One night, nestling in my exotic greenhouse,
with its climbing vines, orchids and tropical bougainvillea –
a veritable menagerie of plant life, I remembered a song by some pop star,
inspired after he, in a vain attempt to resurrect her image, stole his lover’s looking glass.

It went, ‘I am but a fool for you,’ and struck a chord with my troubled soul,
brought low by a silly drunken pass to my ex,
Maggie Munsonmead, now a famous footballer’s wife.

Remembering this remarkably truthful lyric,
I gazed around at the emptiness of my existence,
and myself, resplendent in my mansion,
with a garden so big I could hold the Grand
National in it, and a folly built by the Duke of Wellington taking prominence.

Though I am now what’s called a ‘success’, I still sob in my loneliness,
inviting all the naysayers to do it again.
Like the chap from Accrington, who, 40 years ago,
had advised me, in between coughing on a fag,
to give up ‘all that running’, saying it was bad for my health.

Maybe he felt justified in this because I was
‘a stammering introvert’, though years later a
psychologist said I was the opposite, but waiting to come out.

Anyway, the chap from ‘Accy’ had mocked
when I admired that golden track generation –
remember Steve The Brighton Bounder, and the Sheffield Sizzler Sebastian.

Then I shocked him by declaring, ‘I was a good runner as a youth’.
He seemed surprised at this, asking, ‘Don’t you have asthma?’

To which I replied, ‘Of course not; why last week I failed
by 40 seconds to catch the The Jarra Arrow,
that young pretender to Britain’s middle-distance throne,
over 10 miles from Brampton to Carlisle,
my attempts to close the gap failing as the
wind knocked me back, so hard did the wind blow.’

A sudden thought shook me out of this self-indulgent pitying.
‘That sounds like a metaphor for my life,
my running shoes failing to grip on every seemingly uphill mile.’

Suddenly a thought struck me – would these remarkably fertile plants,
resplendent in their fecundity, taste bitter sweet if I bit them?

I did, and they tasted like the tongue of my former sweetheart,
reputed to be having trouble with her new husband,
a chap with more jewellery than Liberace, that outrageous gay pianist.

I speak of football star Dick Devilish, who was in a bad mood
’cos he’d missed a crucial goal.

I smirked as I recalled this, revelling in the
embarrassment of that star who made millions wearing red,
and not the rival blue, but at times showed ill grace,
a billionaire striker, feted by fans in Milan and Magdleburt,
and seemingly every other place, but not a millionaire city slicker,
with a genuine fan base.

Thinking of this, I again hummed that oft-remembered song,
while gazing at my favourite tomato plant,
its redness bursting upon my vision like the lips of you-know-who.

I felt a bond with this misunderstood vocalist of the broken heart,
though his lyrics were so banal, lacking real passion.
Just like Dick my rival, that footballer who wed my first love.

But one day his life changed for ever,
when popping into The Dancing Duck in Todmorden.

He sat there unnoticed by the locals, admiring the old pictures
of his parish school in the hamlet of Mankinholes.

Wearing a wig and glasses, he’d arrived incognito.
But one old timer remarked, ‘You look like that footballer
who was born just up the road.

'He used to be a reet nice Yorkshire lad, now he’s just embarrassing.’

Back down in Middle England, I left my plant-filled glass house
with its reflections everywhere of myself,
a haunted success story, harbouring my bitter thoughts, like,
‘I’ve got talent, it brought me great wealth – so why am I
hit by the blues, and am still an obsessive compulsive,
checking locks and hanging onto my old running shoes?’

‘After all I’ve astounded the West End with
my showstopping lyrics, impressed The Boss,
and I don’t mean Springsteen, but rather an old soak
called Miles Munsonmead, a renowned thespian
who read one of my scripts, and said ‘Well done!’,
in between rehearsing a scene.’

That old chap was the father of my bride, and a lovely old fella.
So I was incensed when he was cast as an old soak,
ignored by two comediennes, the stars of the show,
rubbing salt in the wound of that former theatrical hero, down on his luck.

Doubtless those two felt they were so ‘cool’.
Like my nemesis, Yorkshire lad Dick Devilish,
impressing the media, on the football field and dance floor.

