It was a precious moment
Which I never will forget
When that lovely ball of leather
Went flying in the net.
The Betsy Street Booters
We are the Betsy Street Booters
We are the girls you can’t beat
The sharpest and straightest of shooters
On twenty-two talented feet.
The boys in our school think we’re clueless
Which just shows how little they know
We played them last week in the playground
And beat them five times in a row.
The boys say our tactics are rubbish
Soccer skills nought out of ten
We played them once more on a real pitch
And beat them all over again.
The boys in our school blame the weather
The bounce and a bad referee
We played them in glorious sunshine
And hammered them 17–3.
The boys now appear quite disheartened
And wonder just what they should do
They’re talking of taking up netball…
But we’re pretty good at that too.
We are the Betsy Street Booters
We are the girls you can’t beat
The sharpest and straightest of shooters
On twenty-two talented feet.
Team Talk 14
Lads, believe me
You know it
I know it
We are not the best team
In this league
But this lot –
Marcus, are you listening?
This lot
I have to say it –
Are worse!
Believe me
We can beat ’em
What am I saying –
We are beating ’em!
Yippee!
So this is the situation, lads
Stay calm
Stay focused
Get out there –
Yes, now Billy –
Get out there
And whatever it was you were doing –
This is the plan, right Michael?
Right Charles?
Whatever it was you were doing
Keep doing it.
OK?
The Goals of Bingo Boot
The fans in the stands are silent
You could hear the fall of a pin
For the fabulous game just ended
And the tale that’s about to begin.
In nineteen hundred and twenty-two
A little boy was born
His baby shawl was torn.
He had no teeth or teddy bear
His hair was incomplete
But he was the possessor of
The most amazing feet.
When Bingo Boot was two years old
He chewed his little crust
His poor old dad was on the dole
His poor old pram was bust.
Yet Bingo wasn’t worried
Though his baby feet would itch
And he could hardly wait till
He could stroll – out on the pitch.
In school young Bingo languished
At the bottom of the class
His ball control was good
It was exams he couldn’t pass.
His little pals all shouted, ‘Foul!’
And tended to agree
If only teachers tested feet
He’d get a Ph.D.
And all the while in streets and parks
On pitches large or small
Without a proper pair of boots
Sometimes without a ball!
With tin cans in the clattering yard
In weather cold or hot
Young Bingo shimmied left and right
And scored with every shot.
His poor old mum scrubbed office floors
His poor old gran did too
The pantry was an empty place
The rent was overdue.
Then Bingo had a brainwave
Shall I tell you what he did?
He sold himself to the Arsenal
For thirteen thousand quid.
The first game that he ever played
At the tender age of ten
Young Bingo just ran rings round
Eleven baffled men.
The fans of course went crazy
The fans went, ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Ah!’
While Bingo took the match ball home
And bought his dad a car.
And so the years went flying by
In liniment and sweat
Life was a great high-scoring game
An ever-bulging net
And Arsenal won the cup and league
Six seasons on the trot
All on account of Bingo Boot
And his most amazing shot.
But now the storm clouds gathered
And at last the whistle blew
For the start of a really crucial game
The battle of World War Two.
It was England versus Germany
And Bingo heard the call
He marched away in his shooting boots
To assist in Adolf’s fall.
Then when the war was finished
And he’d left the fusiliers
For another fifteen years.
No net was ever empty
No sheet was ever clean
He scored more goals a season
Than even Dixie Dean.
His goals in life were modest though
He had no wish to be
Sir Bingo Boot of Camden Town
Or Bingo O. B. E.
He loved his wife and family
His kiddies, Joyce and Jim,
He never went to see the King
The King came to see him.
His twilight years were mostly spent
With a ball in the local park
Kicking about with the local team
Having a laugh and a lark.
Yet still they couldn’t stop him
His old swerve worked a treat
Till he died at last with his boots on
Those most amazing feet.
Eyes down for Bingo (in his grave)
The final whistle blown
The fans rolled up from miles around
‘You’ll never walk alone!’
While Bingo’s spirit shimmied
With all its usual grace
And then was… relegated
To a most appalling place.
The Devil sat in his chairman’s chair
And spoke in Bingo’s ear
‘I’ve pulled a few strings, I must confess
To arrange your transfer here.
For we’ve got this little match, y’see
(And I’ve got this little bet)
Away to the Heavenly City
And we’ve never beaten them yet.’
The Heavenly City were quite a side
(With fans who could really sing)
Cherubs and seraphs in the squad
And angels on the wing.
St Paul was a rock at centre half
St Elvis a rock ’n’ roll
They had Mother Teresa to captain the team
And Almighty God in goal.
The kick-off time was three o’clock
At the City’s heavenly ground
The angels of the Lord came down
And passed the ball around.
The tackles started flying
Nero fouled a nun
And the ref booked Good King Wenceslas
For a trip on Attila the Hun.
The Hades fans were howling
‘We’re the boys from Beelzebub!’
While God took Charlie Chaplin off
And brought Jesus on as a sub.
The second half went racing by
The pace was faster still
There was less than a minute left to play
And the score remained nil-nil.
Then Bingo dribbled round St Mark
Who never had a prayer
Left frail St Francis on his knees
And danced past Fred Astaire.
The goal was at his mercy now
It seemed he couldn’t fail
When – bang! – a tackle from behind
From Florence Nightingale.
A penalty! The crowd was stunned.
The Devil’s lot gave thanks,
Though God in goal, the angels cried,
Was as good as Gordon Banks.
A cruel choice for Bingo
Whatever should he do
Be false to his god-given gifts
Or give the Devil his due?
Even God had a frown on His face
And powerful reasons to pray.
If I let this in He told himself
There’ll be the Devil to pay.
Now Bingo stepped up with the ball
And placed it on the spot
Stepped back, breathed deep, ran calmly in
Then shimmied left… and shot.
*
In nineteen hundred and twenty-two
A little boy was born
His baby cot was second-hand
His baby shawl was torn.
Who would have guessed that at the end
This tiny tot would be
The one who beat Almighty God
With the perfect penalty?
No goalie could have saved that shot
No God or Holy Ghost
But it went where Bingo placed it
And hit the holy post,
Rebounded like a rocket
To Marie Antoinette
Who skipped up to the other end
And slammed it in the net.
The fans in the stands went barmy
City had won one-nil.
The Devil stayed down in his dugout
Defeat was a bitter pill.
Till God came along with an offer
Quite genuine and real
To forget their bet and agree instead
On a little… transfer deal.
So Bingo rose to Heaven
Up to the Pearly Gate.
‘The boy done good!’ St Peter cried
‘The boy done great!’
And there he lives… forever
His goals in life complete
That sainted soccer player
With the most amazing feet.
The fans in the stands are leaving
As fast as their wings will allow
They think that the story’s over It is now.
* Rhymes with ‘car’ – Charlotte’s a Black Country girl.