poeticwilkins

[poeticwilkins]

John Fashanu

“Did someone order a pizza?!” David Goodwillie sauntered through the dressing room at half-time, wearing only a skimpy pair of Dundee United briefs.

“I did – and I hope it’s a big one!” Christian Fuchs winked coyly as he covered himself with his Premier League winner’s medal.

“There’s nothing I enjoy more than a hot spicy stuffing,” echoed David Seaman. He knew it was the least consistent innuendo thus far, but fair’s fair, his ponytail gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“Hey lads,” minced Simon Cox, “room for a small one?!”

“Don’t forget about us, Simon – we three come together,” giggled both Balls, Michael and Kevin, the latter now pretty long in the tooth and hence chuffed just to be included.

“Sorry I’m late lads – but I heard someone wanted a hard tackle from behind,” purred Shane Long as he sashayed in and splayed himself over the team’s ballbag.

“As a goalkeeper, I’ve always said it’s important to get both hands wrapped around it,” said 32-time capped Portuguese shotstopper Quim, before going down under a heavy tug from Eidur Gudjohnsen.

“Especially when you’re sliding one down the inside channel,” agreed three more orb-handlers, Fabian Assman, Alphonse Areola and Hans Butt.

“Ooft! Naughty naughty!” said former Chelsea trainee Nortei Nortey.

Opening a nearby locker, Stefan Kuntz accidentally dumped its load on Rod Fanni. “Sorry about emptying those balls all over you, Rod,” Stefan laughed, pumping his fist in celebration.

The door swung open.

“Right boys,” gushed their Dutch Cup-winning manager, Foeke Booy, “it’s time to give you a thorough debriefing.”

Quim shuddered with anticipation.

“Let’s not overcomplicate things, guys,” said Foeke Booy. “You’ve been solid in behind - so you can thank your coaches for drilling it into you. Now, they’re going to try and penetrate us from different angles, getting into positions we don’t want to be in. They’ll get their big man up, he’s been coming through the back of people all night. So you’ve got to force them wider, get inside them, and drop off into the hole. They’ll do everything they can to go down on the edge of the D, so you’ll just have to take it on the chin. If their manager throws his inexperienced lad in, try to take advantage when his tail is up, especially if he thinks about coming but doesn’t. Make sure you raise your arm to signal it’s going to be a deep one. Alright lads – get ready to enter the action. It’s only a matter of inches, and for heaven’s sake make sure they feel this one tomorrow!”

As one, the whole team ejaculated. Ralf Minge licked his lips. Anil Koc gave Chiqui Arce a good rub down. And Joseph-Desire Job had Given Bellamy Speed.

John Fashanu woke up with a start. What a perplexing dream... Why did his secret fantasy gay sex team need five goalkeepers?!

[poeticwilkins]

How would I describe my writings? Like a big tasty slab of British beef. Word beef. (@poeticwilkins)

[poeticwilkins]

I'll be honest, I'm gunning for a publishing contract. Not quite Harry Potter proportions though - I'm actually quite frightened of magic to tell you the truth.... (@poeticwilkins)

[poeticwilkins]

A message from the author

‘Allo ladies and fellas.

From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry the site’s been undergoing maintenance for so long. I feel like a bit of a khyber for letting you all down. I dropped the ball. Blogging-wise, not literally - I’ll leave that to Peter Shilton! Actually I’ve still got Shilts’ copy of The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen, probably ought to give it back. Nah, sod him, he won’t miss it. Shilton wouldn’t recognise an exploration of American economic decline if it came up and bit him. You see, I’ve been trying to get the ol’ Tumblr looking pukka. I’ve republished some of this site’s most viewed poems and stories towards the top of the page: Dida, Wojciech Szczesny, Peter Bonetti, Rory Delap, etc. Why? Well, because a couple of journalists and a publisher caught wind of my little opus and have been sniffing around. I know! Qu’est-ce que le fuck?! The point is, ladies and fellas, when you last heard from ol’ Butch I was still out managing Jordan. Don’t get me wrong, they were a cracking bunch of lads. Although I was a bit cheeky sometimes: I used to send ‘em on 12k runs in the midday sun, and told ‘em I spent the time researching our next opponent, but actually I was just watching Sky Arts 1. Classique moi! No but seriously, when we weren’t training I got ‘em interested in beat poetry. No pressure, just come on down and have a naughty little declaim. Amer Shafi (117 caps) wrote an absolutely blinding haiku about a swan. Honestly, goosebumps.

And before games, they all begged me to scrap the tactics slideshow and read aloud to ‘em. Now I was more than happy to ditch the projector - I’ve always been scared of the whirring - so I just opened up Anna Karenina and let fucking rip. And to be fair there’s now absolutely nothing those Jordanian boys don’t know about Russian agriculture. People say it’s hard to imagine me reading Anna Karenina. It’s probably hard to imagine me in head-to-toe all-white linen and sandals, but I nailed that too. So it was always gonna be tough, leaving those Jordanian boys behind. 

