tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35798557851867633802024-03-08T07:50:12.761+00:00Shels in Europe 2004Back in the Summer of 2004, Shelbourne FC, Ireland’s representatives in the Champions League, went further in the competition than any club before or since. Okay, not a long run by English, Spanish or Italian standards, but in the context of Irish football, a veritable odyssey.Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579855785186763380.post-26172669443491982802007-09-02T12:29:00.000+01:002007-09-02T13:03:38.502+01:00<a href="http://home.earthlink.net/~paulvana/images/Chrch021.gif" target="_top"></a><div align="center"><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Pilgrimage to Knock</strong><br /></span></span><br />The bus departs at eight o’clock,<br />And booking is essential.<br />The annual pilgrimage to Knock<br />Is highly providential.<br /><br />We’ll go around the church three times,<br />Reciting incantations,<br />And when the church bell slowly chimes,<br />We’ll make our presentations.<br /><br />We’ll ask the good St. Bonicef<br />To grant us all a favour,<br />That, with a strong away-team ref,<br />We’ll get a win to savour.<br /><br />We’ll bow our heads in silent prayers,<br />And sprinkle incense lightly,<br />And genuflect with graceful flair,<br />And clutch our relics tightly.<br /><br />We’ll pray that Jayo’s goal drought ends<br />On Shels’ Icelandic saga,<br />And that our thirsty travelling friends<br />Can find a pint of lager.<br /><br />To St. Jerome we’ll bend our knees,<br />Extolling his existence,<br />The patron saint of referees<br />And referees’ assistants.<br /><br />We’ll offer up repentance for<br />The sins we have committed,<br />And pray the icemen do not score,<br />And that they’ll be outwitted.<br /><br />We pray the weather breaks a bit<br />And won’t conspire to freeze us,<br />And hope Dave Rogers does not sit<br />On those Icelandic geysers.<br /><br />We hope the Lord helps our attack<br />Upon the northern pagans,<br />And pray the coach will get us back<br />‘Ere closing time in Fagans.<br /><br /><a href="http://classroomclipart.com/cgi-bin/kids/imageFolio.cgi?action=view&link=Clipart/Vikings&amp;amp;image=viking_helmet_ga.jpg&img=&tt=" target="_self"></a><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000000;">Icelandic Medley – Fenlonssons Saga</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Challenge<br /></span></strong><br />In latitudes high in the chill North Atlantic,<br />O’er the island of Iceland, if you’re feeling pedantic,<br />A great silver bird with a wingspan gigantic<br />Came swooping down low from the grey, murky sky.<br />And as it touched down with much slipping and sliding,<br />From out of its belly, great warriors came striding,<br />As the local inhabitants went into hiding,<br />Gathering children as they scampered by.<br /><br />The whole population was in a sheer panic,<br />At the sight of these warlords so fierce and satanic,<br />They tried to appease them with produce organic,<br />But Fenlon called halt with a wave of his sword.<br />He said, “We’ve been sent by the great god, Uefa,<br />Who holds all the glistening jewels that we pray for.<br />Akranes destroyed many dreams that we play for,<br />And thus we have come to have vengeance restored.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Erik the Red<br /></span></strong><br />Erik the Red went to Iceland,<br />And visited each coastal village,<br />To proclaim loud and clear<br />That the Shels lads were here,<br />Not to rape or to loot or to pillage.<br /><br />He sported a pointy-horned helmet,<br />Which he’d bought at considerable cost,<br />And a sword and a mace,<br />And a beard on his face,<br />And a shield with three castles embossed.<br /><br />He swam on a seal out to Surtsey,<br />And plugged the ferocious volcano.<br />When asked for the reason,<br />He said “It’s the season,<br />And besides it’s so awkward to say no.”<br /><br />He slid down the great Vatnajőkull,<br />And found the place much to his liking,<br />For, so boisterous and loud,<br />He worked well in a crowd,<br />Not quite like a CHF Viking.<br /><br />He summonsed the Icelandic people<br />To the wide plain of old Thingvellir,<br />And the captive assembly<br />That would have filled Wembley,<br />Sat down with excitement and fear.<br /><br />He told of the proud Redsmen’s history,<br />The source of the great Viking sagas,<br />And while Erik spoke,<br />He would light up a smoke,<br />And dispose of a whole row of lagers.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Hoodoo<br /></span></strong><br />Let’s hope this Shelbourne hoodoo,<br />This European voodoo,<br />Will now expire<br />And not conspire<br />To land us in the doo-doo.<br /><br />Is there some kind of treaty,<br />Some legalised graffiti,<br />That states we’re banned<br />From winning and<br />Achieving our Tahiti?<br /><br />If we don’t end this saga,<br />We’ll drink ten pints of lager,<br />And, quite nonplussed,<br />We’ll get concussed<br />And end up going ga-ga.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Darkest Before Dawn</span></strong><br /><br />The message came so very late,<br />The strongest men did quail.<br />The convicts were all in a state,<br />Their faces gaunt and pale<br />They thought it wouldn’t be their fate,<br />To be let out on bail.<br />Though pessimistic, they did hate<br />To think that they might fail.<br />The stone walls did reverberate<br />With anguished moan and wail.<br />But then the gods did help create<br />A twist in this dark tale,<br />A denouement upon a great<br />And unenvisaged scale,<br />As stone-faced guards unlocked the gate,<br />And Shels got out of jail.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Relief<br /></span></strong><br />Don’t mess with our 2-2,<br />Don’t mess with our 2-2,<br />They had seven internationals,<br />So don’t mess with our 2-2.<br /><br />In the cold North Atlantic,<br />We fell two goals behind.<br />Pat Fenlon going frantic,<br />Supporters resigned.<br />But as the whistle neared,<br />Wes went on the attack,<br />The defence disappeared,<br />Alan Moore got one back.<br /><br />Don’t mess with our 2-2,<br />Don’t mess with our 2-2,<br />They’re the hottest team in Iceland,,<br />So don’t mess with our 2-2.<br /><br />Then the tension mounted,<br />Ollie Cahill got the ball,<br />Put it in where it counted,<br />And we got a lucky call.<br />But there’s still time to falter,<br />So we’d better be wary,<br />Don’t forget Hibs of Malta<br />And that damned Chukunyere.<br /><br />So don’t mess with our 2-2,<br />Don’t mess with our 2-2,<br />Please don’t mention the H-word,<br />But don’t mess with with our 2-2.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Shels 0 KR Reykjavik 0 – The Home Leg Medley</span></strong><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Ad for the Match</span></strong><br /><br />The ad for the match was direct and explicit –<br />“Come early to avoid disappointment.”<br />So I got up quite early in case I should miss it,<br />And rubbed on my favourite ointment.<br /><br />I dashed down to Tolka excitedly when<br />My joints were with ointment anointed.<br />And the ad told no lies, for by twenty to ten,<br />I wasn’t the least disappointed.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Wesley Wesley Houlihan</span></strong><br /><br />The ball comes to Wes and he traps it with ease,<br />Round the crowd there’s a bit of a buzz.<br />He skips o’er a leg like a straw in the breeze,<br />With a roar of approval from us.<br /><br />He checks and he turns and he cuts back inside,<br />And another opponent’s left groping.