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Actionable Replay Attend!


I tell a story


of majesty and glory and law in our fair country, as just for rich as sundry.


Two years ago and twenty, my weekends being empty, I used to be a goalie, an amateur, not wholly.


`Ere misery on Mondee we used to play on Sundee, hungover and unsteady and pining for our beddy.


The team was pretty leery, less talented than scary, more physical than Ali, less rhythmical than Marley.


Our style, in short, unpretty, effective, hard and gritty made oppositions wary and toothless, like the fairy.


We stuffed our way to vict’ry and booked our place in hist’ry and knocked out teams so wimpy they left the pitch all limpy.


We played the final finely but in the minute ninety some ginger-nut shot through me; we lost the cup by two-three.


The striker’s effin’ volley defined me as a wally, as absent as a yeti, and useless as Bonetti.


Thereafter – there’s no myst’ry – my life wore down to mis’ry, my jobs were always temp’ry and girlfriends all perempt’ry.


While ostracised by mummy and friendless, broke and slummy, disdained, distraught and muggee, I fast became a druggie.


As body withered sickly, the years would slither quickly, ‘though by the age of fifty my ticker still was nifty.


Addressed, “Dear Mr. Carney,” a note, spectacularly read, “Come and do your duty in court, no choice, no booty.”


34


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