Goal!

In football it’s an old saying that goals win games. How many times have you seen a game where one team has all the possession but fails to score and the other team has one chance, takes it and wins the game. Some games are like this but sometimes late winning goals are much more significant.

One such game occurred on May 26th 1989 when Liverpool played Arsenal to be First Division champions. It was a game between first and second with Arsenal three points behind Liverpool and needing to win by two clear goals to become champions. Liverpool needed a draw or a win to become champions. At 90 minutes Arsenal were leading 1-0 which was enough to hand Liverpool the title.

However, after a Liverpool attack breaks down the Arsenal goalkeeper throws the ball to Dixon who sends a long pass to Smith who passes the ball on to Michael Thomas who charges into the Liverpool penalty area. Thomas waits for the Liverpool goalkeeper to commit himself to a save and Thomas lifts the ball into the net. The Liverpool ground exploded into chaotic celebrations. Arsenal scored their second goal at 90+2 minutes thereby winning the game and becoming First Division champions for 1988-1989 season.

Michael Thomas winning the 1989 League Championship for Arsenal at Anfield

Some say the significance of this game was that it rescued English football from the misery of football hooliganism, the Heysel and Hillsborough tragedies and paved the way for the formation of the Premier League three years later in 1992.

Another such game was the 1999 Champions League final in Barcelona between Bayern Munich and Manchester United. Going into the game United were on course to win the Treble as they were already Premier League champions and had won the FA Cup as well. However, in the final after 90 minutes, United were 1-0 down and 3 minutes of time were added on. United had a corner which Beckham sent into the Bayern penalty area. This was poorly cleared and Giggs sent the ball back into the Bayern goal area where substitute Teddy Sheringham put the ball in to the Bayern net.

The goal was timed at 36 seconds into injury time. Thirty seconds after the restart United forced another corner which Beckham sent into the Bayern penalty area finding the head of Teddy Sheringham who nodded the ball across the face of the goal. The second United substitute Solskjaer reacted quickest and prodded the ball into the back of the Bayern net. The second United goal was scored with 43 seconds of the game remaining.

Many of the Bayern players were so distraught to have lost the game in such a fashion that they could hardly restart the game. Shortly after the game was over, United were European champions and became the first English club to achieve the Treble, winning the Champions League, Premier League and FA Cup in the same season. The Treble winners also confirmed their domination of English football winning their last Premier title in 2013 when manager Sir Alex Ferguson retired from the game after 26 trophy laden years.

Manchester United, European Champions and treble winners in 1999

Perhaps the most famous and iconic game in Premiership history occurred when Manchester City played Queens Park Rangers (QPR) at home on Sunday 13th May 2012. City went in to the final match on the final day of the season as Premiership leaders from arch-rivals Manchester United on goal difference. Manchester United were playing away at Sunderland. City needed to match or better United’s result at Sunderland. Additionally, QPR needed a draw to escape relegation from the Premiership.

As luck would have it, QPR were leading 2-1 after 90 minutes and there were 5 minutes of added time to play. Despite nearly constant pressure, QPR hung on until the second minute of added time when a Silva corner was headed in by the City striker Edin Dzeko headed to make it 2-2. By this point news came through that results elsewhere meant QPR were safe from relegation but also that United had beaten Sunderland and as things stood United were going to be league champions. City needed to another goal to become champions.

In the 94th minute City forward Balotelli despite being on the ground passed a ball to striker Sergio Aguero who ran further into the QPR penalty area and unleashed a savage shot that flew into the back of the QPR goal. The Sky Sports commentator Martin Tyler roared simply “Aguerooooo” as the ball hit the back of the net and the stadium erupted into emotional chaos. City had won their first Premiership title and won their first league championship in 44 years under manager Roberto Mancini.

"Aguerooooo" winning the 2012 League Championship for Manchester City

The significance of this game, and this goal in particular, is that City under new manager Pep Guardiola from 2016 would go on to dominate the English game. Since 2016 City and Guardiola have won 18 major trophies including winning the Treble of the Premier League, the FA Cup and the European Champions League in 2021 equalling Manchester United’s Treble in 1999. City are only the second English club to complete the Treble.

GOAL!

Five minutes left to play
two goals down are they
going to throw it all away

Come on, come on, we need
a goal, just one more goal
to ease our aching desperate soul

A loose ball, a bad clearance
it’s in the back of the net, it’s
called perseverance

Three minutes left, keep on
Up the attack, no holding back
just pressure, pressure, pressure

Bad tackles, desperate defending
the noise is unrelenting, just hit the
shot, give it all you’ve got

Aguerooooo!


With thanks to Sky Sports commentator Martin Tyler for the iconic “Agueroooo”.

And thank you to you for reading. Please leave a comment as they are always appreciated.

Read More

Goal!

Final Score: Blackpool 1 Barnsley 0

What a goal! It was worth freezing in the rain for that winning thriller that brought a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. Thank you, Jordan Brown - sorry, Barnsley.

A football match can work me up into a passionate frenzy, as those who were with me when Manchester United won the Treble can testify. I was born in Sale into a Manchester family of MUFC fans. My grandfather had known one of the Busby Babes and often spoke of the Munich air crash. Like many girls my age, I had a teenage crush on George Best. I cried when he died. I cried when England's David Beckham got sent off in the World Cup - petulant boy. I was so cross with him! I wept with joy when Ryan Giggs scored 'that' goal. Tears streamed when Sir Alex Ferguson stepped down from management. Love him or hate him, it marked the end of an era. The Fergie Years, probably an unmatchable achievement, would go down in history.

Attending Bloomfield Road, supporting my home team, I manage to keep my lady-like composure most of the time, even when I don't agree with a referee's judgement.

Away from football, personal resilience and strength has taken a hit recently and as we work our way back, plans have had to be rearranged, new goals have been set. A newly decorated lounge has given us enough confidence to continue those skills into other rooms with the aim of our house being ready to go on the market early next year. I will complete the grandchildren's Christmas jumpers by mid-November. My birthday will pass quietly. Christmas will look after itself. We will bounce back, eventually. 

