When I play cricket. I'm the longest at the wicket. I can jump and swim. And I live in the gym. But I can't come to terms. With my existence as part of the universe.
Posed like swallows before a dive. Five lanes, and on the left hand side. Stands Tubby Barlow wet with fear. Not quite sure what he's doing there. On your marks, get set, and they're in.
Too many crap programs. With too many adverts. Too much Matthew Engel bullshit. And not enough dirt. Media and programs. All dull and mundane. How to fill up space.
Another Sunday match again. Another Merseyside clash again. It's the 36th this season. By my calculations. That's when I made the decision. To stay in the lower divisions.
Step by step. Climbing to the top. Eddie the Eagle. The epitome of sport. Not for the winning. Or the advertising deals. Not for the money or glory. Just for taking part.
I always wanted to play. In the school football team. But the coach said I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't no good it seemed. I used to watch them practice.
The new games tutor was like any other teacher. Same blatant ideology they're trying to install in you. At every opportunity they'd press us to compete.
There'll be new events in Seoul '88. Throwing the molotov and the hundred meter loot. Hurdling over barricades putting the brick. Vaulting over riot cops in the peoples Olympics.
Dipping into his Filofax. He wonders who he can buy next. "C'mon, Play the game the Maxwell way. And you'll never lose, come what may". There'll be the Maxwell League.
Hurling, the national sport of Ireland. Was banned in 1366. As part of an Anglo-Norman attempt. To crush all Gaelic resistance. It failed. Over six hundred years of British repression.
The millionaires are closing ranks. Tax-dodging in the race to the bank. Listen for the slamming of the stable doors. After the horse has bolted. Trapped fingers, and someone's to blame.
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.
This is gonna be one of those nights. I already made the call, came home kinda tipsy, feeling kinda lonely yea, lets blame it on the alcohol. This is gonna be one of those things, we can never ever talk about,.
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.