Competition 3452 invited you to write an ode to the World Cup. The entries flew in and many of them were magnificent. Tom Adam, Shirley Curran, Nick Syrett, Basil Ransome-Davies, Elizabeth Fry, Bill Greenwell, Andy Simpson, Janine Beacham (plus others) all ought to have qualified really, but so should Italy. In the event, the £25 vouchers go to those below.
Jules Rimet should be living at this hour!
To see the world uniting and at peace;
To see how football still retains the power
To honour the ideals of Ancient Greece:
Of human dignity and harmony
Of friendship between nations – see Iran
Participating proudly in Group G!
While USA (Group D) has its game plan:
Obliterate that friendly rival’s land,
Bomb Panama, build Mexico a wall,
Ensure that all unwanted fans are banned,
From Haiti, Côte d’Ivoire and Senegal.
The rest? A cool five hundred pounds a ticket
And thirty thousand for the final game,
To watch your heroes chase a ball and kick it –
The People’s World Cup – worthy of that name!
David Silverman
The World Cup’s in America,
Which is all very well,
But airfare’s trebled, and you can’t
Afford any hotel,
And if you do decide to go
And see who’s going to win,
Make sure you’ve bought a visa or
They might not let you in,
And when they reach the final round
To see who comes out top,
The tickets for the match will cost
About 5K a pop.
But that gold cup’s too shiny
To sit on someone’s shelf,
And therefore Donald Trump will claim
That he won it himself.
Brian Murdoch
O Mondiale, I give you thanks,
You’re mainly hosted by the Yanks;
For, cosy, I’ll be sound asleep
When pundits pass their judgments deep.
O FIFA, tell just why and how
The Carib isle of Curaçao
Can play beyond the wide Missouri
But not the eminent Azzuri?
The ticket price would buy a car,
And yet they’ll come from near and far
To watch Qatar v. Switzerland
(The mountains play against the sand).
Please let us, once, be top banana
Or else, at least, knock over Ghana,
Or, very least – this matters lots –
Permit us to outlast the Scots.
Frank Upton
Oh joy! and coming soon: the starting date
inked on my soul, and bigger meaning better
this time round. Forty-eight teams (not long to wait!),
a month and more of footie: that’s red-letter!
I’ve got my sickies mapped. The geography’s
good too (if you ignore the USA
grabbing the most – could that be sleaze?)
so Mexico and Canada each play
a starring role. Uzbekistan’s (first time)
a wild card, but why not? We love the way
the giants can get toppled in their prime
while underdogs break through and steal the day.
And to complete this idyll in preview
pubs will be staying open until 2.
D.A. Prince
The White Wolves of the land of Tamerlane
Have wakened, and will shake the world again.
Our lean and hungry pack in Mexico
Will soon kick off their glorious campaign.
Kupkari is a better sport, of course
(A view all Central Asia will endorse).
The world won’t play that with us, for they know
You’ll never beat an Uzbek on a horse.
Despite the lack of horses, we have planned
Manoeuvres other teams won’t understand.
And oh, what keepy-uppy skills we’ve honed
Along the golden road to Samarkand!
The western nations’ disillusionment
When – after all the dollars that they’ve spent –
We win the thing will give us such a buzz
As football comes to its true home: Tashkent.
Bob Newman
O sacred globe, where nations roar and weep,
For twenty-two men chasing leather round;
The pubs erupt, the commentators shriek,
As if Atlantis had been newly found.
A pass! A dive! A whistle! Cue the tears –
The flags, the chants, the tribal lager-froth;
Ninety long minutes stretched to feel like years,
While I contemplate a newly varnished cloth.
Give me instead a canvas, wet and bright,
A resin bloom, a slow chromatic tide;
Let others praise the penalty at night –
I’ll watch quinacridone crimson dry with pride.
So kick your ball, let stadiums convulse;
I’ll take the shed, the brush, the drying pulse.
Andy Myers
World Cup time comes: we England fans go pubbing,
Our bloating bellies proud in England shirts.
We’ll wave our England flags until the drubbing
Which German lager drowns – and though that hurts,
World Cup time’s here: we England fans keep watching,
We’ve punditry to slur throughout each game,
We’ll drown the hopes that just got one more scotching
And bawl out songs as if we knew no shame.
World Cup time, then: match after match contested
By international types who’ve claimed ‘our’ sport;
We watch in awe as silk-smooth skills are bested
By flair, not smarting as, perhaps, we ought.
World Cup time goes, the final has transfixed us,
Its incidents and goals shown from all screens.
We England fans are roaring still – Invictus! –
Though, being English, aren’t sure what that means.
Adrian Fry
No. 3455: In the field
Glastonbury Festival is having a fallow year.You are invited to supply some local response to its absence (16 lines/150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 17 June.
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