<br />By now all supporters are bursting with pride,<br />Urging and willing and hoping.<br /><br />But the final defender slides in with a foot,<br />Determined that Wes won’t get past him,<br />And Wes, dispossessed tries tackling back, but<br />Some fools in the crowd only blast him.<br /><br />“Why didn’t you pass it when you had the time?<br />Why can’t you hold onto possession?<br />Losing the ball is akin to a crime!”<br />They rail at artistic impression.<br /><br />Why must we discourage the tiny percent<br />Who’ve reached football’s greatest attainment?<br />The few for whom talent must be heaven-sent,<br />The few who provide entertainment.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">An Unholy Opponent</span></strong><br /><br />Petr Podzemsky, the number eighteen<br />In Reykjavik’s black and white strip<br />Would not be well-known in our own soccer scene,<br />His name’s not on every fan’s lip.<br /><br />But I watched him last night with a mistrustful eye,<br />I glared at each devious run,<br />For, unlike his teammates from latitudes high,<br />He’s not a traditional “son.”</div><div align="center"><br />Was he, like Macduff, from his own mother’s womb,<br />Grossly and untimely ripped?<br />Or does he reside in a sinister tomb<br />Beneath the stone walls of a crypt?<br /><br />Of what devil’s work is this creature a spawn?<br />Do those sinister eyes have a soul?<br />But whatever he is, and however he’s born,<br />He still couldn’t notch them a goal.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Jason’s Misses</span></strong><br /><br />Psychologists say that you’re never the same,<br />When you find out just what wedded bliss is.<br />What chance has mere football compared to love’s flame,<br />When you’re constantly showered with kisses?<br />So last night the newly-wed shouldered the blame,<br />And the obvious reason for this is –<br />He’d chances a-plenty to settle the game,<br />So we’re pretty irate at his missus.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Probably the Shortest and Bitterest Ever Football Poem Composed During the Four Long Minutes of Injury Time When I was Certain That the Icelanders would Sneak a Totally Undeserved Goal and Snatch the Tie from our Grasp Just Like Hibernians of Malta Had Done Two Years Previously<br /></span></strong><br />Reykjavik<br />Make ya sick.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Ghosts of Tolka</span></strong><br /><br />The ghosts were all out in Tolka last night,<br />As glory and Hadjuk Split beckoned,<br />And though they were careful to stay out of sight,<br />Their presence was felt every second.<br /><br />They guided our players and focussed their minds,<br />Breathed fire in their hearts and their tackles.<br />The Reykjavik lads’ inescapable binds<br />Were truly ethereal shackles.<br /><br />The big disappointments of Tolka nights past<br />Were with that performance well banished,<br />And when the long whistle was sounded at last,<br />They raised a clenched fist and then vanished.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Wednesdae Delight</span></strong><br /><br />Pat went to Iceland, and scoured the freezers,<br />So tempting and brightly lit.<br />And there, between ice-pops and frozen Maltesers,<br />He picked up a Hadjuk Split.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Animal!<br /></span></strong><br />My son says I’m a little rat, whene’er I grass him up.<br />My wife says I’m a little pig when slurping from a cup.<br />My mum says I’m a little deer [when helping out, of course]<br />But after last night’s shouting, well, I’m just a little horse.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000000;">Shels in Split Medley<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Croatian Divorce</span></strong><br /><br />Snogging and hugging, they followed the Reds,<br />When the flame of their ardour was lit.<br />But the romance was ended<br />And rancour descended,<br />When they went to Dubrovnik and Split.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Going One Up in Split</span></strong><br /><br />The goal came so quickly and quite unexpected,<br />As Shels rose to levels we’d never expected,<br />And even the most extreme Shelbourne fanatic<br />Could never have been so supremely ecstatic.<br />And for full fifteen minutes, we rode our proud wagon,<br />Through uncharted landscapes,<br />Till Enter the Dragan.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Ballad of 28th July 2004</span></strong><br /><br />Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh….<br />‘Twas on July 28th, when Shels played Hajduk Split,<br />The reputations of the Croats fazed them not one bit.<br />They faced them with a steely eye and hearts of Irish grit,<br />And very shortly scored through a sublime Fitzpatrick hit.<br /><br />But eighteen minutes on the clock and our balloon was burst.<br />Our fortunes were quite suddenly unluckily reversed,<br />A free-kick incorrectly launched and Blatnjak did his worst,<br />And Lady Luck and Fickle Fate were uniformly cursed.<br /><br />But Shels stuck firmly to their task and matched them blow for blow,<br />Managing quite nicely to disrupt the Hajduk flow.<br />And then a chance for Stuey but he couldn’t keep it low.<br />It would have been a perfect strike with seconds left to go.<br /><br />But when the second half began, Shels quickly fell behind,<br />When Petar Sutu showed our net was not too hard to find,<br />And Shels supporters knew the half would be a long, hard grind,<br />And some of us were really pessimistically resigned.<br /><br />But giving up the ghost is not what Fenlon’s team’s about,<br />They never seem to show the slightest traces of self-doubt.<br />And Jayo’s volley seemed to put them back in with a shout.<br />Sadly though, it hit the bar, bounced down and came back out.<br /><br />Then agony! Disaster! With just minutes left to play,<br />Thorn-like, Dragan Blatnjak notched his second of the day.<br />It was a cruel addendum to a sterling Shels display,<br />As Ger McCarthy got stripped off and quickly joined the fray.<br /><br />But there was still a giant twist left in this epic tale,<br />As Alan Moore, like last time, got the Redsmen out of jail.<br />Ger McCarthy set him up and Alan didn’t fail,<br />To put the lads in sight of that elusive Holy Grail.<br /><br />Tolka should be packed next week to help to lift the team,<br />To go that one step further and to lick Croatia’s cream.<br />The atmosphere ought to be intense in the extreme,<br />As Shels go hell for leather in their European dream.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Shels 2 Hajduk Split 0 Medley<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Holidaying in Bantry</span></strong><br /><br />The mountains loom large in your personal karma,<br />Dark brooding shapes in the clear azure sky,<br />Kissing white clouds as they skim meekly by,<br />Dictating the sweep of the grand panorama.<br />Yes, the view ‘cross the bay is a breathtaking sight,<br />But oh, to have been back in Tolka tonight.<br /><br />If the sheer cliffs of Mizen had power to talk,<br />What tales could they tell of misfortune and glory?<br />Each wreck off her coast can relate a sad story<br />Of heroes and death off the shore of West Cork.<br />But they pale ‘neath the deep rolling waves, in the light<br />Of the drama unfolding at Tolka tonight.<br /><br />We drove down to the harbour, so tranquil and calm,<br />And gazed on the sparkles that danced o’er the bay<br />Like clusters of diamonds awash on the spray,<br />And beneath the cool moonlight, my wife took my arm.<br />The light lapping waters made everything right,<br />But oh, to have been back in Tolka tonight.