So that evening I got drunk at the pub disco, jiving away,
then everybody stopped, staring at a celebrity who’d just walked in.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked my ex-missus.

Who said, ‘Carry on – I didn’t know you could dance.’

A while later we were seated in that glass house,
with its reflective panes, like a nagging conscience.

She admitted, tearfully, ‘I didn’t like his world, all wealth and no substance.’

Then she looked round at my place, with that disapproving look I knew so well.

‘Oh, we need to get rid of that fireplace – it’s so nouveau rich.
I’ve left all that behind – after all, I’m a working-class girl.’

A year later we were divorced and I was working in a garden commune,
sharing a cup of tea with Dick, that former sports star and model,
who admitted, ‘I had to give up the game, and I don’t mean football.

‘I had a breakdown and the pills they prescribed slow me down.
And now,’ he laughed, patting his belly, ‘look at my gut!’

While, in our village’s only five-star hotel, whose publicity read,
‘The favoured retreat of Premiership football teams’,
Maggie was holding a press conference in
which she talked about her book, A Goalless Marriage,
an expose of a footballer’s wife, played out under the glare of a media spotlight’.

Later, Dick and I were returning from a pub crawl of our village’s hostelries,
The Hesitant Horse And Crooked Carriage,
our path taking us past my former mansion,
its security cameras and searchlights shimmering in the moonlight.

We were laughing because, in the first bar he’d told a posse
of young girls he was enrolling as a monk,
and in the latter was hypnotised by the landlord,
former celebrity hypnotist ‘All Seeing Sam’,
who once a week, instead of a quiz, would ‘Analyse your dreams’.

The result had shocked my pal who cried,
‘Last night’s dream was more like a nightmare!’

I was nearing the opposition goal then missed an absolute ‘sitter’,
and was mocked by my former spouse, who was cavorting in a bath,
along with all my former teammates, even my school friends,
going back to when I was a schoolboy, desperate to escape double math.’

‘Shouldn’t it be plural – maths?’ I corrected him.

‘Oh yes, that’s American – me and the wife did a show called
The Sex Life Of Sporting Stars, and lived in Los Angeles for a while.’

‘I bet that was fun,’ I laughed.

He looked glum, ‘No, there wasn’t any,’ then suddenly stopped,
and jumped on a stile, shouting,

‘Am I still drunk? Look!’, and he pointed towards the greenhouse.
Then I saw the woman in question, her lipstick running red with a tear,
doing what I used to do, chatting to my tomato plant.

Then instead of gloating, Dick said, ‘I do miss her so.’
I never saw him after that, but heard he was leading a charity
helping children in the war-torn West African country of Burkino Faso,
donating the millions earned by his autobiography, 
A Right Balls Up, A Footballer’s Story.

Shortly after I strolled past my former magnificent residence,
and to my surprise saw my father-in-law, Miles Munsonmead,
in the garden cutting off thorns, threatening to engulf
the herbaceous border, so beloved by his Maggie.

‘Oh it’s you,’ he said, ‘I hope you’re keeping off the ale.’

‘I am,’ I answered.

‘Good, or you’ll end up like me, down on your luck.
You know what my lovely daughter’s doing now,
after slagging me in her bestselling book?

‘She’s a media consultant to those two comediennes,
who, apparently are struggling with their image in ‘post-alternative comedy’,
because people now prefer jokes and even puns!

‘Anyway, she’s gone off men, so no wild parties with joints blocking the loo!’

As he pushed a cart towards the village, I heard him singing that blasted song,
I Am But A Fool For You.

‘Hey, stop!’ I shouted, ‘Do you know that pop hit?’

‘I heard it on the radio, he said, ‘give me a hand with this lot,
I’m taking it to the charity shop.

You know, the one her husband set up, although the greedy sod wanted
me to sell it at the car boot sale.’

I couldn’t resist asking, ‘Did you like him?’

‘He was great at United, but like a lot of those stars didn’t like to pass.’

That not what I meant, I mused, but the next day looked
in said charitable retail outlet – and could
have sworn I saw that woman I and Dick had both wed, 
fleetingly reflected in a lover’s looking glass.