I don’t think I will make a habit of going to watch Winchester City F.C.

Watching Southport F.C. is bad enough.

But at least I managed to get a poem out of my only visit.

I believe this is going in the next edition of Smug, so here’s a sneak preview for you.

I have taken quite a few liberties with the events of the afternoon, not least of which is my reporting of the final score. They tell me it’s called poetic licence.

The weather report is accurate though. Bloody awful day.

 

(h) Vs Yate Town

 

They were at home versus lowly Yate Town

Back home, in the lee of Worthy Down

Of our number, there were only three-score

Evo-Stick football, (Southern League) to the fore

 

We huddled and shivered at the Denplan Ground

As February’s full anger whipped us around

The banks of the Itchen all sodden and mulched

The players strips now in mud-engulfed

 

 

 

Then finally a goal, in circumstances flimsy

A goal born on the wind, and its turbulent whimsy

A cheer lasting for four seconds full

Before inevitably, we return to the dull

 

But Yate Town then morphed into Hate Town

The centre-back scythed our number nine down

Our winger was put through the wringer

Received a stinger, from a circus-clown.

 

Then to the King Alfred, tankards-aloft

To celebrate the only goal, so soft

And how craft overcame agricultural tackles

We’ll return next time with cheers, or with heckles

 

Copyright, Jody Redmires 2016