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Hate and Love<br /></span></strong><br />I hate it when they fall to earth pretending they are dead,<br />Or roll around a dozen times with ands clutched to their head,<br />Or take an age to get the ball when it rolls out of play<br />And placing it correctly takes the best part of the day.<br />I hate it when a player goes off – can snails move more slowly?<br />And all the fuss when our attacker breathes upon their goalie!<br />But all that sheer, unbridled hate just dissipates, I find,<br />If the team who have been wasting time should fall a goal behind.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">That Goal<br /></span></strong><br />What defines a work of art?<br />A fine aesthetic pleasure?<br />A sculpted form that might impart<br />Deep meaning in great measure?<br />A crafted work that might convey<br />Great joy or melancholy?<br />But how on earth does one display<br />That Davie Rogers’ volley?<br /><br />You cannot hang it on a nail<br />Or stand it on a base.<br />The written word is bound to fail<br />To capture its sweet grace.<br />To place it in a public park<br />Would be an act of folly,<br />Yet I still see it, clear and stark –<br />That Davie Rogers’ volley.<br /><br />His left foot painted such a scene<br />Of total jubilation<br />That Christy Brown, sure, must have been<br />This artist’s inspiration.<br />No canvas dignified by Man<br />[As I remarked to Ollie]<br />Ever wrought more feelings than<br />That Davie Rogers’ volley.<br /><br />Art critics state without a doubt<br />That it’s their solemn duty<br />To tell the great unwashed about<br />Great works of lucent beauty.<br />But nothing of artistic fame,<br />In my opinion, quali-<br />Fies for more worldwide acclaim<br />Than Davie Rogers’ volley.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Ndo Turn</span></strong><br /><br />“Bring it to the corner flag and keep the ball in play!”<br />We yelled at Joseph Ndo as the seconds ticked away.<br />But Shelbourne’s newest debutante ignored us to a man,<br />And turned the last defender with a Johann Cruyff élan.<br />Ten thousand voices in the crowd were wilfully ignored,<br />But, boy was he forgiven, when he crossed and Alan scored!<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Sweet Smell of Success</span></strong><br /><br />The sponge came out the oven<br />And was placed upon the tray,<br />The warm smell wafted through the air<br />With golden brown bouquet.<br />Then through the kitchen door came Davy<br />Rogers, strong and willing,<br />And with a spoon and flat-edged knife,<br />He ladled on the filling.<br />So sweet the almond mixture<br />And so generously afforded,<br />That everybody present gasped<br />With wonder and applauded.<br />But still it wasn’t finished, and<br />With bakers’ pride at stake,<br />Up stepped Alan Moore to put the icing on the cake.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Heaven<br /></span></strong><br />Forget about cloud number nine,<br />We’re up on cloud eleven.<br />Everything is so divine,<br />I reckon we’re in heaven.<br /><br />Such total joy is oh, so rare,<br />Such unimagined bliss,<br />I never even dreamt that there<br />Were moments such as this.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Treasure Ireland<br /></span></strong><br />Captain Fenlon turned towards the parrot on his shoulder.<br />“Since we were sunk last year,” he said, “I’ve grown a whole year older.<br />We’ve slipped the great Croatian fleet, a bunch of grizzled codgers,<br />And now, I think, its time to hoist the Jolly Davy Rogers.<br />From Iceland’s cold and distant shore, this journey’s been in motion,<br />Travelling o’er the stormy sea and cataclysmic ocean.<br />We boarded shiny galleons, and took what we could plunder,<br />And still their mighty cannons haven’t ripped this ship asunder.<br />I can’t believe the distance that this listing ship has brought us<br />And now we’re sailing boldly into strange uncharted waters.<br />It’s time we headed south to try and take that Spanish schooner,<br />So turn the ship around, me boys, we’re off to A Coruňa.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Pat Fenlon Sandwich Maker<br /></span></strong><br />Pat Fenlon was making sandwiches,<br />To earn a few extra shillings.<br />He’d buttered the bread,<br />As the manual said,<br />And now he was making the fillings.<br /><br />He boiled some eggs and then mashed them,<br />And smothered them in mayonnaise,<br />Then he spread some plum jam<br />On the slices of ham,<br />While still in a culinary daze.<br /><br />The beetroot he sliced very finely,<br />Then got busy with scallion-chopping,<br />Then he added brown sauce<br />And some mustard of course,<br />And then spiralled the carrots as topping.<br /><br />“These filings are really exciting,”<br />The coaching staff heard him to mutter,<br />“But although they’re great fun,<br />Sure when all’s said and done,<br />Let’s get back to the old bread and butter.”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Shels 0 Deportivo 0 Medley</span><br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">A Man for all Seasons</span></strong><br /><br />Bertie’s a United fan,<br />An ardent Keane and Giggsy man.<br />A team from someone else’s nation<br />Earns his glowing adulation.<br /><br />Bertie is a Celtic fan,<br />A real Bobo Balde man.<br />For it is widely understood<br />That green and white is in his blood.<br /><br />Bertie’s a Drumcondra fan,<br />A daycent League of Ireland man,<br />And though their heyday’s long since passed,<br />Long does the fiery passion last.<br /><br />Bertie is a Shelbourne fan,<br />A real Nutsy Fenlon man.<br />Accepting with impunity<br />Each photo opportunity.<br /><br />Bertie is a soccer fan,<br />Association football man.<br />Casting a discerning eye<br />O’er each bandwagon passing by.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Alan Misses His Moment</span></strong><br /><br />Did no-one say to Alan Moore<br />That it was time for him to score?<br />Three late goals so far have it<br />The Icelanders and Hajduk Split.<br />But not last night ‘gainst La Coruňa<br />Although he nearly bagged one sooner.<br />Perhaps he didn’t realise<br />That time, when having fun, just flies.<br />But though he didn’t score tonight,<br />He’s still a chance to put it right.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Willo’s Act of Bravado</span></strong><br /><br />Twenty five glorious seconds to go,<br />The ball goes to Willo to break up the flow.<br />We’ve battled supremely; it seems now as though<br />The Spaniards can’t deal us a last crushing blow.<br />Our keeper, however, appears somewhat slow<br />[Unlike the performance of Shelbourne’s back row]<br />The attacker is closing, and dread starts to grow.<br />Why isn’t he booting it out for a throw,<br />Way up in the stands to the twenty sixth row?<br />Only Willo and God in his heaven can know.<br />Here comes the attacker! Will this end in woe?<br />Thwarted in cruellest terms by our foe,<br />After such a brave fight against Luque and co?<br />But Willo’s determined to put on a show,<br />And dummies the Spaniard with flick of the toe,<br />And boots it upfield towards Joseph Ndo.<br /><br />And still the incredible candle’s aglow.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">I Can See Heary Now<br /></span></strong><br />The Sugarloaf and Hungry Hill<br />Were lost in mist o’er Bantry Bay.<br />The summer rain was bouncing still<br />To shroud the picturesque display,<br />But in our holiday abode,<br />All eyes were fixed on Lansdowne Road.