Like a sea mist descending to seep into every pore of my skin
Penetrating through bone marrow to knee, to elbow from skull to chin.
Is there a bulletin, a programme or publication where I can escape this obsession?
Will anybody listen to this ”don’t know, don’t care” confession?
Is there ever an interval to allow for an over, a let or a scrum?
Is there a month, a week, a day or just an hour to escape its constant hum?
In most communications, though I attempt to avoid, there’s always that hint.
Wherever I look, whenever I listen, it dominates airwaves and print.
Who is ready for their transfer, has he bought or sold?
No matter what the reason, can the club survive or will it fold?
Do we worship the new gods the managers, should we curtsy or perhaps just bow?
When one of them bites another’s ear, avoid suspension, but how?
Nothing must get in the way of the game, have no fear.
Laws of the land are abandoned when violence is committed here.
No matter how much corruption, manipulation and greed,
The show must go on, the fans must have their feed.
Is any other culture allowed, perhaps just one episode of Wolf Hall?
No, all programmes cancelled, extra time on all channels for the ugly game – that’s FOOTBALL .