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