to be left out there, much less a Rover Coupe,
A classic car was hidden deep down, under ten years of pigeon poop.
But trying to polish that heap would wear any Saint's patience thin.
Then, wee Mrs Martin who ran a mini-scule Fiat Bambina, in Delft Blue,
A car so compact even Midge was hard pushed to concertina herself into ,
Finally to dead end where Tom Gilroy clogged the whole end of the street,
Footpath, kerb and roadway crowded out by Gilroy's entire trucking fleet.
But complain to contrary Tom- he'd clip your chin, make your head spin.
I stopped outside the ol' house I'd grown up in, felt tears fill my eyes,
The gate hung awry, the long lawn a bloom of dandelions on the rise,
The cold house in the back street I'd once viewed with warm affection
Was, like the crumbling Kia parked out front, well beyond resurrection.
Forget the past, bring on the wrecking ball, let the slum clearance begin.
In the quaint old street of my youth time keeps on a'rolling... downhill.
Song for this far too close to home reality check is 'Dead End Street' by Tip Toe Topic,
or the old original by the Kinks.
Not So Dumb Animals.
Imagine, if in some remote forest a tree should fall,
Far, away from where human beings should be found,
Some dumb theoretical scientists still have the gall
To propound that this wood have no impactful sound.
Well, tell that to all forest creatures, great and small-
One snap, crack or rap on wood and it's a flee for all.
So c'mon, daft Docs, prove what you loudly assert,
Really reality-check that fatuous theory you expound,
Toss off the lab coat, roll up the sleeves of your shirt,
Get out in the field, stick your ear near to the ground.
Would, could an actual factual walk in the woods hurt?
Duh, no geniuses, don't take a hike during a storm alert!
Hark, eggheads, see the bird-brained skylark turn tail?
Look, brainiacs, the deer herd, they're outward bound,
See, Professor, as that pea-brained bear sh hits the trail,
Piles of evidence that bear hears, clearly scattered around.
So as that big-ass bear, unbound, runs off, let's end this tale;
Should shatter your unsound pet theory, on a massive scale.
(Song for this silly dissinformational post is 'Do Bears,' Rowan Atkinson and Kate Bush.)
The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul.
When you live in the far-off Southern Hemisphere
And you want to watch your fave football team,
You'll find yourself up all hours, on a midnight clear
Watching your nightmare while sane folk dream.
On this painfully early morn I woke to the trilling
Of my iPhone's persistent insistent chimes;
It's a crazy Man United football fan who's willing
To watch the FA Cup in these dark times.
My team proudly wear bright bold United Red,
Sky Blue is the shade of Man City's shirts,
My team is pretty damn good, but it must be said
They're better, and truth be told- that hurts.
The two mighty Manchester teams lined up
As I blearily made myself a cuppa tea,
And as I reached to strain my first night's cup
I heard the first peep from the referee.
I carefully poured my tea, set it 'pon the tray,
No hurry, for the game had barely begun,
But in the first minute, to my dumbfounded dismay
Manchester United were down by one!
The game then went on much as I had expected...
The team in red vainly chased the team in blue,
Then we won a penalty and our faint hope resurrected
Till Gundogan thundered in bolt Number Two.
And after ninety agonising minutes had passed
The ref looked at his watch, time was nigh...
He gave his shiny penny-whistle a mighty blast
And I took my napkin and dabbed my eye.
Sighing, I poured my cold bitter tea down the drain,
I rationalised 'to come second is no great shame,'
And if City come first again, I must internalise the pain,
At the end of the day, it's just a fucking football game.
‘Stewing? After a bad night up like this I feel more like spewing.’
(Mournful song to tie in with this sad but to be expected result is 'No Expectations,' the Rolling Stones.)
Manchester United score 4 goals! Sevilla players scored nada! Sadly the score is 2 all. Thanks to Tyrell, and our old favourite, Harry. Hey Harry, glad you could chip in. Again.
Step Back.
There once was much to admire
About the play of Harry Maguire,
Fleet of foot and sharp of thought-
That's the man Man United bought.
I sang his praises loud and long
For Harry rarely put a foot wrong,
His tackle firm, his touch feather light,
But now he can't put a lumpen foot right.
I was blinded by Flash Harrys attributes,
By that dazzling smile, those day-glo boots,
Now Maguire inspires anxiety, not confidence,
He's the panic attack at the heart of our defence.
Yes, those twinkling toes have turned to stone,
(But on own goals scored he still stands alone)
Frankly, Tottenham have the Harry we require*
Our Harry is free to transfer to Spurs, or retire.
*Harry Cane, Englands current Captain.
Our erstwhile Captain caught in repose after another sterling contribution.
Song to ‘celebrate’ another foot-in-mouth moment is ‘Trip, Stumble And Fall,’ the Mamas and Papas.
Obbverse 