Work!

Work! A means to an end? An end in itself? Something to be avoided at all costs? Where would I place myself on the 'work to live....live to work' spectrum? Probably just about here, without giving too much away: always intellectually stimulated, rarely exploited, often emotionally fulfilled. I've been lucky. I'd like to think I'm just about the full pyramid. (See Maslow's hierarchy illustration further on.)

"When Adam delved and Eve span..."

We all started off (as a species) working to live... finding/growing food, building shelters, making clothes, fulfilling the most fundamental physiological needs. Husbandry and wifery (as above, farming and clothes-making), among the top jobs along with building (brick-making, carpentry, stonemasonry), hunting and fishing. Doctors, priests, teachers and soldiers followed, along with philosophers, prostitutes and poets (of course), fulfilling safety and societal needs. It could be argued that by this stage some, with their basic needs catered to, were becoming vocational and living to work. I'll leave you to ponder the pyramid below if you're not familiar with Maslow's ground-breaking 1943 work.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs

I'm not going to get into religion and the rise of capitalism, overlords, underlings, exploitation, slavery and all that. Far too complex an area to cover in 500 words (which is approximately the length a blog should be, though I often disregard that rule of thumb). 

Anyway, I'm retired now, though I still work voluntarily as the Supporters' Liaison Officer for Blackpool Football Club and as the organiser of other volunteers from the fanbase who give of their time on a regular basis to help clean the stadium ready for match days and litter pick the rubbish that is left behind on the terraces after every game, despite tannoy requests to deposit it in bags at the turnstiles on exiting the stadium.

volunteering at Blackpool FC

It was while cleaning the stands at Bloomfield Road recently thar the idea for today's cheeky poem came to mind. It's not to be taken too seriously but there is truth in and between its lines. Any similarity to Henry Reed's famous poem 'Naming Of Parts' is purely intentional. 

Cleaning Of Stands

Today we have cleaning of stands. Yesterday,

Saturday there was a game in the stadium

with the team mis-firing again, And today,

today we have cleaning of stands. Buddleia,

roses and dahlias flower in the neighbouring

gardens, and we have cleaning of stands.

This is the North Stand, the Kop. And this

is where the Ultras sing and swear and drop

pie cases, cigarette butts (though smoking is

banned), plastic bottles and chewing gum while

in the gardens, tangerine blooms sway with

an eloquence our Ultras have not got.

This is the South Stand, which is never full.

It is cold and doesn't get the sun. Its terraces are 

littered with hot dog wrappers, wooden forks, 

empty bovril, coffee, tea and hot chocolate cups. 

Its fans are fragile and motionless, rarely letting 

anyone see a spark of joy or anger.

This is the West Stand, the most expensive seats,

beloved of families whose younger kids slide

excitedly backwards and forwards. We clear up

the remains of picnic lunches, dropped chocolates,

sweet wrappers, an occasional nappy. Those happy

clapping youngsters are tomorrow's Ultras.

And this is the East Stand, it holds the away fans.

It's open at the back, so if the game's boring they

can admire our gardens with their tangerine and topiary.

It's full of plastic beer mugs, pie cases, empty vapes

burst inflatables, stickers  and torn up match tickets,

and today we have cleaning of stands.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)