....and I saunter into The Bar of The Anchor

about a quarter of an hour before kick-off,

order a pint of their finest lager and seek out

my favourite chair. It's not there - or rather

it's taken, stolen, you might say,

by a middle-class type in a polo shirt

and his horizontally striped mates

who are watchin' the fuckin' Rugby! 

What time's this finish? I enquire abruptly -

about twenty minutes, says an horizontal,

are you wanting to watch the soccer?

You won't miss much. 

 

No, I'm intending to watch the football, son,

The Beautiful Game. Soccer! Soccer!!

Whenever that word is uttered I yearn

for the days of corporal punishment

when rudeness and ignorance received

a good thrashing. I'll qualify that statement

by adding that women and Americans

might be excused and get a mere written warning.

But a British male who refers to Soccer deserves

a whipping with minimal mercy

for it's indicative of one thing only: Rugby.

You probably call it Rugger, son, a game played

by Jeremies and watched by Clarksons.

The southern rich play Rugby Union,

the northern poor play Rugby League.

Because the alternative was crawling down a mine

those northern lads were less culpable.  

But there's no excuses now.

Classless society? Don't make me snigger.

 

Back in the 60's and 70's when Eddie Waring

was a household appliance and Rugby

was on every Saturday afternoon

between the Racing and the Wrestling

my mother would succumb, upon seeing a scrum

to an irresistible urge to stroll up

and kick the arse of each player.

The money we spent on new tellies.

 

I've this similar compulsion when I hear "soccer"

spoken by polo-shirted types with horizontal stripes

who are sat in my favourite chair! 

What's worst of all is I'm reminded

that I was once too clever by half.

Back then when at primary school,

smartest kid in the class

and the best footballer in the district

by a distance, turn on a sixpence,

kick with each foot and know what to do

before the ball arrived.

 

But I passed the eleven plus

and with parents to mollify chose

a Grammar school that only played Rugby.

Or I hd it chosen for me.

I still have nightmares about collapsing scrums.

What kind of a chump would volunteer

to be a hooker in the centre of that lot?

 

Oh look! He's cleared the bar again!

Are you off before the final whistle?

Summat I said?