With a flick of the boot and a nod of the head. The ball goes crashing in the back of the net. But the referee and linesman disallow the goal. 'Cause the boot's on the other foot, the scorer is a girl.
It's the old stock car thing. Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!. Round the track and round again. Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!. Revving, coughing, stutt-stutt-stuttering.
If I had the wings of an angel. The dirty black arse of a crow. I'd fly over BBC studios. And shit on the bastards below. Shit on, shit on, shit on the bastards below, below.
I never liked rugby league, it must be said. Decapitated ears and concave heads. My interest held by just one thing. The greatest commentator ever--Eddie Waring.
Polo has the biggest pitch of any ball game. Polo has the biggest idiots. On the biggest pitch of any ball game. Polo has the biggest idiots. With the biggest bank accounts.
British champion for fifty years. Easily beats all his challengers. Bored of always being the best. He'd rather be like all the rest. Miscuing shots and fluffing smashes.
Michaelangelo was a genius. Artist, architect, physician. The darling of the Florentine scene. Inventor, scientist, mathematician. But less well-known are his regular stints.
It's not so much the distance nor the time it takes. It's not even the cold nor the pains or aches. I can cope with blisters and the weight of my pack.
Both players and watchers,. No-one knows the rules. That's what makes the game so great. "Just get out there. And slug your opponent!". That's what makes the game so great.
Yuppies, I've been taught,. Are keen on sport. Two slices wholemeal loaf. Into towelette jogging suit. Once round the park. Quick game of squash. Staving off a heart attack.
Complete control of mind and matter. Concentration, manipulation. Movements swift, deadly, graceful. Applying oneself with dedication. Martial arts, an ancient skill.
Three steps forward, two steps back. Oblivious to all around. Psyching up for the big jump. Breathing getting deeper. Then charging down the track. Hitting the board just right.
England's goalkeeper since Gordon Banks. Consistent, reliable, a safe pair of hands. But despite all his saves and all his acrobatics. I can't help recalling something more dramatic.
I got a skateboard. Oo-ee-oo!. I'm skating down the street. With my trucks all new. Here comes the NME. Coming into view. Looking for a gimmick. That it can screw.
Watch Ben Johnson on TV. Or try to beat your own PB. The choice is yours. You decide. Get square eyes. Or get outside!.
Birds strung on barbed wire hanging in the sun. Grouse moors trampled to the crack of guns. Greyhounds snapping at a hare on the run. Corpse of a fox when the day is done.
Bing played golf. Do-be-do-be-do. In the rain. Do-be-do-be-do. Struck by lightning. Do-be-do-be-do. Never again Do-be-do-be-do-be-do-be-do.
Every one of them, one in a million. Blaze a trail and tear up the past. Thank heaven for devils and sporting rebels. Count the black sheep, and stuff the rest.
The evolution of humankind. An opposing digit, the use of tools. Inventing the wheel, exploring space. Brain size still developing. Two men and a referee.
Jos Naylor of Wasdale. Greatest fell runner of our time. Running the mountains. And working the farm. Cutting the bracken. Constructing walls. Studded farm boots.