<br /><br />And as the gripping match wore on,<br />And Shelbourne firmly held their own,<br />A tiny ray of sunlight shone,<br />And pierced the grey, forbidding stone.<br />Where it landed, nature glowed,<br />As we kept eyes on Lansdowne Road.<br /><br />The tiny breach began to grow<br />Until a pool of blue appeared.<br />The summer rainfall ceased its flow,<br />As gradually the dark sky cleared.<br />And, in a field, a rooster crowed<br />To mark events at Lansdowne Road.<br /><br />And when the final whistle blew,<br />The Sugarloaf and Hungry Hill,<br />Loomed large with features clear and true<br />That only nature can instil.<br />And summer sunshine overflowed<br />As we digested Lansdowne Road.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Song of the Eircom League Fan<br /></span></strong><br />For all those sniggers, when you told<br />What football team had your support.<br />For all those jeering eyeballs rolled<br />At every Eircom League report.<br />For all those times when conversation<br />Turned to Arsenal and United,<br />Ignoring all the degradation<br />When your football team was slighted.<br />For all those times when loud-mouthed men,<br />Who claim to understand the game,<br />Scratched away with poisoned pen,<br />To Ireland’s journalistic shame.<br />For every word the mockers uttered,<br />Sneering at your one true passion,<br />Patronising cliches muttered<br />That the league was not in fashion.<br />For all those million football shirts<br />From every foreign side, it seems,<br />An industry which badly hurts<br />Your local Irish football teams.<br />For all those wet and windy nights<br />Of visiting your football ground<br />And cheering underneath the lights<br />With barely anyone around.<br /><br />For all those years of scoffing bile,<br />This match made it all worth while.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">For the Harolds Cross Brigade<br />[and Ollie in particular]<br /></span></strong><br />A smallish crowd at Harold’s Cross,<br />Terrace sprouting tufts of moss,<br />Performances that failed to woo<br />More than the dedicated few.<br />Position in the league quite stable<br />Near the bottom of the table.<br />Our periodic chanting drowned<br />At every Irish football ground,<br />Neither recognised nor hated,<br />For we simply were not rated.<br />So, for the dedicated few,<br />This really is a dream come true.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Depor 3 Shels 0 Medley</span></strong><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">A Niggly Doubt</span></strong><br /><br />Should we dare to fly in hope,<br />To dream that maybe we might cope,<br />To think that maybe there is scope<br />To snatch the holy grail?<br />Or is it merely self-delusion?<br />Brains affected by confusion<br />In their self-imposed seclusion,<br />Knowing that we’ll fail.<br /><br />But still the gnawing notion pesters –<br />What if Depor cannot best us<br />After their prolonged siestas?<br />What if Shelbourne catch them?<br />One small jolt of nervous tension,<br />Adding to the apprehension.<br />Surely it’s too daft to mention?<br />Surely we can’t match them?<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Á Coruňa<br /></span></strong><br />The Spanish Armada set sail from this port<br />To conquer the English by sea, so they thought.<br />But most of their galleons received quite a shocker,<br />And ended up sitting on Davy Jones’ locker.<br /><br />Meanwhile, at base camp, reviewing his goals,<br />Brave Captain Fenlon is winning at bowls.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">El Shelbourne Modesto</span></strong><br /><br />If we could do it,<br />Somehow come through it,<br />What a marvellous night it will be,<br />So awe-inspiring,<br />No doubt acquiring<br />Legendary status-to-be.<br /><br />Nobody rates us,<br />The Spanish press slates us,<br />They say we’re just lambs to the slaughter.<br />“El Shelbourne modesto,”<br />They’re not too impressed – oh,<br />Naΐve is the Spanish reporter.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Like A Virgin</span></strong><br /><br />It’s my first trip with Shelbourne,<br />I’ve never been before.<br />Of course we weren’t successful back<br />In nineteen eighty four.<br /><br />Sometimes it wasn’t possible,<br />Sometimes I had no time,<br />Or my buddy in the local bank<br />Would not spare me a dime.<br /><br />The hardened Shelbourne traveller<br />Recounts far-distant shores,<br />I feel like I’m a virgin in<br />A brothel full of whores.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Sheer Sporting Nirvana<br /></span></strong><br />Gene Pitney knew well of the mighty thin line<br />That can alter your future forever.<br />How life can be changed by a grander design,<br />Notwithstanding the strongest endeavour.<br />The angst that I feel for our starting eleven<br />Is starting to give me an ulcer,<br />For we’re twenty four hours from sheer sporting heaven,<br />Not twenty four hours from Tulsa.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Bin Dere Dun Dat</span></strong><br /><br />We went to the Torre de Hercules,<br />And trudged all the way to the top.<br />The steps spiralled round<br />All the way from the ground,<br />And we thought that they never would stop.<br /><br />The Castillo was very impressive,<br />Jutting out in the picturesque bay,<br />And the remnants of Spain’s<br />Early Roman remains<br />Made a most fascinating display.<br /><br />We took the old tram round the headland,<br />Till its progress was halted by buffers,<br />And we sat in a bar<br />Talking ‘bout games so far,<br />And if Deportivo would stuff us.<br /><br />We lay on the Playa de Riazor,<br />And soaked up the rays from the sun,<br />And some got quite tanned<br />As we lay on the sand,<br />And some ended up overdone.<br /><br />And now we’re just filling in hours,<br />And some are resorting to gin,<br />It’s really appalling<br />The way time is crawling,<br />Can’t wait for the game to begin.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Confident<br /></span></strong><br />Sitting on the front in Coruňa<br />Watching the waves rolling in,<br />The sun beating down<br />On this picturesque town,<br />And we’re rubbing lots of oil on our skin.<br />Everyone’s here<br />And the kick off is near,<br />And we’re confident of getting a win.<br /><br />The old people walking the sea front<br />Turn round and stare quite bemused.<br />Some of them grin<br />And say Depor will win,<br />Most of them look quite confused,<br />And we’ll put on a show<br />In two hours or so,<br />And we’re confident we’ll keep them amused.<br /><br />The folk who arrived on the day trip<br />Have added to the size of the crowd.<br />We’ll cheer on the boys<br />And make plenty of noise,<br />Displaying our emotions out loud.<br />Win, lose or draw,<br />We will stand up and roar,<br />And we’re confident they’ll do the club proud.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Ollie’s Acclamation</span></strong><br /><br />Ollie crossed the pitch to us before the game began,<br />And everyone applauded Shelbourne’s greatest ever fan.<br />He looked so very tiny, as he stood way down below,<br />But as his name rang round the stands, I swear his head did grow.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Kick Off Haiku<br /></span></strong><br />Ref demands restart.<br />Ball tipped sideways not forwards.<br />Know you’re in trouble.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The First Half<br /></span></strong><br />Ten minutes gone and the match was still scoreless,<br />Our work rate terrific, our selflessness flawless.<br />Just keep them at bay for a few minutes longer,<br />They’ll get frustrated and we’ll become stronger.