Gunners (from the Fitba collection)

Gunners

The beautiful game

Played professionally by men

Who glow like stars. Gods for

Ninety minutes to a

Baying crowd of 200

At fever pitch, for Cambridge City.

How queer.

Not quite as beautiful

When played with a bald patch

A paunch. Stumpy legs

Make short passes when

Subbing for Torquay.

Fourth division, the joy division.

Coulda been a contender.

Here we go

Here we go

Here we go

Here we here we here we fuckin go

You are a body language expert

Character observer extraordinaire:

Screwed up eyes. Slumped shoulders.

High fives. Clenched fists. Hand claps.

Open arms. Upturned palms.

Pointing and a raised hand: 'I know my limits'

And then.

For one moment you are a God.

Blonde striker glowing like a star melting your wonky Match of the Day tape

With sheer burning glory

A pass. Not a goal: 'I know my limits'

But in that moment

You are Alan Smith.

Here we go

Here we go

Here we go

Here we here we here we fuckin go

Unthinkably beautiful

At eleven. The fatal

Realisation. Always

Unattainable. You will

Never play for the Gunners.

Blue never becomes red.

The beautiful game

Played in the English way:

With passion. Talent is not

The issue when real life

Gets in the way. Peripherals

Orbit you like satellites.

Your crowd is always at fever pitch.

Here we go here we go here we go