Sadly, I will miss Tuesday evening's home fixture against Luton. I'll be supporting from afar and hoping for Blackpool goals. If Jerry is playing, I hope he is kind.

A poem that gives me inspiration,

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil Wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I beat in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bring the gifts that my ancestors gave

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise

                             Maya Angelou

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Flowers - Bloomin' Lovely

The garden is looking sorry for itself. Chopped down for winter, the three intertwined buddleia are naked sticks protruding from the soil, shorter than the fence. They look dead, but I’m sure I haven’t killed them. I can’t say the same for the annoying bindweed that was wrapped tightly around more branches than I realised. It has disappeared for now. Springtime will see it re-emerge, ready to attack, and once again I’ll be fighting the losing battle of trying to keep it away. I’m considering training it on to some trellis somewhere at the side. It is an attractive plant, just damages other things. We’ll see. The buddleia didn’t flower very well and I didn’t see a single butterfly, though I was away for most of the summer.

I'm not a good gardener, home or away, but I make an effort and do my best. Bulbs are planted for spring. I look forward to daffodils, tulips, irises, grape hyacinths and something I’ve never heard of that looked very pretty on the box. I do this every autumn, full of enthusiasm, expecting to grow the best spring garden ever and the wonderful flowers will compensate for every ache and pain. Something is always lacking – green fingers – so, in all seasons I try to plant things that will flower nicely and look after themselves. A favourite is the Totally Tangerine geum. They come back stronger each year. There are two, in different flower beds. In bloom, one is more stunning than the other. The slightly weaker one was bought when I was feeling cross about someone connected to football and I think it shows, but it doesn’t matter now.

I love to have flowers in the house. Last week I was overwhelmed and delighted to be given beautiful roses including yellow ones for friendship from a lovely friend of many years. She didn’t know this, but things have been tough for me lately. The flowers, with their special significance, really helped to cheer me up.

I always have daffodils in remembrance of my father. When he passed away, his garden path was lines with an abundance of shades of yellow, cream and orange created by an amazing display of various daffodils. It’s nice to see them appear in my garden.

I hope I have success with poppies next year. They always look lovely, but can be so delicate that they don’t last very long.

I’ve chosen two poems,

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae 1872-1918

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Terraces

I've forgone a trip down to London to the football terraces of Charlton Athletic (cheering on the Seasiders) so I can fulfil my Saturday blogging obligation, but I'll still be keeping a keen eye on the progress of the team in tangerine (except they'll probably wear an away strip today).

For those of us who grew up watching football in the decades before the Hillsborough disaster (and the subsequent introduction of all-seater stadia), standing on the terraces of a Saturday afternoon or Tuesday evening was part and parcel of being a fan. My terrace experience began in Peterborough, at London Road, because I lived there for a few pre-teen years when my family came back from Africa. Then it was Cambridge City of the Southern League, just round the corner from where I lived during my adolescence. At one time City were the top team in town, but it was Cambridge United who eventually pipped them to a place in the Football League. When I went off to university in the 1970s, first division Coventry City was the local team and I started going regularly to home games, originally to watch Tommy Hutchison, an ex-Blackpool player recently transferred to the Sky Blues. That's how Coventry became my 'second' team, behind the mighty Blackpool FC (who were admittedly entering a long decline that only reversed in the 21st century). 

Back then the terraces were packed, smoky, heaving masses of loud-mouthed humanity, swaying as one in excited response to the flow of the game, and though many fans (myself included) now regularly stand at games again in contravention of ground regulations, there's nowhere near the same intensity as once there was. Take Blackpool's stadium Bloomfield Road as an example. Its current capacity is around 16,000 and most games see crowds of around 10,000 but when we played at home to Manchester United back in the early 1970s there would be 30,000 crammed inside;

As a student, I lived for some years in one of a terrace of red-brick houses, although it called itself a street, in the Earlsdon area of Coventry. The housing there, in what was originally the watch-making quarter of the city, was mostly built between 1890 and 1920 in quite densely packed terraced residential streets  with small front gardens, back yards and of  course no garages. From the 1960s onwards it has featured a large student population. We were four couples renting the house, all attending nearby Warwick University (which is actually on the outskirts of Coventry and not in Warwick at all , or even in Warwickshire anymore since the creation in 1974 of the metropolitan county of West Midlands). The house was owned by a very nice Pakistani man and he charged us £15 a week to live there - that's in total, not per person or couple; i.e. less that £2 a week each, or £8 per person per month,  a steal compared to the cost of university accommodation. The equivalent charge nowadays is £450 per person per month! What's more, he let us do what we wanted with the place, told us to decorate it as we wished and to bring him the bills for paint and paper, which we duly did. We couldn't believe our luck!

My girlfriend and I plus China the cat drew the lucky longest straw and had the whole of the top floor as our bedroom. It seemed palatial. The other bedrooms were on the second floor The living-room, kitchen and bathroom were on the ground floor. The original plan had been to rotate bedrooms each year, but once everybody was settled in that idea died a death. Being on the top floor, right under the eaves, we also had a balcony (great for sun-bathing on sunny days) and a wrought-iron fire-escape in case of emergencies. Our view over the shunting yards (it being close to Coventry station) was scintillating. I've just checked on Rightmove and those terraced properties sell for between £400,000 and £500,000 nowadays. Our nice Pakistani landlord probably cashed in years ago. We used to go round to pay the rent once a month and his wife would always give us lovely food to eat, vegetable samosas or stuffed parathas, while their shy children stared at us with huge eyes,

It was a close-knit neighbourhood, a proper community, with a local pub and corner shop, no through traffic, hardly a car on the streets. We used to play frisbee up and down the middle of the road although the park was only a ten minute walk away; sometimes football with the local kids, poorly dressed, snotty little urchins and yet they were loved. We practically adopted a posse of them, let them draw at our dining table, read them stories, sometimes fed them too. Occasionally someone would get drunk and kick off, husbands and wives shouting the odds at each other. Sometimes there would be broken milk bottles across the pavement of a morning. But it was by and large a friendly working-class neighbourhood and they were happy times, the terrace years.

