Little consolation

It’s of little consolation
that they say that we were plucky;
that, alas, on this occasion,
we were just a tad unlucky.
At the moment we’re deflated
at our quick elimination
and the spirit demonstrated
is of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that the plaudits keep on flying
for our steeled determination
and the way we kept on trying.
For they took us to the cleaners
with a joyous affirmation
and the gulf in class between us
is of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that they say that Spain are giants.
They fulfilled their reputation
and brushed off our grim defiance.
They’ve been eulogised and feted
as the greatest football nation
but (it can’t be overstated)
that’s of little consolation.

It’s of little consolation
that the scoreline wasn’t greater;
that the goal-count calculation
didn’t need a calculator.
Though we narrowly averted
a complete humiliation,
their chances not converted
are of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that our fans could not stop singing
in the fierce precipitation
that left each supporter wringing.
Though downhearted and frustrated,
they maintained our reputation
but the humour generated
is of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that there’s hope on the horizon;
that the coming generation
means our stock should soon be risin’.
For we’re caught up in the story
of last night’s sad consternation
and the hope of future glory
is of little consolation.

Incantation

Eye of toad and chin of elk;

leg of worm and jaw of whelk;
shamrock leaf and mildew’d fungus
(for the sugar-tongued among us);
ragglewort and liverfluke;
camel’s spit and baby’s puke;
deadly nightshade, picked and pressed;
milk from alligator’s breast;
blood of dodo, hair of Rooney,
ear of bat and smile of Clooney;
claw of bullfinch, herring’s nipple;
double vodka (or a triple);
and as you stir this strange creation,
chant the sacred incantation –

“Let Alonso’s big toe fester;
strain the groin of Iniesta;
tug the ligaments of Xavi;
let Busquets lose his football savvy;
spread butter on Casillas’ fingers;
make sure Arbeloa malingers;
let Jordi Alba’s muscles crumble;
let Ramos’s appendix rumble;
let Silva’s legs begin to stumble;
let Fabregas’s stock now tumble;
let violent sores o’errun Piqué;
but, most of all, let Torres play.”

The morning after

Sometimes we can’t do the unexpected;
sometimes we can’t upset the odds;
sometimes we just feel so dejected
and wonder why we’ve irked the football gods.


Sometimes Shay Given proves he’s mortal;
sometimes hard graft is not enough;
sometimes we look back through time’s portal
and hearken for a younger Keane and Duff.

Sometimes our errors will be pounced on;
sometimes our passes go astray;
our optimistic nature will be bounced on
and all our hopes and dreams will melt away.

Sometimes we’re punished for our messin’;
sometimes we’ll punch at our true weight;
sometimes we will be taught a lesson;
sometimes we’re frowned upon by fate.

Sometimes we get a sinking feeling;
sometimes we will not scale the heights;
sometimes reality comes stealing;
last night proved to be one of those nights.

Back with a whimper

Make a mistake in the qualifiers
and you may ride your luck.
Make mistakes in the finals
and you come unstuck.
So they put us under pressure
and we made mistakes.
We could have recovered
but they got the breaks.

At the highest level
we must retain the ball
if we’re going to have
any chance at all.
For they’re so damn ruthless
when they get a sniff,
that it takes but a second
to send our dreams skew-whiff.

The first was a header
from a long way out
there didn’t really seem to be
any danger about,
but it swung deceptively,
swooped in like a ghost,
crept in like a demon
just inside the post.

The second was a gift,
a stray pass from Ward,
when presents were the thing
we could least afford.
And although he was fouled
when he tried to clear,
the ref didn’t see it
and the price was dear.


The third was regrettable;
we stood off too long,
allowed time for the cross,
which was firm and strong.
The header flashed in,
hit the post, rebounded,
went in off Shay
as he stretched out grounded.


But we’d cause to cheer
with St. Ledger’s goal
to show the world we’d sugar
still in the bowl.
And all is not lost now,
although we feel the pain –
we’ll be right back on track, boys,
when we hammer Spain.

Jonnie Walters

Fist-pumping, awkward-jumping,
arms, elbows, knees bumping,
sharp-cunning, strong-running,
lack of grace, in your face,
always in the right place,
finger-licking, high-kicking,
watch the centre-backs bricking,
hard-shooting, executing,
pushing, fowling, disemboweling,
lurking, prowling, grunting, growling,
big, ugly, always scowling,
brave, fearless, mighty, peerless,
old-fashioned, highly-passioned,
barrel-chested, never bested,
every ball contested,
head-splitting, hard-hitting,
unthinkable, unsinkable,
sabre-rattling, always battling,
plundering and thundering,
tearing-folks-asunder-ing,
shoving, pushing, grappling, rushing,
flying tackle, bone-crushing,
goal-getting, target-setting,
often ends up in the netting,
Edith Piaf, no regretting,
man-o’-war, dinosaur,
matador, conquistador,
axe-blow through the bathroom door,
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s
Jonnie!

Euro 2012 D Day Minus 2

I’ve been out searching frantically for bunting
but seemingly I’ve left it far too late.
In every store, I’ve been reduced to grunting
when shop assistants tell it to me straight.
All I wanted was to decorate
the little patch of land my house is fronting,
but sadly, I had too much on my plate
and now I’ve gone and missed the boat for bunting.


Did no-one think the country might need bunting
and ship it in from China by the crate?
Or is this poxy Euro crisis blunting
the business acumen within the state?
My fruitless search has now begun to grate
but I’ve no option but to go on hunting,
unless I want to be (in our estate)
the only sap without a bit of bunting.

Euro 2012 D Day Minus 3

And so,
days before a major Finals,
an Irish midfielder breaks ranks,
skips past the despairing lunge
of a thick-skulled manager,
and runs to the arms of the press,
complaining about training.

Quite unprecedented, of course.

Oh, Aiden,
ask poor Kevin Foley if he thought
training was too draining.
I’m sure the Black Sea in June
is very beautiful. Can you imagine yourself
stretched out, dozing on a sunbed
as we take the field in Poznan?

http://www.herald.ie/sport/soccer/mcgeady-irish-squad-is-jaded-3128937.html