The Away Game

em = By David McCartney
Thank God the match is over.

Long drawn out batting ...

Like England playing for a draw,

What a bore.
All aboard! Back on the bus, home again, yes.

Whoever left behind will have to clean up all the mess;

Blood on the goalposts, and the guernseys,

Dead bodies in the rough,

The dressing rooms in such a state

And “Bluey” forgot to flush.
Always the same

When you play an away game.

Turns into a grudge match.

And by the time you're home everyone's blind:

To the beer bottles broken hearts

Wrecked governments standstill economies

And corrupt referees,

That generally get left behind.
But it's not the carnage

I'm writing to complain about.

This was no game for peaceniks,

Everyone expected a bit of clout;

A bit of biff, a bit of push,

Otherwise we'd turn the dial,

The odd spear-tackle, the odd head-high,

The odd ground to-air missile.
What I'm on your bloody case about

Is that we missed seeing most of it.

And normally the telly's wonderful

When it comes to all the other bullshit

Cricket in Jamaica,

Rugger in France,

Jumping up and down in Woolloomoloo,

Marbles in Gdansk!
But the film coverage never quite did it justice,

Overshadowed as it was by our games,

And neglected by our Pop-star media,

And disguised by a variety of names --

Like police action, detente,

Peacekeeping force --

Instead of being named for what it was,

An “away game” Third World War.
The big names in sport

Were far too polite,

To play on their own home grounds.

So the Eastern bloc,

the Western bloc,

They went and did the rounds

Of smaller venues,

Quieter places, to host their Third World War.

Which is why we're told that number three:

“It never happened at all”.
But it did.
Leaving us with number four

To be looking forward to.

Let's hope, this time, they pick home grounds

As their preferred venue.

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