For a poem this week I've drawn upon and extrapolated from an incident that happened twenty years later when I was living in Hemel Hempstead, married and with two small children. The office where I worked was within walking distance of where I lived, at the end of another terraced street as it happened. I'd only been at work for about half-an-hour when there was the most almighty explosion. It shook the building I was in, there was a huge pall of smoke at the other end of the street and soon a welter of sirens as emergency vehicles raced to the scene. A whole end-of-terrace house had blown apart in what turned out to be a gas explosion. The only occupant at the time, her husband and children having recently left for work and school, was a housewife who was taking a morning bath. She ended up propelled out on the street as the upstairs collapsed, still in the bath but  miraculously unhurt. It was the most extraordinary occurrence. (Moral: never smoke in the bath.)

Here then, with quite a few liberties taken as to time, place and personnel, is the latest from the imaginarium.

End Of

It split the air like the end of the world,

could be heard from half a county away

and then the sirens and anxious phoning

from home to office, factory to home -

are you okay?  was it near you?  Only

when local radio  started putting out its

bulletins did we know, relief replaced by

curiosity, and hindsight came in to play.

Some who'd walked past earlier that day

recalled a niff of gas in the area. One had

knocked on the door of the old recluse

in the last house of the terrace, been told

through the letter box to beggar off. The

evening paper stated Massive Gas Blast

Rocks Worlds End. One Man Dead. By

then hundreds had circled past to gawp

at the ruin behind the cordon, myself as

well walking back home, all shocked of

course by the extent of devastation, bits

of torn taupe wallpaper flapping on walls

with paler patches where pictures hung,

acid green gloss denoting the kitchen or

what was left, cabinets askew. Nothing

now to see of his bathroom where that

ancient geyser blew, just a row of jagged 

joists poking into space, a sobering sight.

A late night regional TV news interview

with neighbours, relocated for their safety 

to an hotel, spoke affectionately enough

about old Bill. He would be missed. He'd

always said  they'd only get him out feet

first. In his bath, though, that was a twist.

I'll leave you on a more upbeat note with a beautifully jazzy musical bonus, Herb Alpert and Chuck Mangione playing the fabulous, funky City Terrace. Enjoy! 

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Bees - Something Special

Manchester Bee, beautiful, symbolic and instantly recognisable.  My ancestry is firmly rooted in the city, Moss Side, Openshaw, Chorlton-On-Medlock, Ancoats, Stretford, Northenden and more recently Wythenshawe. They rest in Southern Cemetery, some known to me, many others long before my time, my people, my bloodline, my family. Some, my mother’s side, lived in Sale. It was in Cheshire then, affluent, even posh. I’m proud to have been born there and I’m happy that it is part of Greater Manchester now (not everyone is, sorry) because it unites all my family under the same umbrella and I like that. The Manchester Bee is for us all.

The first insect sting I ever had happened in Wythenshawe Park. I was about six I think. Nanna Hetty had taken me out to play and we were sitting on a bench to eat our ice cream. I remember her sitting down first and wafting a bee out of the way for me to sit beside her. The bee must have gone under the wooden slats of the seat to come out again as I sat.  I cried out with pain on my upper leg and there was the bee-sting, sticking out of my skin. Nanna knew what to do and looked after me. I sobbed and sobbed as she got the barb out, taking care not to squeeze. I was brave. Back at her house, the sting area dabbed with vinegar, I soon recovered. Sixty years later, the memory and associated trauma is still strong. Up to now, I haven’t had any more bee stings, but I give them their own space and plenty of respect.

My garden, such as it is – largely concrete ground with planting areas and tubs – has plants attractive to butterflies and bees including buddleia, sunflowers and a geum, beautiful and orangey called Totally Tangerine which I just had to have when we first planted this new garden. It comes back bigger and more bountiful every year, of course.

Reading up about bees, I have learnt that ‘in the old days’ news of a bee-keeper’s death would be passed on to them and their hives would be shrouded in black cloth. This was to reassure bees that they were to stay and carry on.  American poet, John Greenleaf Whittier mentions this in his poem, Telling the Bees.

Last week, a special little ‘Bee’ died. Nine year old Jordan Banks, who played football for Clifton Rangers Bees under 9s, passed away after being struck by lightning.  My heart broke for this beautiful little boy and his family, not known to me, but part of our neighbourhood as he attended our local primary school.  I gave my daughter some flowers to lay at the junior school gate when she took my grandson to school. Yesterday, my son went to see all the flowers and tributes when he took my granddaughter to school. Jordan, doing what he loved, kicking a football about in the fresh air, a selfless young man who did so much for others in his short life.  He was something special.

Tempted as I was to choose Arthur Askey’s ‘The Bee Song’, I opted for Emily Dickinson instead:

The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labour is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!

                             Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

Read More

Claims - What Did You Do, Radio 2?

I got a bit mad recently. Not red and raging, just a niggle that exploded and set me off looking for answers Victor Meldrew style.

It started off with Radio 2’s Pick of the Pops on Saturday afternoons. It fits just nicely between having lunch and watching the football – Blackpool FC on iFollow, home and away – and it is fun to guess what might be in the chosen Top Ten. I don’t claim to be a pop music buff but I grew up with a jukebox filtering through from the pub downstairs and a mum who liked her records so I was drip-fed the hits of the time. Over a few Saturdays, I grew disappointed that the ‘early hit-lists’ were from the ‘80s. I became more dismayed upon looking up pre-arranged schedules to discover only music charts from the ‘80s onwards were included. Anything after about 1985 is lost on me, unless it is something specific which attracted me. Horrified, I emailed BBC Radio 2, which claims to be the most listened to music radio station in the UK, politely asking if the chosen years were random or hand-picked and also making them aware that I am familiar with Sounds of the Seventies, Johnnie Walker and Sounds of the Sixties, Tony Blackburn, before they point me in that direction.

