Worrying themselves to death
To do their best for you.
While some, it’s true, are softies,
There’s others ‘ard as sin,
A-jabbin’ Playdoh infants with
A nasty little pin.
There’s teachers, every school has some,
Who work until they drop,
To help their lucky pupils climb
The ladder to the top.
There’s others, though, with bloodshot eyes
Below a crafty frown,
Who sharpen up the starfroom axe
To chop the ladder down.
I knew a staffroom once that ’ad
A trap door in the floor,
That led down to an… awful place
I’d rather not say more.
When governors came calling,
It always was the rule,
They never found a single
Trouble-maker in that school.
You may have wondered how I know
These things of which I speak.
Well, I was once a caretaker
For ninety quid a week.
But since I’ve gone and blown the gaff
And give the game away,
The staffroom mob is on my trail
And it’s me who’ll ’ave to pay.
So watch y’steps and peel y’eyes
And keep y’noses clean;
The secrets of the staffroom ain’t
For all – see what I mean?
Beyond that door there lies a place
You never oughter go.
Unless, of course, you’re curious and
Y’really want to know.
The Grey Boys
Oh Mother may I go to play
With the grey boys in the street
For I hear the thud of a booted ball
And the clattering of feet.
My window overlooks the street
The street lamps light the game
The boys are mad to kick the ball
And I feel just the same.
A yellow haze hangs round the lamps
Under the smoky sky
And up and down the clattery street
The shadowy boys go by.
Oh Mother may I join the game
With the grey boys of the town
For I feel much better than I did
And my temperature is down.
My fevered brow is cooler now My pulse is calm and slow My hands lie still upon the quilt Oh Mother… may I go?
Dream football
Dream football is the harder game
The grass is devilishly long
And growing
Fish appear in the trainer’s bucket
Your mother has set up a small shop
On the halfway line
You are obliged to play in your underpants
The Mad Professor’s Daughter
She came into the classroom
In a dress as black as night
And her eyes were green as grass
And her face was paper-white.
She was tall and quite unsmiling,
Though her manner was polite.
Yes, her manner was polite
As she stood with Mrs Porter
And you never would have guessed
She was the Mad Professor’s daughter.
‘A new girl,’ said the teacher.
‘Her name is Margaret Bell.
She’s just arrived this morning.
She’s not been very well.’
And we stared into those grass-green eyes
And sank beneath their spell.
Yes, we sank beneath their spell
Like swimmers under water
And found ourselves in thrall
To the Mad Professor’s daughter
The sky outside was overcast;
Rain hung in the air
And splattered on the window panes
As we sat waiting there.
Our fate, we knew, was settled,
Yet we hardly seemed to care.
Yes, we hardly seemed to care,
As the clock ticked past the quarter,
That we had lost our lives
To the Mad Professor’s daughter.
We did our sums in a sort of trance,
‘Played’ at half-past ten,
Sang songs in the hall for half an hour,
Ate lunch and played again.
And all the while, like a constant ache,
We wondered ‘Where?’ and ‘When?’
Yes, where and when and how and why,
And what ill luck had brought her?
And whether we might yet deny
The Mad Professor’s daughter
She made no move at two o’clock.
She made no move at three.
A wisp of hope rose in our hearts
And thoughts of ‘mum’ and ‘tea’.
Just four: ‘Come home with me!’
She spoke the words ‘Come home with me’
The way her father taught her;
Her green eyes fixed unblinkingly,
The Mad Professor’s daughter.
And now an extra sense of dread
Seeped into every soul;
The hamster cowered in its cage,
The fish flinched in its bowl.
We put our chairs up on the desks
And heard the thunder roll
Yes, we heard the thunder roll
As we turned from Mrs Porter
And set off through the town
With the Mad Professor’s daughter.
Her silent lips were red as blood.
Her step was firm (alas!)
And the people on the street
Stood aside to let us pass.
Though this piper played no tune,
She had enthralled a whole class.
A whole class, like sheep we were,
Like lambs to the slaughter,
With PE bags and such
Behind the Mad Professor’s daughter.
The rain beat down upon our heads.
The wind was warm and wild.
Wet trees blew all around us,
As up a drive we filed.
Then a mad face at a window
Stared out at us – and smiled.
Yes, a mad face at a window
That streamed with running water,
While lightning lit the sky above
The Mad Professor’s daughter
And now the end has almost come;
We wait here in despair
With chains upon our arms and legs
And cobwebs in our hair.
And hear her voice outside the door,
His foot upon the stair.
Yes, his foot upon the stair:
‘Oh, save us, Mrs Porter!’
Don’t leave us to the father of
The Mad Professor’s daughter.
∗
A final word – a warning:
Please heed this tale I tell.
if you should meet a quiet girl
Whose name is Margaret Bell,
Don’t look into her grass-green eyes
Or you’ll be lost as well.
Yes, you’d be lost as well,
However hard you fought her,
And curse until the day you died
The Mad Professor’s daughter
Cemetery Road
When I was a boy
Just nine years old,
We moved to a house
On Cemetery Road.
The road was rough
Not well-to-do.
It split
The cemetery in two.
On winter nights
The gravestones glowed
In streetlamp shine
On Cemetery Road.
When coming home
My heart would beat
From footsteps
That were not my feet.
On frosty evenings
Scared to death
By breathing
That was not my breath
Until at times
I’d quite explode
And run for my life
Down Cemetery Road.
Along the entry,
Velvet black,
Into the house
And not look back.
Yet now, alas,
My pulse has slowed.
I’m quite grown up.