<br /><br />Fifteen, then twenty, we’re losing possession,<br />But Depor can’t seem to make too much progression.<br />Their passing is slick and their movement incisive,<br />But our back four is sharp and the tackling decisive.<br /><br />A half an hour gone, which was more than expected,<br />Our hesitant start has been nobly corrected.<br />The scoreboard’s still blank, to our utter elation,<br />And we’re urging the lads to maintain concentration.<br /><br />Five minutes to half-time, a cross long and arc-ed,<br />With flowing precision finds Jayo unmarked.<br />His header’s on target, but doesn’t have power,<br />But at least we’re still level, things haven’t turned sour.<br /><br />The whistle sounds shrill and the dream is still burning,<br />For hope is irrational and quite undiscerning.<br />Our performance exceeded all expectations,<br />And we’ve taken our place among footballing nations.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Egg and Chips<br /></span></strong><br />When Wes lost possession,<br />We all bit our lips,<br />And Victor’s aggression<br />Meant we’d had our chips.<br /><br />Poor Jamie dithered<br />And gave too much space,<br />And Victor, elated,<br />Put egg on our face.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Unstoppable</span></strong><br /><br />If all our team were keepers<br />[And thank the Lord they’re not]<br />They’d all shout “Jeepers Creepers!”<br />As Victor took his shot.<br /><br />Eleven stood together,<br />Prepared to stop the shot,<br />I’m very doubtful whether<br />They’d have kept it out or not.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Jayo’s Miss<br /></span></strong><br />A mistake at the back<br />And Jayo was clear,<br />All on his own<br />Without anyone near.<br />The ball sitting nicely,<br />The keeper advancing,<br />A lob o’er his head<br />Surely sends us all dancing.<br />The chip clears the keeper,<br />Our hearts have stopped beating,<br />We’ve started to crouch<br />To jump up off our seating.<br />But the angle’s oblique<br />And is grossly deceiving,<br />The ball’s high and wide<br />And we’re left disbelieving.<br />Defeat here in Spain<br />Might invoke desolation,<br />But a goal ‘gainst Depor<br />Would have been consolation.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Sickener</span></strong><br /><br />The third goal was a bummer,<br />And was sickening because<br />Two nil made our summer,<br />The third removed the gloss.<br /><br />I won’t pretend the scoreline<br />Was not what we deserved,<br />But if the two goal deficit<br />Had simply been preserved…<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Coming of Age<br /></span></strong><br />Back in the Cross, when I was still young,<br />The Shels fans were always quite loudly outsung.<br />Our fan base was small and was not very vocal,<br />And would comfortably fit in the bar of the local.<br />Each team that we played always chanted much louder,<br />Their flags and their banners seemed larger and prouder.<br />They’d many more people who answered the call<br />[Except maybe Home Farm, who’d no fans at all]<br /><br />But tonight at the Riazor, the Reds came of age,<br />And took their proud place on the world football stage,<br />A constant bombardment that drowned out the Spanish,<br />And caused those embarrassing memories to vanish.<br />A whole sea of red, waving, clapping and singing,<br />He home fans applauding the zest we were bringing.<br />To those that remember the bad days gone by,<br />It brought quite a sizable tear to the eye.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Addicted<br /></span></strong><br />Despite the result, the warm air still smelled sweet,<br />Rubbing shoulders with one of the famous elite.<br />Thirty five minutes away from sheer bliss,<br />I could easily get quite addicted to this.<br /><br />We enjoyed every minute, the game was immense,<br />Great happiness shackled to worry intense,<br />As raw as a wound, yet as pure as a kiss,<br />I could easily get quite addicted to this.<br /><br />The colour, the noise, the perfume of success,<br />The interest shown by the lads in the press,<br />The festive occasion, despite Jayo’s miss,<br />I could easily get quite addicted to this.<br /><br />Our appetite’s whetted, we’re greedy for more,<br />We want to be part of the world football lore,<br />Not teetering o’er a financial abyss,<br />I could easily get quite addicted to this.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The UEFA Cup Draw</span></strong><br /></span><br />The UEFA Cup draw is a glitzy affair,<br />Europe’s great football elite will be there.<br />Tiaras will glisten and cufflinks will shine,<br />Reflected in only the best of French wine.<br />Beneath the chandeliers of the classical hall,<br />They’ll waltz to the strains of the Monegasque ball.<br />Ballgowns will swirl at this great social bash,<br />And ankles and wrists will just glitter with cash.<br />And into this great bourgeois haven of folly,<br />Shels will be well represented by Ollie.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Shels 2 Lille OSC 2 Medley</span></strong><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Akond of Lille<br /></span></strong><br />How do people really feel<br />‘Bout playing Lille?<br /><br />Let’s hope we don’t get any crocks,<br />And any nasty, little knocks<br />Will heal,<br />‘Ere we face Lille.<br /><br />We’re sure our firm back four will cope,<br />And furthermore we strongly hope<br />That we’ll<br />Tear into Lille.<br /><br />The French supporters will not quake<br />But hopefully our team will make<br />Them kneel<br />And pray for Lille,.<br /><br />We’ll hope to dominate the play,<br />But fear that they might break away<br />And steal<br />A goal for Lille.<br /><br />Perhaps we’ll have to sit and wait<br />To play the cards that fickle fate<br />Might deal,<br />When playing Lille.<br /><br />And, if our ship should rock, then we<br />Would hope to get back on an e-<br />-Ven keel,<br />When facing Lille.<br /><br />If Weso plays the best he can,<br />Twists and turns and finds his man,<br />Then he’ll<br />Put paid to Lille.<br /><br />“Ollie shows a turn of pace<br />And Stuey’s in the very place<br />To seal<br />A win ‘gainst Lille,”<br /><br /><br />No matter how they’re put away,<br />A sweeping move or even a<br />Back heel,<br />Will do for Lille.<br /><br />Will they come over really flash,<br />Attack our flanks with great panache<br />And zeal,<br />These men from Lille?<br /><br />Their keeper needs to be the biz,<br />A prisoner contemplating his<br />Last meal,<br />Defending Lille.<br /><br />Some other fans are heard to say<br />They want the French to win. Are they<br />For real,<br />Supporting Lille?<br /><br />The mind-games can get out of hand,<br />Don’t heed the French supporters and<br />Their spiel –<br />They’re up for Lille.<br /><br />Emotions will run raw that night.<br />Are we afraid of what they might<br />Reveal,<br />When playing Lille?<br /><br />The Gallic centre forward has<br />A bag of tricks as slippy as<br />An eel,<br />Inspiring Lille.<br /><br />The permutations are quite high<br />Potential for a play by Bri-<br />-An Friel,<br />This match with Lille?<br /><br />This match should be a tasty dish,<br />A platter of the finest fish<br />Or veal,<br />This game with Lille.<br /><br />May Jamie be a roaring lion,<br />And Scouser be a man of iron<br />And steel<br />To face down Lille.<br /><br />We hope the ground will quickly fill,<br />And that this thrilling contest will<br />Appeal<br />With loads of lovely cash at stake,<br />Let’s hope the lads can win and make<br />Us squeal<br />By beating Lille.