My email failed to warrant a reply, but, around that time someone had aired a complaint to Points of View along the same lines, and the reply from the Beeb explained that the BBC Radio 2 playlist covered forty years, from 1980. A similar announcement was made in the papers and said pre 1980 recordings would still be occasionally included, but would not be part of the main play-list. This was for everything, not just Pick of the Pops. Well, cheers, thanks for that. I switched from Radio 1 to Radio 2 for a reason, and now it seems they are one and the same. I’m not ready for Radio 3 all the time and Radio 4, though excellent, isn’t good for a morning sing in the shower.  I’m sure Zoe Ball is lovely, but I haven’t latched on to her taste in music.

I think I will have to explore Greatest Hits Radio, Absolute Radio or something similar for the bathroom radio. Wait a minute, Pick of the Pops on Saturday, 7th May, features 1969, yippee, lucky me. If anything can calm me down, the hits from '69 can.

My Haiku poem

Where is the music?
Where have all the good songs gone?
Eliminated.

Taken, just like that.
BBC Radio 2
Made the decision,

All pre ‘80s out,
Off the regular play-list.
Claims lack of int’rest.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading and if you're venturing into the outdoors, please take care, Pam x

Read More

Expectation - Uncertain Times

 

It is not quite Epiphany but the Christmas tree, cards and all the trimmings have been taken down and packed away. There was an element of sadness. I didn’t feel ready to remove everything. I was being practical and fitting in other plans. Also, I was missing my little helpers who had made the task a joyful one last year and the year before. Just the other day my eldest grandson asked if he could help to put the tree away. I told him he could if he was here when the time came, but he was at school yesterday when I was unwinding the strings of beads, trying to prevent them getting tangled. I felt a bit guilty. I’d given him the expectation of being involved. Now, if the subject arises, I’ll be using ‘lockdown’ as an excuse. He’ll already be gutted at his beloved school taken from him again.

I began last year, 2020, with lots of expectations and, same as everyone, not a clue of what was coming to take it all away from me. There would be our regular visits to Dumfries and Galloway with trips to family in Troon. We looked forward to going to the Channel Islands for our 30^th wedding anniversary. I was retiring from work. There would be more travelling and lots of time to spend with our four grandchildren. Covid 19 changed all our lives and continues to do so.

I feel safe at home and it’s where I like to be. One thing I enjoy is watching all Blackpool F.C. matches on the big TV on the back room wall, from the comfort of the squashy sofa. It’s great to settle down with a hot coffee and the anticipation and expectation of a thrilling match ending in a great result. When that happens I hope our neighbours don’t mind the cheering and applause. I miss the atmosphere of the football ground, I miss the company of the fans who sit around us, the chats and catch-ups. They will be like us, watching from home. And, sitting in comfort in the warmth, I wonder how on earth I’d cope in the stadium on a freezing match day. I’ve gone soft. I have no expectation of getting back into the ground this season, but if we can, I’ll be there.

This year I have no New Year resolutions, except to write more of my own poetry but I haven't set off on that yet. Expectation is to receive the Covid vaccine when my turn comes up and retire from work at some point. If I keep my expectations realistic, there will be less disappointment.

Here's a Thomas Hardy poem,

Expectation and Experience

“I had a holiday once,” said the woman –
Her name I did not know –
“And I thought that where I’d like to go,
Of all the places for being jolly,
And getting rid of melancholy,
Would be a good, big fair:
And I went. And it rained in torrents, drenching
Every horse, and sheep, and yeoman,
And my shoulders, face and hair;
And I found that I was the single woman
In the field – and looked quite odd there!
Everything was spirit-quenching:
I crept and stood in the lew of a wall
To think, and could not tell at all
What on earth made me plod there!”

Thomas Hardy  (1840 – 1928)

 Pam

Read More

Colours - The Future's Bright

The future is looking bright, tangerine and white.

I’m looking forward to Saturday’s football match. I’m looking forward to a fantastic cheerful atmosphere from a capacity crowd. The chanting, the singing, the drum roll, all will be there, at last.

Bloomfield Road football ground is clean and tidy with colourful, tangerine seating. It’s a far cry from 1970 when my friends and I stood on the terrace to watch Blackpool, trying to avoid whatever skirmishes were happening around us. It was a male-dominated place in those days. I don’t think there were any facilities for ladies, but a few of us die-hards were not put off.  Blackpool F.C. were in the First Division at the time and I couldn’t wait to see George Best play when Manchester United came. Sadly, it was not meant to be. I was many miles away on a fortnight’s holiday in Majorca with my family when that match was taking place.

One of my close school friends was one of Bill Perry’s daughters. I knew he was a former player for Blackpool but I didn’t appreciate the significance at the time. He scored the winning goal for Blackpool in the 1953 FA Cup Final, but to me he was my friend’s dad and the man who fixed our vacuum cleaner in his electrical shop.

 In the early ‘70s I stopped going to matches. Time had moved on and my weekends were taken up with other things. I followed the fortunes of the team from a distance and that’s how it stayed for a long time.

A new era is about to commence. Colour the town tangerine and white.

 

My poem from 2010,

 

 

Sea Sea Seasiders  2010

 

Everything tangerine and white,

Fans all meet in great assembly.

Blackpool FC in the top flight,

They’ve beaten Cardiff at Wembley.

 

Open top bus in ’53,

Everything tangerine and white,

The FA cup for all to see,

Bill Perry’s goal, the town's delight.

 

It really was an awesome sight                                                            

With deafening applause and cheer;

Everything tangerine and white

With plenty of champagne and beer.

 

Open top bus like ’53,

Everything tangerine and white.

The play-off cup for all to see,

Ormerod’s goal, the town's delight.

 

Ollie’s team have got the power,

Premier League, a dizzy height.

Blackpool flag atop the tower,

Everything tangerine and white!

 

 

PMW

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

Read More

Oh, What A Night - The Best Times

Oh, what a night, what a theme! I've many to choose from, here's a few.

