Read introduction

I went to watch my team Chelsea last year in a Champions League match in London. Loved the whole build-up and atmosphere. Fantastic.
Look, I know it’s hardly classic poetry but its life in the 21st century. So there. Just so there!
Farking magic it was!

Farking Magic!

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart09 May 2014

Forty three years.
Forty three long years actually, but who’s counting.
Finally, I’m here.
It was long ago in the old school yard that I stood with the wee lads,
Huddled round copy of Shoot,
That I made the fateful choice,
To be blue.
Just as well for we won the Cup that year.
It’s been a long road, long and full of ups and downs,
But now the ups, and the silvery Cups!
Tube ride, Kings Road.
Right, that’s the Trophy Photos done, family heirloom safely tucked away.
Stadium Tour.
Bought a bagful of lovely tat, and a Jose face-mask.
Well, he is The Special One.
And a lovely plastic flag, nod to Rafa, cheeky beggar.
It’ll look good over my shed.
I’m so classy, the wife will just love this…..not.
Match Ticket in hand, must go soak up the pre-match atmos.
Statue, Osgood, excuse me would you mind if… click, done.
Bus.
Slow reverse, lots of bleeping, diesel fumes to choke a donkey.
Ah yes, arrival of The Enemy.
And how they were welcomed, how the air turned
An appropriate blue.
Gates open, Matthew Harding Stand,
Ultras!
Chips, Programme, Coke, steps, sit.
In they come, the locals, smell of pub, greybacks, all alpha males.
Even the women.
Especially the women.
Family group, Mum, Dad, two wee lads, just in front.
Two city-types in long coats land beside me, mobiles clipped to ears,
Closing deals with Tarquin or somebody,
Promises to “do lunch” in Brussels next Tuesday, I hear…tuh..!
I’m safe with the middle classes!
And what a lot of lovely songs about “JT’s various female conquests”..!
Warm-ups, general ballsing about, then kick-off.
That’s when it starts.
“Stand up, if you hate Arsenal, stand up, if you hate Arsenal etc”
Funny or what, stewards in a stress wobble,
Shooing us down into seats again, Mr UEFA Blatter would be annoyed.
Ha, what a laugh.
It happened again once or twice.
Thirty seven times actually, not that I was counting.
Thirty seven Farking times.
Oooh….aaaah….eeeeeeeh….hit post!
Halftime.
Urinal bliss, my, but how well Armitage truly Shanks.
And we’re off again.
Oh the poor ref, he’s only gone and done it now,
Booked Terry.
And up stands Daddy and demands that JT exacts murderous retribution,
On the legs, arms,
And general groin region of all in red, black and anything but blue.
Wee lads look, watch, learn, copy, Mum holding their chips helpfully.
All wee hands free to give the finger.
Great to see family bonding, and grooming in the mystic ways of the tribe.
Goal, roar, Goal!
Bouncing, bouncing, and everyone is happy.
Except that red lot in the far corner.
Maybe we’ll just remind them once or thrice.
My two neighbours, the city-types are especially happy,
And spend the next hour singing about,
Farking, Farking Arsenal, then
Farking, Farking Spurs then
Farking, Farking West Farkin ‘Am.
And every other Farking team in London, Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool,
In between texting Tarquin or somebody.
Park the Bus, park the bus, park the bus, who cares.
Jose patrols the touchline, twirling his arms in Armani suit,
Waving like a windmill.
Peep, peep, peep.
Over!
We win, mad rush for the exit.
Herd like sheep, cops on horses, up to Fulham Broadway,
Down the escalator.
Tube,
Sweaty oxters, sardines spring to mind.
Up.
Walk, walk, walk.
Hotel, key, room.
Collapse on bed.
Farking Magic!