Match of the Night

The cathedral is empty; the sermons have ended

The choir’s ethereal echoes have faded

No congregation here for seven more days

No tussle, no evil, no home or away

The floodlights are off now, the dank of the night

Re-devours its kingdom, extinguishes light

Which once fired up emotions of thouands of fans

Clad in replica shirts made in far Eastern lands

For a pittance in sweatshops, imported for more

And sold at huge profit in the club’s own store.

In the studio Alan and Ronald and Desmond

Take stock of the game and the goals and the tension.

DES: Alan, you know when that first goal went in

It was one heck of a strike, wasn’t it? What d’you think?

ALAN: Yes Des, he’s had so much time to control it

The defenders should get closer, get a block on it,

It’s a great hit of course but you know when it went in

You have to say that it was shocking defending.

DES: Ron, it was two nil immediately after –

To concede so quickly, is it a disaster?

RON: I know Alan was shouting and screaming

To be honest, I understood how he was feeling

The centre-half’s gone walkies but the this striker’s unique

From that angle to score – he’s got brilliant technique.

He’s opened his legs there, done his lollipop trick,

Give the goalie the eyes there, right on the back stick,

It’s a Hollywood ball to him from Stevie G

And he’s stuck it away, that was something to see.

But as for the lad who was on the back post

Just what he was doing? He should have got close.

The striker’s six foot but the full back is bigger.

In some schools they’d call him a fuDES: Sorry to stop you in full flow big man

But Garth’s got an interview just under the stand.

GARTH: Thanks Des, I’m here with the Ullapool boss

But first I must define ‘winning’ and ‘loss’

From a Cartesian point of view, Paul, what did you think

Or indeed if you do think, if thinking exists

Or does not. Was it Kant who once wrote in grace

That perception relied on inference of space

Albeit that we can’t see it we sense it’s there

Like Xavi did last week against Osasuna?

Or is it, bear with me, the theory you favour,

Like Karl Marx said about control of labour

Would you say, Paul, that football is very much the same,

You control the ball and you control the game or

Conversely in Keynseyan terms is it then, thus,

That demand and production are not linked as such

And on the pitch the ball is the flow of the cash

The goals the demand, the players the banksDES: Sorry to butt in Garth, you’re on a roll

But it’s the end of the programme about our football

To the viewers, thanks for watching, see you next week

Enjoy this new visit to Corrie - The Street.

The theme music plays. It’s a jaunty old tune

Got to number one during World Cup ‘92

The adverts change now; from beer to tea

From new boots to slankies to cruises at sea

Back at the ground the atmosphere is eerie

Too big to be silent, the emptiness really

An absence. From here, the pitch looks so big

Yet diminished. No studs, no flobbing, no sick

As a parrot, no over the moon, no remorse

At the missed open goal that would have changed the course

Of the game. Yet such moments live on in the minds

(Or the Sky Plus) of supporters biding their time

Til next game, where all’s zeroed, it’s 0-0, let’s go,

This time lads, let’s focus, put on a real show,

Perform how you can and we’ll get our deserts

Or next week, son, you’re sub for the fucking reserves.

The congregation’s gone; there’s more places to worship

More lifetimes and lovers and pains and amidst it

Comrades and enemies, two sides of a coin

Different colours outside, but all bleed just the same

From a last minute goal in a 2-1 defeat

An encompassing burning from bruised brain to feet

But despite the despondency, all the folks still know

They’ll be back for the next game to cheer on their heroes

The lights are all off now; the seats yawned and shut,

The gates locked, the ad boards turned off, just about,

A blackbird alights on the pitch for a second,

Looks around, finds nothing, cawks once.

Echo,

                                         echo.

                                                                 Ec

                                          Echo.

The lads in the studio’ve gone to the bar

To josh and to banter of golf games and cars

Supporters flop on to their couches and chairs

A quick beer, or cuppa, then pad up to beds.

But back at the ground, can we see?

In the distance, yes, we must look carefully:

With furrowed brow and too many adjectives to mention

It’s Garth on his own: still not finished his question.