The first thing to spring to mind is all the Moody Blues concerts I’ve been to. I tried to count it up but it’s impossible.  On every UK tour for nearly twenty years, I have attended two or three concerts at least, out of a probable eight, depending on location. We’ve wrapped holidays and mini-breaks around concert dates. I longed to see them at the Royal Albert Hall, where I knew the acoustics would be perfect for their music. I was ecstatic to eventually make it in 2006 and went to two of their three concerts. The experience was everything I’d hoped for. On the second night, my daughter and I managed to place ourselves in front of the stage, with many others dancing and singing through the encore. It was worth having to stay in the grottiest of shabby back street hotels. We live and learn. A couple of years later we stayed in a lovely hotel in Blackheath when we went to see the Moodies at the 02. Not my favourite venue, but the hotel was great.

I like football. I grew up in a family devoted to Manchester United, so it was bound to rub off. My maternal grandfather, a licensee in Sale when I was small, had mates connected to the club. I remember the sadness in the family when the Munich air crash happened, though I was too young to fully understand. Years later we took our children on a tour of MUFC and I spent ages in the museum learning about the Busby Babes. In 2006 there was an opportunity to go to a match. Burton Albion were coming to Old Trafford for a mid-week, evening FA cup replay. Tickets went on open sale. I can’t remember how much it cost for our family of four to have the best seats possible, on the centre-line above the dugout, and pre-booked pre-paid disabled parking, but I know it was a very expensive family night out. It was worth every penny. Our son, who was about fifteen, had the time of his life. Our daughter amused everyone around us by asking me if it was ‘live’. It was a 5-0 win to United. It took hours to get out of the car park and start our journey home. A very late school night, but a great time was had by us all. Sometimes you need a treat.

Going to see John Cooper Clarke was a treat indeed. I’ve loved his poetry since he first came on the scene as a ‘punk poet’, so clever, so observant, telling it like it is with no words wasted. I bought tickets as soon as they went on sale at the Kendal Brewery Arts Centre. We had pizza in the Vats Bar then took our front row seats in the theatre. The first half of the event was my introduction to Manchester poet, Mike Garry, who held me spellbound and spoke my language, quite literally as he comes from the same part of Manchester as I do. Afterwards, I bought a copy of his book, which he signed for me as we chatted. John Cooper Clarke was amazing and kept going and going, despite not being fully recovered from a recent illness. It was just brilliant to hear the poems I knew and loved so well being performed live by the poet. Oh, what a night!

 

 

Oh, what a night at the Royal Albert Hall

On a wonderful Moody Blues tour,

When we danced and sang, right up close to the stage,

Joining in with their final encore.

 

Oh, what a night at Old Trafford Cricket Ground,

Simply Red in July, ’92.

‘Holding Back the Years’ always has me in tears.

Dreams of the future were coming true.

 

Oh, what a night at Old Trafford Football Ground,

Our fam’ly supporting United.

Fortunes for tickets, but the thrill of the match

And victory made us delighted.

 

Oh, what a night in Kendal, John Cooper Clarke,

The Bard of Salford, great to be heard,

And Manchester’s Mike Garry blew me away

As I hung on to his every word.

 

PMW 2019

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

Read More

The Best Decade...Probably

This is so tricky, selecting and then writing about the  Best Decade . Where to start? Literally! How about 1140 - 1149 AD? You think I'm joking? The first complete decade in the reign of good King Stephen (the only English monarch to have shared my name). You're right, of course. I am joking. I know I'm supposed to pick the best decade from my own lifetime and there are six and a half to choose from - but what to leave out? Childhood in Africa? Student life? Getting married? Becoming father to two beautiful girls? Working in America? Writing for a music magazine? Playing in the Deadbeats? Supporting Blackpool FC in the Premier League? The here and now?

I was honestly tempted to go for the pick'n'mix angle and select ten top years from across a spread of decades, on the principle that no one decade can represent the best of times, because often as not it includes the worst of times as well.

However, that pick'n'mix approach has already been adopted by a couple of my fellow Dead Good Bloggers, so in the end I decided to stick to the given brief (more or less) and I've chosen a discrete run of ten consecutive years as representing probably the best decade ever. (If Carlsberg wrote history....)

That said, I'm still going to cheat slightly by having my chosen decade commence on 1st October 1962 and end exactly ten years later on 30th September 1972. For me (and for the western hemisphere) that was one hell of a ten years! It started in the week the Beatles released their first single, 'Love Me Do' (the beginning of a musical evolution that would change millions of lives) and it ended on the day my folks deposited me at university at the start of Freshers' Week and a four-year stretch of student life. 


'Before...'

Having established the co-ordinates, let's first come up the years on a whistle-stop tour from 'Before' (the straitened, plastic "adoration of the Tupperware" era - as pictured above) to 'Afterwards' (the liberated, organic "Self-aware and can realise anything" era - see the additional image further on), before getting on to philosophical musings about what it all meant. The fact is that in between those two dates, all changed utterly as we experienced a cold war, a big freeze, a white heat, a space race, winds of change, a world shading from grey to day-glo, a general unshackling both cultural and sexual, transistorisation, decimalisation and a great European adventure. To my mind it was a period that stood apart, almost a renaissance; ten intense years of phenomenal and rapid change that transformed the 20th century and helped shape the world as we know it today. It was also the decade in which I was fortunate enough to grow up.

Even before the month of October 1962 was out, we lived through the Cuba Missile Crisis, which came close to being the end of the world as we knew it. It was an experience that shaped my anti-military stance and long-term CND sympathies. Hard on its heels came the coldest, longest winter I have ever known... and so on into 1963 with ice on the insides of our windows (no central-heating in those days), cheered by nascent Beatlemania - 'Please, Please Me', 'From Me To You', 'She Loves You', all over the radio-waves and each song a step forward from the last. Pop culture was born. After the thaw, I attended my first league football match - watching Peterborough United (my home town at the time) beating Swindon 3-1 at London Road. Although I'm a lifelong Blackpool supporter (which is how come I ended up living here in the jewel of the north) it was unrealistic for a ten-year old from East Anglia to get to see the Seasiders play... that came later in the best decade. 1963 also saw my first serious girlfriend come and go. I wonder where you are now Gillian (nee) Jackson. My first pangs of love were for you. The year rounded out with the assassination of President Kennedy (I know exactly where I was at the time), the arrival of Doctor Who on the small screen and the complete ascendance of those afore-mentioned Beatles.