<br /><br />We trust that bookings won’t accrue,<br />And that the ref will try hard to<br />Conceal<br />His love for Lille<br /><br />We’ll all enjoy this merry cruise,<br />So long as we don’t go and lose<br />A wheel,<br />When playing Lille.<br /><br />If we should win by two to nil,<br />I’m not sure if my red blood will<br />Congeal,<br />When beating Lille<br /><br />The excitement that is felt by us,<br />Was only felt before by Buzz<br />And Neil,<br />Who soared o’er Lille.<br /><br />Pray Nutsy gets his tactics right,<br />A four goal margin would be quite<br />Ideal,<br />At home to Lille.<br /><br />There’s revolution in the air.<br />Come on, Shelbourne, let’s storm their<br />Bastille,<br />Ces homes de Lille.<br /><br />If Shels could overcome this foe,<br />The implications would be so<br />Surreal,<br />To conquer Lille.<br /><br />Our prospects may look fairly grim,<br />And surely just a total im-<br />-Becile<br />Would bet ‘gainst Lille.<br /><br />Don’t bask in reputations won!<br />My A Coruňa skin’s begun<br />To peel.<br />Watch out for Lille!<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Prelude</span><br /></strong><br />My stammer’s disimproving<br />And I can’t pronounce my vowels.<br />Something strange is moving<br />In the bottom of my bowels.<br />I’m feeling palpitations<br />And a tremor in my chest.<br />I know my concentration’s<br />Not approaching near its best.<br />My mind obliquely ponders<br />All the pitfalls of the tie,<br />Then slides away and wanders<br />Through reports of games gone by.<br />I’m smelling sizzling bacon,<br />But my hunger’s gone astray.<br />The Beatles were mistaken,<br />Sure, this is a hard night’s day.</div><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Seven Thousand Four Hundred<br /></span></strong><br />The rain it was sheeting,<br />Emphatically beating.<br />Onto sparse seating<br />It volleyed and thundered.<br />Surrounded by spaces,<br />The old Shelbourne faces<br />Sat down in their places,<br />Seven thousand four hundred.<br /><br />Fans indivisible,<br />Large gaps too visible,<br />Atmosphere risible,<br />Someone had blundered.<br />Lower stand pretty full,<br />Barely a city-full,<br />Crowd numbers pitiful,<br />Seven thousand four hundred.<br /><br />Kick-off time mess up,<br />Bringing our stress up,<br />Result cannot dress up<br />The chance wasn’t plundered.<br />We should have been backed more,<br />We tried to extract more,<br />But couldn’t attract more<br />Than seven thousand four hundred.<br /><br />Tolka deserted<br />Of thousands red-shirted.<br />The fans disconcerted,<br />And many more wondered.<br />The reasons were touted<br />And earnestly shouted,<br />But seriously doubted.<br />Seven thousand four hundred!<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Their Keeper<br /></span></strong><br />With bright white socks protruding<br />From beneath his golden kit,<br />Tony Silva looked just like<br />A giant orange split.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Lille Dish Out a Dose of Reality</span></strong><br /><br />To think we had the audacity,<br />The arrogant capacity<br />To think that we were up there with the rest!<br />A quagmire of self-delusion,<br />A mishmash of confusion,<br />Conspiring to deceive that we were blessed!<br /><br />Like schoolboys in a battlefield,<br />More suited to a cattle field,<br />We stumbled as the French attack poured through us.<br />We simply stood there motionless,<br />Completely magic potionless,<br />Like frightened rats pinned to the ground with skewers.<br /><br />Lille moved the ball emphatically,<br />Precisely, mathematically,<br />While we just scratched our sorry heads and wondered.<br />And though we battled pluckily,<br />At half time it was luckily,<br />A mere two slick, well-taken goals they’d plundered.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">“Keep them out till half-time lads!”<br /></span></strong><br />“Keep them out till half-time, lads!”<br />I yelled, with sweat beads glistening.<br />“Keep them out!” I yelled, but I<br />Don’t think that they were listening.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Skulduggery at Half-Time</span></strong><br /><br />The winds they blew and cracked their cheeks,<br />The rain came pouring down.<br />Our back four sprang a lot of leaks,<br />The Lille lads went to town.<br /><br />The hurricane blew hard and wet<br />In our defenders’ faces,<br />Which maximised the constant threat<br />Of Gallic runs to spaces.<br /><br />The Frenchmen’s sails were billowed wide,<br />Pushed on by strong momentum,<br />Bolstered by a windy tide<br />And all the power it lent ‘em.<br /><br />But then the wind, so fiercely armed,<br />At half time had recanted.<br />It suddenly became becalmed,<br />As if it were enchanted.<br /><br />What trickery that lay abroad<br />Conspired to change the weather?<br />The natural scheme of things ignored,<br />Dismembered altogether.<br /><br />Disciples of the cloven beast<br />Recited incantations.<br />Dark sorcery was thus released<br />To Shelbourne’s lamentations.<br /><br />Was Prospero at Lansdowne Road<br />To soothe the raging foment?<br />Spread his wand and thus bestowed<br />Great calmness in a moment?<br /><br />The gale-force winds no longer blew,<br />Their cheeks remained uncracked.<br />The Lille defence in stature grew<br />And thus remained intact.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Tetra Euro Blocker</span></strong><br /><br />Jason got his sun-block out<br />And spread it on his skin,<br />And then he ran onto the pitch<br />To help his teammates win.<br /><br />But someone switched the labels round<br />[An evil Gallic plot?]<br />And Jason’s famous sun-block cream<br />In fact, alas, was not.<br /><br />Instead it was an ointment which<br />Was meant for boring soccer.<br />The trade name it goes under is<br />“The Tetra Euro Blocker.”<br /><br />It stops you scoring easy goals<br />In Europe’s competitions,<br />Tested on live monkeys in<br />Laboratory conditions.<br /><br />And so, when scoring chances came,<br />Poor Jason couldn’t finish,<br />Stripped of his great powers just<br />Like Popeye without spinach.<br /><br />When offering the stuff to Glenn,<br />Thank God he’d been rebutted.<br />No wonder Glenn was fairly chuffed<br />And Jason fairly gutted.</div><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Limerick, You’re a Lady<br /></span></strong><br />When it came there was joy and relief,<br />An explosion that beggared belief.<br />Turned provider instead,<br />Jayo found Glenn’s blond head,<br />And he stole a great goal like a thief.<br /><br />Such an outburst of sudden elation,<br />Including a standing ovation.<br />But though it was great.<br />‘Twas too little too late,<br />Although it was some consolation.<br /><br />The mood-change invoked was detectable,<br />The scoreline was now more respectable.<br />But we just didn’t know<br />In three minutes or so,<br />It would go from “okay” to “delectable.”<br /><br />A cross from persistent Dave Crawley<br />Was defended by Lille pretty poorly.<br />Jamie leapt out his skin,<br />And Glenn Fitz knocked it in,<br />With the keeper complaining quite sorely.<br /><br />There were no protestations of knavery,<br />The net-bulge was both sweet and savoury.<br />And the place just erupted,<br />Our mind-set disrupted,<br />All thanks to our centre back’s bravery.<br /><br />As Lazarus rose from the dead,<br />So did those brave warriors in red.<br />Re-incarnated<br />Re-invigorated,<br />We swarmed where we’d once feared to tread.<br /><br />And by that great brace we were spurred<br />And continued with strength undeterred,<br />And hero Fitzpatrick<br />Just missed his first hat-trick,<br />When he miscued a possible third.