The early April afternoon was glorious.

The daffs were out, I felt Wordsworthian.

You’d come down from York to look

at houses. We caroused that evening

with old friends in the Railway Tavern –

they used to serve a lovely drop there,

now apartments handy for the station –

talking football as usual,

about our bankrupt team’s past triumphs,

and how we’d probably never fight in a war.

 

Went back to your parents’ place for coffee.

Your dad had seen placards in the tube

ordering Paras to return to Aldershot.

We switched on the BBC at midnight;

Argies 1, England 0. Where in the world …?

And then, heads swimming,

the final straw; Chelsea football club

had been bought for £1 by the vice-chairman

of Wigan. For one beer-befuddled moment

I wasn’t sure which news was more serious.