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Monday, 30 January 2012

Follicular Folly

It all began with John Utaka:
The setter of a trend,
He shaved the sides of his head
And spiked it up on top.
Now half the world has followed suit,
Neymar took it a little too far,
His peacocked mane the antithesis to, say,
Kyle Walker's graduated helmet.

But despite the changes and variations
Footballers all look the same
There's a certain breed of defender
Who is identified
By a kind of specific style
Which betrays an empty mind.
Arsenal have Koscielny, Chelsea John Terry,
Tottenham Michael Dawson, to name but three.
This kind of hair a compromise
To halt all kinds of pain,
For if too short you might be Richard Dunne,
Too long, Coloccini.
But the one hairstyle they all avoid
To a man, all but two,
That which grows on the heads of a famous duo -
The chuckle brothers of defending,
A Scottish tour de force,
Please god no, don't sign a Caldwell,
That's not what money's for.

Imagine challenging for a header
With big Kenwyne Jones -
Good in the air you say? No!
Just look at that hair!
Who wants to jump with that thing,
A mace of tangled knots,
Risk or tooth or being knocked out,
It's only Kenwyne Jones.

No these aren't the days of abominations,
No mullets or combovers,
But now it seems more than ever
Footballers all have terrible hair.
How does Drogba get away with that thing on his head?
There's no excuse for Raul Meireles,
Nor his hair...
But there is a small insurrection,
Outsiders, led by a few,
Leighton Baines' post-Best burns
And Parker's brylcreemed mop
They lead the way and show the rest
They don't have to give up.

Monday, 16 January 2012


"Demand me nothing: what you know, you know:
From this time forth I never will speak word."
I sprung hopeful from the guilded La Mascian shrine,
A Piedmontese holiday
A fine tour from the Adriatic to Castellón.
But here I sit my talents rotten
Bathing in the grim Solent
A career where nothing substantial did I provide
Where no one expects, no jewels in my crown.
Cast out from Iberia, the alps did not sustain,
So now this rotten isle my home!
O! Jerusalem!
My sword lay dormant, unclasped for too long
Today my final chance at gold.