1964 brought our first foreign family holiday, in West Germany. It was almost exotic, a mind-expanding experience in terms of continental food and geography, even if Dusseldorf was the nearest we got to the fabled city of Hamburg, wherein the abilities of the Fab Four had been forged. My abiding love of yogurt and salami, unheard of in early Sixties East Anglia, traces back to that holiday, as does an unshakeable pro-European disposition; (I remain a Remainer). We moved house from Peterborough to Cambridge in late summer, so I got to watch 'A Hard Day's Night' at Peterborough Odeon in August and at Cambridge Odeon the following month. The move was in connection with my Dad's job but it also marked my transition from junior to secondary school in a beautiful and historic university city. I hope I knew how lucky I was - I think I did.

By 1965 my friends and I were lusting after girls in mini-skirts (the new craze - fashion, not lusting) who'd never think to give us a second look because they only had eyes for boys at least three years older than us. We consoled ourselves with girly magazines and sneaky cigarettes, played football in the park on weekends and holidays, watched Cambridge City on Saturday afternoons (they were rubbish but it didn't matter) and listened to pirate radio while doing our chemistry and Latin homework. Pirate radio (as I've blogged before) was a portal into another, more exciting world for us; it allowed callow schoolboys across the land to feel hip and connected to the zeitgeist. The Beatles still blazed the trail with 'Help' and 'Rubber Soul' but now they had the Byrds, Dylan, Kinks, Lovin' Spoonful, Rolling Stones, Small Faces and Who in the vanguard and an unstoppable youth revolution was on a roll. What else? Martin Luther King led a civil rights march as race riots erupted in America and the US military initiated operation Rolling Thunder in Vietnam.

My first teenage summer, that of 1966, will be forever fondly remembered for England winning the World Cup (our greatest ever sporting achievement?) and for the Beatles releasing 'Revolver', still the finest LP of all time (dispute this if you choose). Labour won a second successive General Election, the white heat of a technological revolution was going to ensure Britain's super-power status, the Sixties were in full swing and London was the cool capital of the world. What could possibly go wrong? Sure, girls were still playing hard-to-get but it was only a matter of time... Meanwhile, Mao Tse Tung gave his blessing to the Cultural Revolution in China and the number of US soldiers deployed in Vietnam hit the half-a-million mark. As if in response or recoil, American youths burned their draft cards, flower-power and making-love-not-war became the rallying call and psychedelia began emanating from San Francisco as Jefferson Airplane took off with the Grateful Dead and Quicksilver Messenger Service in close attendance.

Excuse me for skipping 1967, which was really 1966 part two, only not as good. 'Sergeant Pepper' was okay, but not as ground-breaking as its predecessor and the much-hyped Summer Of Love was pretty-much over before the airwaves were chiming with songs about flowers in our hair.

1968 however was seismic - in the East, a brave revolution in Czechoslovakia was crushed by mean Soviet tanks; elsewhere, student riots and anti-war demonstrations broke out in major cities around the world (Detroit, London, Paris especially, Tokyo). Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated. Biafra tried to break away from Nigeria and was starved into line. Black power activists declared war on the US state. So much for peace and love, it seemed. It felt as though the old order might just be crumbling, even in beautiful and historic Cambridge. However, I took to the pacifist, hippy ethic and decided that was for me. I started to grow my hair and tie-dyed my jeans.

By 1969 Nixon was in the White House, Vietnam was in flames and the Beatles were disintegrating, their last public performance being on the roof of the Apple building. Oh, but serious dating of girls was now a constant distraction, bringing my first proper sexual encounters and a going steady - and then there were O-levels to sit (the GCSEs of yesteryear). My Dad couldn't understand why I went punting on the River Cam with my girlfriend the night before a big exam when I could have been getting in some last-minute revision! That was about the time I put a bolt on my bedroom door and he smashed it in. That summer saw three men land on the moon and half a million hippies groove in the mud at Woodstock. It also saw the death penalty abolished in the UK. By the autumn I was a rebellious sixth-former (nick-named hippy Steve), my girlfriend was on the pill and recreational drugs were an occasional indulgence.

'After...'

I think my parents were worried that I was going to throw everything away and end up some stoned wreck with a teenage mother and kid to support. The world was changing too quickly for them and they didn't know how to handle it as the Sixties morphed into the Seventies. In point of fact, I think that in 1970 I was relatively normal, focussed on getting good A-levels and going to university to study English - which is exactly what I did. Other notable events of the year included Germaine Greer (who would lecture me at Warwick) publishing 'The Female Eunuch' as women's lib began to have a social impact, Labour's six years of reforming political leadership coming to an end and me finally getting to see the mighty Blackpool FC play. It was in a 2-0 defeat at Oxford, last game of the season, but the Seasiders had already secured promotion back to division one after a three year absence. (Unfortunately they only survived in the top flight for a year with a mere four wins - and it was to be another forty years before they'd get back there again.)

1971 was quite pivotal as well. As chairman of the School Council I went head-to-head with the Head over sixth-form students' rights to have long hair and beards if they wished. (I got kicked out but was allowed to go back to sit my A-levels.) I know, there are many issues more worthy than length of hair to take a stand on, but it was a symbolic gesture and I still don't regret it. My Mum's own hair seemed to turn white almost overnight, though she may just have stopped dyeing it. My Dad ordered her not to feed me until I came to my senses - and I cleared out. I got a job washing-up in a steak bar (remember Berni Inns?) lunchtimes and evenings. It paid the rent and just about covered my food bill - though I ate plenty of steak and my Mum used to drop by with additional provisions; (I don't know if my Dad ever knew). Having a pad of my own (with double bed and stereo) felt like the right move, self-determination and independence. After A-levels I decided to take a gap-year, got myself a better job working in a men's boutique (you know, Ben Sherman shirts, velvet loons et cetera), earned reasonable money, read lots of books (Heller, Hesse, Kerouac, Kesey, Nietzsche, Orwell, Steinbeck), bought LPs, wrote poetry and saw as much of my girlfriend - two years my junior and still at school - as possible.

