This weekend's game is massive. To commemorate the moment, I have
penned the following poem. Enjoy it, lads.
The Road to Blackburn
We got up early and made some toast.
We had a wash and put on our pants.
We had a shave and a shit.
We had a pint and we were ready.
Off we went on the road to Blackburn at home.
Going along the Chester Road to Erdington.
Me, Mac, SoccerHQ and Karl Bridges.
We were listened to Spandau Ballet and smoking JPS.
Then we parked the car and met up with some people.
Dave Woodhall was there, saying: "I remember the 1970s."
And we all agreed. And then we talked about our favourite smells.
Grease, boiling kettles, wood, soft toys and old men.
Up pulled Jonny Collett, pulling skids in his flash new motor.
"Alright Jon," said SoccerHQ. "Got a new motor?"
Then we made our to Villa Park, singing our famous anthem.
Pah, pah, pah! Pah, pah, pah! Dah, dah! Pah, pah, pah! Pah, pah, pah!
Then the match. Bent pounced from a yard, like a young Ian Olney.
Young, Gabby, Dunne. Four-nil. Then three more in the second from Bent.
We all cried and sang, like the old days of The Holte.
And we left the ground with a smile and a wink.
Then off to the Barton's for a pint or three.
We chanted and held arms. Some held hands.
Some men cupped each other slenders. It was that kind of day.
Women sang, too. And Andy Gray. But not Richard Keyes.
"A great day," said Mac as he downed his whiskey and bitter.
"Ladyboys," muttered Eastie, as we all laughed at some cheese.
"I need a piss," said Risso, phoning in from his Isle of Man castle.
"A great day," seconded Glenn Peen, as he cut off his chap.