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Glenn Fitzpatrick<br /></span></strong><br />His goal instinct was frightening,<br />Bad marking paid the price.<br />His nickname isn’t “Lightning”<br />Because Glenn Fitz struck twice.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">A Great Result Indeed</span></strong><br /><br />The crowd was small [because of greed?]<br />And colder than a naked Swede,<br />But Lille and Shelbourne did proceed<br />To serve up some fine fare indeed.<br /><br />The Lille lads seemed a different breed,<br />Played football with a fluent creed.<br />‘Twas no surprise they took the lead,<br />And things looked very grim indeed.<br /><br />In that dreadful first half, we’d<br />Looked always likely to concede.<br />They picked us off with pace and speed,<br />And looked so very sharp indeed.<br /><br />It caused our stony hearts to bleed,<br />That fickle fate should intercede.<br />Those howling torrents did recede<br />And things got very calm indeed.<br /><br />But Shels responded to the need<br />And paid the game more careful heed.<br />And twice, bold Jason Byrne was freed,<br />Though finishing was poor indeed.<br /><br />And as we, with our gods, did plead,<br />Eventually they did accede,<br />And helped young Fitzer to succeed<br />By scoring twice with flair indeed.<br /><br />The Gallic lads, no longer geed<br />Up by their coach, just went to seed,<br />As down the slippy slope they ski-ed,<br />And looked quite vulnerable indeed.<br /><br />And so the tie is nicely teed,<br />Despite the things that one might read.<br />The lads can certainly exceed<br />All expectations. Yes, indeed!<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Epilogue<br /></span></strong><br />The fair weather fans decided to<br />Heed the strong gale warning.<br />I hope they feel a sense of loss<br />This fine September morning.<br />To those of us who braved the storm,<br />It’s possible that we’ll<br />Forever keep within our minds<br />The comeback versus Lille.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Memories Will Remain</span></strong><br /><br />When this odyssey has ended,<br />As inevitably it must,<br />When the ashes have been blended<br />And the dust returned to dust,<br />When the bullet has been bitten,<br />And when time has dulled the pain,<br />When the saga has been written,<br />Then the memories will remain.<br /><br />When the banquet has been finished<br />And the dishes cleared away,<br />The smell is not diminished<br />Nor consigned to yesterday.<br />When the photographs are fading<br />Of Croatia and of Spain,<br />When the dark nights are invading,<br />Then the memories will remain.<br /><br />No matter what befalls us<br />In the years that lie ahead,<br />No matter if fate hauls us<br />Where the angels fear to tread,<br />If the earth should stop revolving<br />And should never spin again,<br />If mankind were devolving,<br />Sure, the memories will remain.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Lille Lament Medley</span><br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Oh No!<br /></span></strong><br />No, oh no,<br />Joey Ndo<br />Cannot go<br />To the show.<br /><br />He took a blow<br />Down below.<br />Joey Ndo<br />Is laid low.<br /><br />Woe, oh woe!<br />We’ll miss him so<br />Apropos<br />The ebb and flow.<br /><br />What a pro!<br />Toe to toe,<br />To and fro,<br />Quick, quick, slow.<br /><br />We all know<br />Without our Joe,<br />The Gallic foe<br />Will loudly crow:-<br /><br />“Mon chapeau!<br />Joey Ndo<br />Cannot go<br />To the show!”<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">An Unfortunate Accident<br /></span></strong><br />My wife and I went for a stroll<br />Atop the cliffs in Howth,<br />An exercise that cleans the soul<br />And enervates us both.</div><div align="center"><br />And as we walked, we spoke at length<br />Of Shelbourne’s game with Lille,<br />Of David Crawley’s inner strength,<br />Of Alan Moore’s sore heel.<br /><br />By her good mood, I deemed it right<br />To broach the thorny question,<br />Hoping she might see the light<br />And warm to my suggestion.<br /><br />These things, I knew well to my cost,<br />Must happen circumspectly.<br />One slip might mean the battle lost,<br />As I had found abjectly.<br /><br />“If only we could have the chance,”<br />I said with visage pensive,<br />“To go and watch the lads in France.<br />It isn’t that expensive.</div><div align="center"><br />I’ve checked the flights out on the net –<br />There’s still some bargains going.<br />And isn’t it a tie that’s set<br />To get the juices flowing?”<br /><br />She stopped quite still and cocked her head<br />And eyed me most maliciously.<br />“No wonder you’ve” [she slowly said]<br />“Been acting so suspiciously!</div><div align="center"><br />We had a deal, as well you know!<br />Coruna broke our budget.<br />And now you say you want to go?<br />Come on, now, don’t fudge it.”<br /><br />“Ah, love,” said I. “Put trust in fate.<br />I’m sure we can afford it.<br />The plane is waiting at the gate –<br />It’s no great shakes to board it.”</div><div align="center"><br />“And who will mind your kids?” she snapped.<br />“You’re really too impulsive!<br />These marvellous plans that you have mapped,<br />I really find repulsive!”<br /><br />I’m not too sure what happened next –<br />It happened very suddenly.<br />She slipped right off the edge, perplexed,<br />And landed very woodenly.</div><div align="center"><br />Perhaps a sudden gust of wind<br />Had caught her off her balance?<br />For steadiness, I’d often grinned,<br />Was not one of her talents.<br /><br />Down the steep cliff path I ran<br />To summon some assistance,<br />Slightly miffed my cunning plan<br />Had met with such resistance.</div><div align="center"><br />They reached her body, bashed and scarred,<br />And I identified her,<br />Then tightly grasped her credit card<br />That they had found beside her.<br /><br />I called the kids and told them how<br />Their mammy went to heaven.<br />They both can mind themselves by now –<br />They’re nearly eight and seven.</div><div align="center"><br />And I’m uncertain what I feel,<br />Still caught up in my sorrow,<br />But thrilled at flying out to Lille<br />By aeroplane tomorrow.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Kinger Outverbalises Rico Shock<br /></span></strong><br />If Shels should beat the French side,<br />The Kinger did explain,<br />The result would surely put them<br />Up on another plane.<br /><br />Rico said he fancied<br />The Redsmen from Drumcondra,<br />But I bet that he was jealous of<br />The Kinger’s double-entendre.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Stuey Byrne Returns</span></strong><br /><br />Valeron was barely in it,<br />Could not get free for a minute.<br />Compare how much Senor might earn<br />To what is paid to Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />The lads from Lille are playing well,<br />It seems that they’ve begun to gel.<br />They’re sure they’ll breeze through the return<br />But they don’t know ‘bout Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />Dogged, skilful and persistent,<br />Valeron was non-existent.<br />Soon the Lille midfield will learn<br />About the brilliant Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />The more the pressure games the merrier,<br />Stuey’s at you like a terrier.<br />Strange no English clubs discern<br />The qualities of Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />Suspended from the first leg action,<br />Shelbourne lost their star attraction.