It’s just a road
The Vampire and the Hound
Towards the distant mountains flying,
Closer, closer,
In darkness, wind and rain;
Above the ancient castle sighing,
Nearer, nearer,
The Vampire comes again
In at my Lady’s window staring,
Closer, closer,
His pale eyes calm and dead,
Watching the beeswax candle flaring,
Nearer, nearer,
Beside my Lady’s bed.
Over the golden carpet going,
Closer, closer,
His black cloak furled and wet,
Up to the bed where, all unknowing,
Nearer, nearer,
Come at last to his monstrous calling,
Closer, closer,
Unchecked by keep or moat,
The Vampire, swooning low and falling,
Nearer, nearer,
Towards my Lady’s throat.
Wakes to a nightmare foul, and screaming,
Murder, murder!
My Lady, silken-gowned.
Up from the hearth-rug, damply steaming,
Save her, save her!
Lottie, my Lady’s Hound
Black night and rain at the windows lashing,
Louder, louder,
Warm blood upon the floor,
Blood on the silken sheets a-splashing,
Redder, redder,
Blows on the bolted door.
The savaged Vampire, faint and fleeing,
Horror, horror!
The sundered door gapes wide.
Servants aghast at the sight they’re seeing;
Save us, save us!
The Hound with a bleeding side.
My Lady there at the bedside kneeling,
Weeping, weeping,
Stroking her saviour’s head.
Fire-thrown shapes on the distant ceiling
Higher, higher,
And Lottie, the brave dog… dead
6
How to Score Goals
The Lovely Ball of Leather
Team Talks 1, 2 and 14
Dad on the Line
How to Score Goals
Talk Us Through It, Charlotte
Surely This Boy Must Play for England
Soccer Sonnet
1966, or Were You There, Daddy?
The Betsy Street Booters
Who Kicked Cock Robin?
The Song of the Sub
Friendly Matches
Kicking a Ball
The Lovely Ball of Leather
About a mile North of Preston
On a cool November day
A team of boys plus substitutes
Was setting off to play.
They sat there in the minibus
Just gazing straight ahead
Listening to their manager
And this is what he said.
O boys, he cried, O fellas
I couldn’t ask for more
You run your little socks off
Though you never seem to score.
But I know you’ll keep on trying
You’ll strive and strain and sweat
Till that lovely ball of leather
Goes flying in the net.
Just a little West of Bromwich
In the January rain
That selfsame team of players
Was on the road again.
They crowded in the minibus
As it carried them away
While their manager-cum-driver
Had these quiet words to say.
O boys, he cried, O fellas
I’ve got this rotten cold
My knee’s a bit arthritic
And I’m really rather old.
But I know I will recover
My life’s not over yet
Till that lovely ball of leather
Goes flying in the net.
In a lay-by South of Hampton
On a balmy April night
When the road was dark and empty
And the sky was starry bright,
A team of boys plus substitutes
Was sitting in the bus
Eating chips and burgers
While their manager spoke thus
O boys, he cried, O fellas
I knew that you could play
I knew the gods were with us
And we’d get a goal some day.
It was a precious moment
Which I never will forget
When that lovely ball of leather
Went flying in the net
Team Talk
Marcus, don’t argue with the ref.
Yes, he needs glasses
Yes, he should keep up with the play
Yes, yes, he’s a pawn
In some international betting syndicate
But don’t argue with him.
He’ll send you off.
And if he doesn’t, I will.
Billy, you’re the goalie – right?
Listen, you’re allowed to use your hands
OK?
It’s in the rules
It’s legal.
Another thing
What’s that you’ve got in the back of the net?
That carrier bag
I’ve seen it – what is it?
Hm.
Well, leave-it-a-lone
You can eat later
Now then, Michael
You’ve got Charles outside you, OK?
Unmarked, OK?
I know he’s only your brother
But pass to him.
Marcus, another thing
Don’t argue with the linesman either
Or me, for that matter
Or anybody
Just–
Just–
Just–
Marcus… shut up
Kevin, a word.
Their number seven
You’re supposed to be marking him
And he’s scored five already, right?
Well that’s… enough
Close him down
So come on, lads
The golden rules – remember?
Hold your positions
Run into space
Call for the ball
Play to the whistle
Pass only to members of your own team.
Last of all
NEVER GIVE UP
Thirteen–nil
Sounds bad, but it’s not the end.
We can turn it round
We can get a result
It’s a game of two halves.
So let’s go out there –
And show ’em!
Billy… are you eating?
Team Talk 2
(the next match)
Marcus, what did I say?
I warned you
You’re argumentative
He was bound to send you off
Your own mother would send you off.
And besides –
Besides –
Besides –
Marcus… shut up.
Dominic, a word.
Mud.
Stop worrying about it, OK?
There’s no prize for the cleanest pair of shorts
Never mind what your auntie says
Get stuck in.
No, Jonathan, that old fella on the line
Is not a scout for Man. United.
No.
No, he isn’t.
Don’t ask me how I know
I just do.
Call it instinct
Come here, you two
Michael – this is Charles
Charles – this is Michael
Say, Hallo.
Say, Pleased to meet you.
I mean it.
Now pass to each other.
Billy, empty your pockets
All of ’em.
What’s this?
Goalkeeping’s an art, Billy
It’s vital
The last line of defence
You have to concentrate
And how can you expect to do that
With a pocketful of peanuts?
Get rid of ’em.
How many shirts are you wearing,
Craig – hm?
It’s not that cold
You look like…
No, not me, Marcus
You look like – well, never mind
Brian, brilliant header.
Unstoppable.
Now let’s see if you can do it again
At their end.
Yes, and another thing
I know your dad’s an expert
I can hear him
We can all hear him
But take no notice – right?
if I’d wanted you to play through the middle
I would not have picked you
At left back.
So let’s get out there
Keep plugging away
They’re not eight goals better than us