Half time came, one - nil up, fourth round of the FA Cup
dreaming of the towers in the spring
february`s promised land, weekend trip to London planned
with the sweet forbidden pleasures that would bring

How much, pal? I only wanted one - I think this egg is overdone -
Someone said United scored late on
That`s all we need, to hear that lot, with all the problems that we`ve got
And knowing that our season`s all but gone

Tired eyes and aching bones, still a long way from our homes
How much easier it would be if we had won
But we played like tarts - saints preserve us, that shower of twats don`t deserve us
Still, so I`m told that`s half the bloody fun

Drink your tea, we`ll soon be off - you know we`ll end up with a cough
They ought to sack the board and half the team
Still, there`s always next year, eh? As long as we`re not drawn away
What`s football if a dreamer cannot dream…?

20 July 2000

SUNDAY ON THE MARSHES
Nine-thirty`s too early to start a game off
When you`ve got the hangover from hell
Your left back indulges in fag and a cough
And he`s hung over as well

Rivaldo doesn`t have to deal with this shit
And he never plays feeling grotty
Can anyone find me a shirt that`ll fit?
These shorts would fit old Pavorotti

So, how many we got - seven, eight, nine?
Where the hell`s little Len and his brother?
When God said `brain`, Len thought he said `rain`
And off he went running for cover

They look a bit fit, especially that winger
It`ll be hard just to keep him in sight
Not seen him before, he must be a ringer
It don`t help that I`m totally shite

The last time we played this lot was a joke
We ended up having a row
I got socked in the ear by some African bloke
But he stayed on, I`ll never know how

Here`s the ref - it`s ok, we`ve had him before
Even though there was loads that he missed
I hope he`s not come here expecting a war
I`m beginning to wish I was pissed

So, is it on, referee? Will the ground take a stud?
Or can we all bugger off back to bed?
No, it looks like we`re playing in this freezing mud -
Come on, Mick - over here, on me `ead…..

IT DON'T GET MUCH BETTER
The job that I had has been taken away
And my mother-in-law has dropped in for a day
The suitcase suggests it`s a much longer stay
But it don`t get much better than this…

My car is a write-off, stuck in a bush
The airbag has left a red rash on my mush
And it`s way too far in to get out and push
But it don`t get much better than this….

I owe money to people that I`ve never seen
For cancelled holidays on which I`ve not been
The bank manager`s looking hungry and mean
But it don`t get much better than this….

Inflation, disease, turmoil and strife
Grief from the kids, grief from the wife
Oh, pitiful me – a blight on my life
But it don`t get much better than this….

`Cos the local derby has just ended up
with us knocking the enemy out of the Cup
I can walk into my local and hold my head up
So it don`t get no better than this…

No, it don`t get no better than this

SECRETIVE AGENT
The Chairman sat down with a sigh
And said that he didn`t know why
They couldn`t agree
It was so plain to see
And it wasn`t his nature to lie

The player looked suitably smug
His agent wasn`t a mug
There was simply no way
He was willing to play
And he`s ready to pull out the plug “Are you going to sign, yes or no?
For there`s only six months left to go
On a contract that`s waiting
While you`re hesitating
And why, only you seem to know”

The player sat forward and said
“you know I`d stay here till I`m dead
`cos the fans are the cream
and I just love the team
but you know I refuse to be led”

The agent then said with a smile
“Look, leave it with me for a while.
I`ll make a few calls
kick the fans in the balls
and the three of us, we`ll make a pile”

The chairman was then quite forlorn
because to the fans he had sworn
that their favourite son
wouldn`t just up and run
while the fans cursed the day he was born

The press would be after his hide
and the fans would give him a rough ride
but when everything`s done
their favourite son
wants to play for a successful side

So the Chairman decided to sell
And the fans, well, they gave him hell
But it just didn`t matter
`cos the agent got fatter
and so did the player as well

September 27 2001

THE WARRIOR
The steam drifts away with the smell of the spray
as the last of the team leaves the room
and he sits up and groans, now he`s finally alone
in his echoing, empty cacoon
He looks down and grins at the scars on his shins
A collection of war wounds of old
The latest, still red, like the graze on his head
A high one, or so he was told

He lights up a fag, takes a quick drag
And remembers a time long ago
When the sound of his name was revered in the game
For each kick, and each lunge, and each blow
Elland Rd to The Dell, and Anfield as well
To the Nou Camp, he played to the hoards
And they hated him so, and soon let him know
with resounding and echoing chords

But that was back then, in the kind of days when
You could tackle and get tackled back
Before grey men in suits chucked out players in boots
For upsetting some old Fleet St hack
Now he languishes here, in the footballing rear
Where it`s hundreds, not thousands, he sees
But the kids here are quicker and the passing is slicker
And he falls foul of bad referees

“Are you coming, or what?” cries some bolshy young snot
and the Warrior waves him away
for he knows that he`s got nowt to say to that lot
at least, nothing much good anyway
So he dresses and rises, and his pain he disguises
As he leaves, and the door shuts behind him
Just another cold Saturday down in the dumps –
If they want him, then that`s where they`ll find him

September 27th 2001

THE TOWN
There once was a time, long before mine,
when the town were the name on everyone`s lips
before players with names no-one can pronounce
who drop to the floor at the sight of a stud
where the only boxes you would find in a stand
were the ones you would stand on, holding dad`s hand…..

The Town - they were warriors, not always the best
but they took on the mighty and drew with the rest
Now the ground is forgotten, lost in the race
And a DIY superstore stands in it`s place
All those Saturdays lost between 3 and 5.10
And awaydays that ended with a stuffing again….

We were there! We were there with flairs and silk scarves!
Now it`s down to the wine bar if you`re after two halves
Bank managers, lawyers, agents and all
Where are your souls – and where is the ball?
Lost with the ghosts of an innocent age
When players, not pop stars, held the back page…

The Town, they went under a few years gone by
And no-one that I know can understand why
`cause we sold all our talent to Leeds and Man U
and the money just went, though God knows where to Me?
I`m not bitter, though maybe I should be
When I look at the telly and wonder what could be
And my lad says to me on a Saturday morning
“Are United top, dad?” “Yes, son”, I say, yawning.

Written some time in June 2000