My valve radio had died a death and I had no TV set (it would be the 1980s before I got one) so my links with the bigger world were mainly via the 'underground' press, International Times, Frendz, Oz, through Private Eye and the music weeklies Melody Maker and NME; it was a bit like being partly off-grid. Music was still key and I had a quite extensive LP collection but the major world events of 1972 passed me by except at the macro-level: the ongoing war in Vietnam, troubles brewing in Northern Ireland, negotiations to join the Common Market. After one last glorious summer in Cambridge, punting on the river, hanging out with friends, making headway on my university 'reading list' I made peace with my parents and prepared to head off to read English at Warwick.

I suppose that for many people, if they are lucky (as I was), their formative or teenage years will be  among the most significant in their lives - everything is new, one is relatively carefree and so on - which carries quite some weight when trying to identify the best decade.

On a personal level, other decades might have had equal claim, as I suggested at the outset - my first ten years of married life, for instance. What really nails it for my slightly skewed definition of the Swinging Sixties is the external things that were happening at the same time and which helped to make my formative years what they were.  Even if one were to remove the individual (and inevitably mythologised) view of developments that I've given on this whistle-stop tour, I still think the period I've chosen was special in a significant way for the sheer range and rapidity of the changes that took place.

Of course in this revolution of the heart and mind, matters didn't go from Tupperware to Self-aware for everybody, or not at the same rate anyway. There is always an avant-garde, followed by a media bow-wave and then a time lag until new expressions, freedoms, ideas become mainstream and accepted. London swung (or to be precise, parts of London) long before Swindon or Sunderland. Hippies were advocating an eco-friendly stance decades before legislation attempted to address global warming or the dangerous ubiquity of plastics. It has taken Ireland nearly half a century to become as liberal in matters of gender as Great Britain. And so on.

In addition to those great life-enhancing changes I've already touched on, think also of these: self-determination for many countries who were able to throw off the yoke of colonial status by peaceful negotiation; the breaking down of class, gender and race taboos; the trend towards liberalisation of legislation (regarding abortion, homosexuality, recreational drugs, religious freedoms, women's rights); deregulation of the airwaves; advances in medical science (especially transplant surgery); technological leaps like satellite communications, the internet (or Arpanet as it began) and data digitisation. These rights, freedoms and capabilities, no matter how long they took to make their mark or how widely they have become accepted, all had their origins in the best decade. I rest my case, exhausted.

Unfortunately, I've spent such a lot of time putting this mini-essay together (nearly a whole day) that I've not given a thought to writing a poem to suit. Let me leave you then with something appropriate by Adrian Mitchell, socialist, pacifist, dubbed the Shadow Poet Laureate and without a doubt my favourite poet of the last half-century...

The People Walking
Sometimes the people walk together
Down the streets of their own cities
With no weapons but the truth

Sometimes the soldiers and police
Turn their backs on their own officers
And walk with the people

As the people walk together
Down the streets of their own cities
With no weapons but the truth

Sometimes the people walk together
Brave and fearful and angry and joyful
With no weapons but the truth

                                         Adrian Mitchell (1932-2008)

I know that was a bit of a long read, but thanks for sticking with it. I feel unmasked. Have a cool week, S :-)

Read More

World Cup - Three Lions

A few World Cup memories.

 

I was there in sixty-six.  By ‘there’ I mean sat on the floor doing some artwork with my World Cup Willie colouring set, in front of a black and white television witnessing my mother go through every emotion. Eventually, someone on tv said, ‘They think it’s all over, it is now’ and my mother was ecstatic.  I must have inherited my love of football from her, and my maternal grandfather. We were in our upstairs sitting room in the pub on South Promenade. No big screens in pubs back in the sixties and no colour television for us at that time. Sport in pubs was limited to snooker and darts.

I didn’t follow the 1970 tournament. We were still in the same pub. I was sick of hearing ‘Back Home’ filtering upwards from the jukebox. My mother had passed away the year before. Life was hard and things were changing.

In 1978, my most significant World Cup memory is Archie Gemmill’s brilliant goal for Scotland against Holland. It was breath-taking and is still up there with my favourite goals of all time.

The 1990 World Cup didn’t have my full attention. It was there in the background while I sat at the sewing machine making wedding outfits for my page-boys and a tiny bridesmaid dress for yes, a tiny bridesmaid, my baby niece. There was cheering, beer cans being snapped open and I found myself singing Nessun Dorma a lot. England had fourth place. Now it was time to concentrate on our wedding.

I can still feel the sorrow from 1998. David Beckham and that petulant kick at Diego Simeone – I still can’t believe he was red carded, as he was fouled by Simeone in the first place and I can hardly type it, twenty years later. Football is such a passionate game. I was so upset that England lost out to Argentina on penalties and the first World Cup that our son was old enough to take an interest in ended for England the way it did.

Fast forward to 2014 and as always in our house, we have a chart up on the wall, flags flying from the windows and cars, England shirts at the ready and a Panini sticker album. It was a non-event, for us anyway. My husband was ill in hospital, though well enough to don an England shirt and watch a couple of matches in the day-room. By the time he was recovered enough to come home, the World Cup was all over for England.

So, here goes for World Cup 2018. In a few hours it might be all over again, but hopefully not. I’d like to see Gareth Southgate do well and I’d like to see this young, talented team progress. I’ll go and have a word with the three lions on my shirt.

 

 

I’m With These 2018 Heroes

 

The kitchen floor needs mopping

And the beds are left unmade

But I’m not doing housework

While there’s matches being played.