<br />Yellow cards can cause concern<br />To those who follow Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />The Frenchmen, famous for romance,<br />Will soon be asked up for a dance.<br />It will not be facile to spurn<br />The attentions of Shels’ Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />The room they had will be eroded,<br />The dice have been precisely loaded.<br />No time to run, no space to turn,<br />Completely blocked by Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />Looks like Peter Beardsley but<br />He has a stronger, surer foot<br />Effective at both bow and stern,<br />The superhuman Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />The French team cannot formulate<br />A plan to bar him from the state.<br />Customs might try to intern<br />The mountain that is Stuey Byrne.<br /><br />Let’s hope the Lillies do not try<br />To sign our hero on the sly.<br />Though doubtless any team would yearn<br />To sign a player like Stuey Byrne.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">He Ain’t Heavy, He’s Eoin Heary</span></strong><br /><br />Our captain is no fatty,<br />He isn’t overweight.<br />To think so would be batty<br />And quite inaccur-ate.<br /><br />Burger? Will not try it,<br />Nor vinegar-soaked chips.<br />He has to watch his diet –<br />It all goes on his hips.<br /><br />He doesn’t like a bevvy<br />And he only drinks what’s right.<br />So why’d they call him Heavy,<br />When the teams ran out last night?<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Flower Dies<br /></span></strong><br />In little under half an hour,<br />The French had crushed our fragile flower,<br />Plucked the petals, left them lying<br />O’er the barren wasteland, dying,<br />Flickered in the chill wind, but<br />Were roughly trampled underfoot.</div><div align="center"><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">The Song of Our Two Centre Backs</span></strong><br /><br />I said Hello Moussilou, goodbye heart,<br />Sweet Moussilou, you drove us far apart.<br />Well we knew from the start<br />Of your sweet art,<br />Well, hello Moussilou, goodbye heart.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Novelists<br /></span></strong><br />The lads were writing a novel together,<br />An epic tale of love and weather.<br />“Their Own Misfortune” seemed to fit,<br />For they, alas, were the authors of it.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">One Consolation<br /></span></strong><br />At least we weren’t unlucky,<br />We were beaten fair and square.<br />Our lads were strong and plucky,<br />But they didn’t have a prayer.<br />The French were worthy winners,<br />As most people will concur,<br />While we seemed like beginners,<br />Which in fact was what we were.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Tactics<br /></span></strong><br />Did we get our tactics right?<br />Why not play four-four-two?<br />Fitzpatrick set our game alight,<br />As he is wont to do.<br /><br />The four-five-one had served us well,<br />‘Twas difficult to change it.<br />The system gave the Spaniards hell,<br />Pat couldn’t re-arrange it.<br /><br />But Lille are going well in France,<br />They have a great rapport,<br />Although we might have stood a chance<br />If we’d played eight-eight-four.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Going Left<br /></span></strong><br />The crosses went left,<br />The tackles went left,<br />The marking went left,<br />The passes went left.<br />The headers went left,<br />Decisions went left.<br /><br />All through the night,<br />Nothing went right.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Two Nil<br /></span></strong><br />The view that we had oft expressed<br />Was we could hack it with the best<br />Until<br />We lost two nil.<br /><br />Our lads were chomping at the bit.<br />In spite, though, of our iron grit<br />And will,<br />We lost two nil.<br /><br />We went for wets instead of slicks,<br />They could have bagged another six,<br />But still,<br />‘Twas just two nil.<br /><br />Hand on heart, they were too good,<br />Despite what faith that Nutsy could<br />Instil,<br />We lost two nil.<br /><br />The Gallic lantern had been lit,<br />Deciding that a lesson fit<br />The bill<br />And won two nil.<br /><br />We could not cope with Acimov,<br />A player who is not run of<br />The mill,<br />Helped win two nil.<br /><br />The second goal just cast a pall,<br />Gutted us and made us all<br />Feel ill,<br />Behind two nil.<br /><br />The road ascended all the time,<br />And soon we knew we could not climb<br />That hill,<br />Behind two nil.<br /><br />Defending was supremely sad,<br />By half time, half our lads had had<br />Their fill,<br />Behind two nil.<br /><br />A match we’ll try hard to forget,<br />The Autumn rain came bouncing wet<br />And chill,<br />‘Twas still two nil.<br /><br /><br />Commentators all agreed<br />They murdered us for strength and speed<br />And skill<br />To win two nil.<br /><br />Like regimental soldiers who<br />Like all good pros precisely knew<br />The drill,<br />To win two nil.<br /><br />The Lillies knew they could not fail,<br />Swallowed us just like a whale<br />Eats krill,<br />To win two nil.<br /><br />Fitzer sitting on the bench,<br />Itching to get at the French<br />And thrill,<br />Though down two nil.<br /><br />The French were singing in the crowd,<br />The final whistle blew out loud<br />And shrill,<br />Lille won two nil.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">There is a Field in Northern France</span></strong><br /><br />There is a field in Northern France,<br />Beside the Belgian border,<br />Where once we had a golden chance<br />To make a new world order.<br />We bravely scrapped against our foe,<br />Our big guns blazing brightly,<br />Eye to eye and toe to toe,<br />The war not taken lightly.<br />But they’d more seasoned personnel,<br />Superior artillery,<br />And though we fought the battle well,<br />They placed us on a pillory.<br />Two shots rang out beneath the sky,<br />And all our hopes were shattered,<br />But this, our last and fatal cry,<br />Was not what really mattered.<br />For though we fell in solemn duty,<br />And many mourned our loss,<br />Even more perceived the beauty<br />Of the stark white cross.<br />The phoenix does not feel the pain,<br />All sorrows are depleted.<br />Our spirit, maimed, will rise again –<br />It cannot be defeated.<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Believe!<br /></span></strong><br />And now the dream is shattered<br />And it’s time to take our leave.<br />Our confidence is battered,<br />And we’ll shed a tear and grieve.<br />The French completely shattered<br />Any dreams we might achieve,<br />And our ego has been clattered,<br />More than many could conceive.<br />There’s some will say we flattered,<br />Flattered greatly to deceive,<br />But the thing that really mattered<br />Was the keenness to believe.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">And Now It’s All Over</span></strong><br /></span><br />And now it’s all over.<br />Our run’s at an end.<br />No more the red rover,<br />Its homewards we wend.<br />The road that’s behind us<br />Combined joy and toil.<br />Tomorrow will find us<br />Back on home soil.<br />Lille did unravel us,<br />They tore us to shreds,<br />But Shels’ doughty travellers<br />Need not hang their heads.<br />They gave it their all<br />Against sizable odds.<br />The team should walk tall<br />For to us they’re all gods.<br />And the memories won’t wane<br />For a hundred years more<br />Of the mighty campaign</div><div align="center">Of two thousand and four.</div>Peter Gouldinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13292063172122249202noreply@blogger.com0