Micky Most, from Ireland’s county Mayo,
became the toast of Kentish Town,
after he kicked a goal in extra time,
to win a game of Gaelic football,
a cross between soccer and rugby.

But it was nothing to the roar that greeted Lachlan Lam,
whose right foot kicked the ball over the posts at Wembley,
to give Leigh the Rugby League Challenge Cup.

His old pal Walter had invited him along,
and he was immediately hooked on this
supposedly ‘northern English game’.

Inspired by that other Gaelic footballer,
who played rugby league for Wigan, Brian Carney,
he went on to play for Oldham, known to fervent fans
as the Roughyeds.

But one miserable wet day, he was sent to cool his heels,
the subject of a referee’s red card.

Cursing his foolishness, he determined to tackle his anger,
as the away speccies rocked the foundations of
Oldham’s crumbling South Stand, known as the ‘Sheds’.

So he enrolled in an anger-management class,
where he encountered Siobhan, star of the County Down,
that lovely county which rolls rolls to the sea under the
shadow of the mighty mountains of Mourne.

She asked him why he was so nervous,
and was flattered when he said, 'Because I’m so attracted to you.’

Alas, she dumped him for a Premiership footballer,
saying, ‘I prefer the round ball to an oval one,
goals to tries, champagne and foie gras,
rather than meat pies and brown ale in a working men’s club.

He looked at her, 'Oh, you disappoint me, sexy Siobhan.’

‘Yes Micky,’ she admitted, ‘I am a right snob.’

But dealing with the past is not like fending off big lads,
or dashing up the field with a rugby ball.

For though he could run like a leopard, he found it hard to talk,
about his demons and depression.

But rugby players don’t cry, they just drink and moan,
and he certainly did.

As his old coach, Bert, would say, in his Lancashire accent,
‘Tha can drink it out of a sweaty shoe.’

He loved his pint of plain, and could drink it by the bucket full,
as he reluctantly admitted, to a counsellor,
Miss Mary Mystical-Missingdon, who dressed in plain clothes,
befitting her station, as a dispenser of wisdom.

But one night, returning from a booze-up,
he saw her walking towards a dance hall,
home to the English Folk Song and Dance Society,
at Cecil Sharp House, in Camden.

He sneaked in and watched her having great
fun at a barn dance – it wasn’t as good as the céilís back in Mayo,
but it was good craic, spoilt only by her being whirled around the
floor by a well-built chap called Reginald Ransome-Roundhouse.

So, filled with alcoholic fortitude, Mickey sang Whiskey in the Jar, 
and his counsellor’s dancing partner threw him out.

However, he sneaked in through the skylight, and sang,
‘I love you, Miss Missing-Mysterious-Mystical,
or whatever your name is, and I promise I’ll give up the sauce.’

His next session was filled with stern warnings from herself.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he sobbed, ‘and vow to do what I said,
pack in the ale, and, as this is our last appointment,
I would like to invite you for a fish and chips sit-down meal.’

Completely unabashed, she replied,
‘Can you ask me outside the building, for I believe in strict adherence to rules.

‘Flirting is strictly forbidden between adviser and client.’

He duly repeated the question, and she beamed,
‘Yes tonight, at Murphy’s Cafe.

‘I’m very nervous,’ he admitted as they entered the restaurant, 'you look so lovely in that dress.’

‘Have you not dated much?’ She enquired.

‘No, I was usually too pished to ask women properly.’

‘Oh, they sound like a lot of fools.’

‘Anyway, I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your pal,
what was his name, Reginald Runsomething-Roundface?’

Then he sealed his romantic fate, by asking, ‘Oh, Mystical Miss, can you pass the tomato ketchup?’

She reached over and gave him a kiss, saying,
I thought ‘You’d given up the sauce?’