 

Look at the perfect pitches,

Neatly mowed and lush and green,

Ready for the world’s finest

To give us the best we’ve seen.

 

So bring it on, DeBruyne,

Ronaldo and Messi, too.

Fellaini and Suarez

I’ll be watching all of you.

 

A huge shout out for England,

For Harry Kane and the boys,

I’ve taught my grandkids to cheer

And to fill my house with noise.

 

Fav’rites Rashford and Lingard,

And my ‘Broadway’ Danny Rose,

I’m loving every moment

With these 2018 heroes.

 

It isn’t just the World Cup,

There’s tennis going on, too.

I’m sharing the time wisely,

It’s the only thing to do.

 

So, come on Kyle Edmund

What an impressive young man!

Wimbledon and I salute you.

Keep giving the best you can.

  

Pamela Winning 2018.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

 

 

Read More

End to End: A Brazilian Round Up Poem

This week the dead good bloggers have been looking at anecdotes. I haven't, I've been watching the football. A world cup full packed full of end to end football, have a go heroes and stoic performances has come to an end and, after a surprisingly cagey final, the world of football now offers its congratulations to Germany, who have given nothing short of a masterclass!

With that said then, I'm happy to  share with you the product of my evening- and given that the whistle went only moments ago, this is probably the first world cup round up poem posted anywhere in the world. You're welcome...

End to End

The vanishing foam and a swandive
That efficient first German win
The tweeting of Barack Obama
Then Spain sent home by Chileans
The swerving first left foot of Messi
The fresh Costa Rican surprise
A wave of delight from the Mexican bench
Then the striker that had too much bite
Football struck back- James chests, turns and volleys
Before diving, a shamed Arjen Robben admits
The US went crazy for Howard's heroics
Then Zuniga left Neymar in bits.
The Krulest of penalty mindgames,
Ein Siebening to forget for the hosts
Before Argentina's spot kick win
Launched a two day invasion by coach.
Then the final, an anxious encounter in Rio
Saw the prize lifted high by a great German team
The passion, the pain and the end to end football
With the eyes of the world- what a reason to dream.



Thanks for reading,
S

Read More

Salvations

When it comes to performing poetry, the space and the venue that you're in certainly makes a difference. At the start of the month, I found myself at Poulton Gala with a poem I'd written just the night before. As it happened, I had been notified that the back up plan was to use the church in case of rain so, I suppose coupled with the Brazilian carnival theme of the Gala I was swayed into my decision over what to write about.
You'll be surprised to hear that I managed to focus on football and religion for my poem and so, when the rain did indeed come down heavy, I ended up reading my piece in a packed St John's- straight after the Gala Queens and Dignitaries had been awarded- no pressure!
In any case, both Joy and Al read superbly well so as part of our little 'representative team' it felt great- I just wonder how much I had been influenced by the knowledge of where I'd be reading the piece during the 'creative' process.
Here it is though, out of carnival day context and up before it's out of date. Hope you enjoy.

Salvations.

On the hunchback Corcovado mountain
Cristo Redentor stands, arms raised.
He watches over each favella,
every high rise, every stage.

Around him, in the evening twilight
lit up with a purple hue
fans of many different nations
gather, taking in the view.

And from this vantage point, he watches-
waiting for the game to start:
Arms half way to celebration
Half way to catch each falling heart.

One whistle cuts straight through the samba.
One ball watched around the world.
Streamers fly around the terrace
as passionate songs are unfurled.

And nearby in the cramped favella
locals swell round one TV,
the gunshots stop for ninety minutes
and passion lifts the great city.

They feast on sweet Bolo de Rolo
sticky, like the evening heat
but it's hard to watch the world cup football
not thinking of bustling streets.

Of Rocky, in his homemade shelter
a one man ambulance of the hill.
He raises sick above his shoulders
to bear his share of Rio's ills.

Of mothers, fearful for the children

growing into the wrong scene-
not quite lucky, not quite out yet
struggling to hold their dreams.

But set in soapstone, towering over
Christ's redeeming pose holds strong.
Four weeks of idol celebration
then the gaze of the world is moving on.



Thanks for reading,
S

Read More

Sounds From The Stands

So the football seasons have ended, the Play-Offs are into their second legs, the curse of Benfica continues, and the success of Arsene Wenger's season will be known after Saturday's F.A. Cup.

For those with an Ings, Nugent, Sako or Winnall there was cause to celebrate. For others, the dream of promotion or survival has faded like the colour on second-hand football seats. But through it all there have been chants - songs rising from the terraces as elation, passion, believe or protest is expelled.

*          *          *

At nine I knew I would never fall out of love with football. My Dad took me to my first Coventry game (holding my hand just a little too tightly) and there - in a seat which would become mine for the next seven years - I found my voice. For ninety minutes the shyness slipped away and football took over. When I eventually went to my first proper away game, a last-match-of-the-season at Vicarage Lane looking for our first away win, I sang like I had never sang before.

The atmosphere on away days is like no other game - 3,000 fans in one section of the ground, all standing up and belting out song after song. At Watford (to the horror of my Dad's wallet) I caught the 'away bug'...

I've jumped to my feet singing, 'Stand up if you're one nil up,' at Old Trafford. I've mocked other teams' fans with: 'Shall we sing a song for you' on cold Tuesday nights. At forty-four football grounds I've sang 'In Our Coventry Home', and I've joined in with songs which, if my mother had heard me singing, would have resulted in a soapy mouth.

*          *          *

With simple rhyme, a splash of wit, and to a well-known or in vogue tune (after Bob The Builder topped the charts with 'Can We Fix It' there was a few choruses of 'Gordon Strachan can he fix it' at Portman Road, needless to say it didn't really take off) football songs take hold of fans, stands and stadiums across the country. They have the ability to express our pride, our joy and our frustrations; they're the thing which creates atmospheres that television (whether 3D or not) will never be able to replicate. They're 'love' songs for the beautiful game and for the teams we refuse to abandon (no matter how much they hurt us).

Thank you for reading,

Lara

Read More