But look, when a Premier League club comes calling, you’ve got to have a little think about it. And if that Premier League club happens to be managed by Tim ‘Victorian Realist’ Sherwood, you just pack your bags as fast as you can and grab a Moleskine, because there is nothing that man doesn’t know about Thomas Hardy.

I mean it, nothing. I’ve seen it written that his nickname as a player was ‘Slippery’, and the media called him ‘Tactics Tim’. That’s as may be. But on the training ground, if you didn’t call him ‘the Mayor of Casterbridge’ he’d nut ya. Simple as.

So there I was. Assistant Manager of Aston Villa Football Club. When we took over the club were perennial underachievers and relegation battlers, and I was damned if I wasn’t going to keep it that way.

But no sooner had I sat at my desk and sussed out the nearest Waterstones (New Street, open till 6.30pm, tidy), the wind changed. The shadows were closing round Tim. We returned to pre-season and the gillyflowers bloomed under my windows and the chestnut lit the streets and the warm stones strewed their flakes upon the terraces; but it was not as it had been; there was mid-winter in Tim’s heart.

As you all know, in the end the Mayor of Casterbridge and I were sacked in October. But truth be told Tim had already left - in here (I’m touching my temple with my forefinger).

So stop all the bloody clocks, because there’ll be no more poems or short stories on this site for a little while. Instead, I have made the monumental decision to publish my diary entries 25 June-25 October 2015, totally unabridged. You know, less Pepys and more Eto’o, Samuel-wise. Or think of me perhaps as a less brave but significantly more 4-4-2 savvy Anne Frank.

Today a new chapter begins. So please, follow on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PoeticWilkins. And do go back and reread some of my earlier work below - Gianfranco Zola and Gerard Pique are statistically the most viewed, but I hold a special affection for Niko Kranjcar and Juan Mata. Oh, and do please tell all your friends as well.

But, most importantly of all, tell any and all publishers you happen to know about this niche naughty little publication, because I’ve got a mortgage the size of Emile Heskey and twice as hard to offload.

Cushty,

RW.

[poeticwilkins]

Sorry to toot my own horn, fellas, but I genuinely can't remember the last time I woke up and didn't immediately jot down some flawless anapaestic tetrameter.... (@poeticwilkins)

[poeticwilkins]

Dida

Hernán Crespo emptied a bottle of bubbly over Cafu’s headand began licking champagne off the Brazilian pocket-rocket’s pate.

25 May 2005, the Atatürk Stadium, Istanbul. 8.40pm. And in the A.C. Milan dressing room, things were really getting quite out of hand.

“Guys, I can’t believe that though there is another half of this Champions League Final still to be played, we are already three goals to the good!” exclaimed Jaap Stam.

“Yes we know, Jaap,” said Andrea Pirlo, who was throwing some pretty spicy shapes to Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz, a song which had only just been released and featured rap verses by American hip-top trio De La Soul.

“One imagines that, in contrast to our jubilation, the mood in the Liverpool F.C. camp must be really quite despondent,” said Stam.

“Yes Jaap, that would make sense,” replied Jon Dahl Tomasson, patiently. “Why don’t you go and gaze at the shiny tiles in the showers?”

“Ok!” said Jaap Stam. So he did.

On the other side of the dressing room, Rui Costa had cracked open a Grolsch and was tucking into a pork pie. Alessandro Nesta was giving Kaká a piggyback. Manager Carlo Ancelotti was just running around with no shirt on.

Then, suddenly, a hush spread across the dressing room. The players noticed Dida had taken a shoebox out of his bag and had placed it in middle of the floor. Intrigued, everyone gathered around whispering – except Jaap Stam, who was still in the showers, mesmerised by the way light glistens off wet tiling.

“What’s in the box, Dida?” asked Serginho. “Yeah, what’s in the box?” echoed Kakha Kaladze. “I’m excited,” said Vikash Dhorasoo. Everyone turned to look at him, nobody entirely sure when he’d signed or even who exactly he was.

“Oh, what, this?” Dida shrugged. “Nothing special really.”

“Is it a toy plane?” quizzed Paolo Maldini. “Or is it a digger, a remote-controlled digger?” gasped Andriy Shevchenko. “Is it tiles?” asked Jaap Stam, who’d quietly joined at the back.

“Really guys, it’s nothing,” Dida murmured nonchalantly. “It’s only…a terrapin!”

“Oooooooh!” Everyone stood on tiptoes, craning to see the tiny turtle cautiously emerge from its shoebox.

“See that, there,” Clarence Seedorf pointed repeatedly, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet, “that’s a diamondback terrapin, that is! They’re native to North America, and they eat shrimp, clams, and also crabs!”

“Don’t show off, Clarence,” said Dida.

“Who gave it to you?” asked Christian Abbiati.

“Heurelho Gomes. For my birthday. He’s got loads of them.”

“The diamondback terrapin is relatively common; whereas the northern river terrapin, or Batagur baska, is critically endangered…”

“Shut the fuck up, Clarence.” Dida scooped up his pet. “Now this was meant to be a treat for after the game, but seeing as we’re doing so well – who wants to hold the terrapin?”

“Me!” shouted Kaká. “No, me!” shouted Nesta. “No, I do, pick me!” shouted Pirlo. “I won’t kill it,” whispered Gennaro Gattuso. “I promise I won’t kill it.”

“Right, form an orderly queue,” commanded Dida, “except for you, Gattuso. Not after last time. Now, you can each stroke the terrapin for one minute, and when everybody’s had a go, you can take turns holding it and maybe feeding it some terrapin food. How does that sound?”

“I’m not even concentrating on the second half anymore, Dida. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I am now,” Jaap Stam beamed, gently patting the creature’s shell. “If anything, compared to playing with your terrapin, the second half will be a total non-event.”

Then some football happened. But all any of the Milan players could think about was that little terrapin. That little terrapin tucked away in its shoebox. They had all fallen in love. And, at the end of the day, that’s what football’s all about really. Love. And terrapins.

[poeticwilkins]

My old mate Joe Kinnear's popped over to watch 'Brideshead Revisited'. Just now, when he popped to the loo, I picked up the copy of 'Nuts' magazine he brought with him. Sure enough, there was a pamphlet on Gothic architecture hidden within. That's classic Joe! To be honest, what he doesn't know about the flying buttresses of European cathedrals isn't worth knowing.... (@poeticwilkins)

[poeticwilkins]

Wojciech Szczesny

Wojciech Szczesny strolled through Highbury and Islington, shoulders back and chest puffed out, pleased as punch. For his was the highest scoring surname in Scrabble of all Premier League footballers, and he wanted everyone to know it.

“What about Januzaj?” people sometimes asked. “Pah! He’s only a 30. I’m a 31!” "How about Azpilicueta?” “A mere 24, poor thing!” “Oxlade-Chamberlain? 34 by the looks of…” “Right, that’s hyphenated, that doesn’t count, that DOES NOT COUNT.”

And so for years and years Szczesny strode on, cocksure and proud as a peacock.

Until Alvaro Vazquez signed for Swansea and fucked everything up.

[poeticwilkins]

Time for a kip. But not before I absolutely smash 'Timon of Athens'. (@poeticwilkins)

[poeticwilkins]

Steve Bruce

Steve Bruce had run out of patience. This meeting with the technical staff and the scouting department had been going on for over two hours and yet they were no nearer finalising a comprehensive list of transfer targets for the season ahead. Enough was enough.

Steve jumped up and grabbed his tracksuit top. “I’m bored of this, I’m going for a Twix!” Although he stomped out of the room angrily, inwardly Steve was pretty chuffed at having pulled out his favourite Peter Mannion quote from Series 4 of The Thick Of It.

That being said, it turned out the vending machine in the hallway didn’t have Twixes. It didn’t even stock Rolos for crying out loud! Steve frantically squinted for the Cadbury’s Double Decker Duo he’d clocked the night before, but it was gone. Mo Diame would have seen to that early doors, Steve mused.

Sheepishly and feeling not a little bit small, Steve shuffled back into the meeting. Once seated, he put on his spectacles and silently but effectively demolished a Bounty.

[poeticwilkins]

Sir Alex Ferguson

♪♪ Hey Ruud, Pull back a tad, Take on Boumsong, And mind Arteta ♪ ♪ ♪

Sir Alex tore up the paper. There was no doubt about it, his team talks were getting worse.

[poeticwilkins]

Surprised by the number of fellas writing in to ask old Butch for a Spenserian sonnet. I've told ya, three quatrains and a couplet just ain't my style. Simple as. (@poeticwilkins)

[poeticwilkins]

Rory Delap

Having wiped it down thoroughly with a special absorbent towel, Rory Delap took his six step run-up and hurled the neighbours’ dachshund over the M6.

“Still got it.”

[poeticwilkins]

Peter Bonetti

Some people called Peter Bonetti ‘The Cat’, Which was ironic because He wasn’t a cat.

Other people called Peter Bonetti ‘The Cat’ Because he enjoyed sitting on Dave Sexton’s lap In the afternoons.

[poeticwilkins]

Andy Townsend

Roses are red, Violets are blue, Andy Townsend is co-commentating, I want to murder a village.

[poeticwilkins]

Freddie Ljunberg

One night late in 2005, Freddie Ljunberg and Robert Pires were out clubbing in Earl’s Court when they ended up in a scuffle with two yobs.

“You fuckin’ want some, you ponce?!” sneered one of the troublemakers.

“Alright,” said Freddie. “I was thinking about some sort of naked Turkish mud wrestling?”

“Yes, I know you were Freddie,” interjected Pires, “but we’ve got to have this fight first.”

[poeticwilkins]

Right, that's it for today from old Butch. I'm off to chow down on some lentils, ramp up Vivaldi to 11 and smash 'Love in the Time of Cholera'. Cushty! (@poeticwilkins)