OTHER SIDE OF THE PAGE

OTHER SIDE OF THE PAGE

This be
the poem

where according to your
reasoned suggestions

I deleted every word
considered superfluous

every image
that did not fit

so please let me
know if it
reads better, conforms
to your high standards
(you
   could scribble your response
somewhere in
the margin

    or on the other
side of the page).

BABEL

BABEL

everybody talking
nobody hearing
nobody listening

not the poets
even the poets
especially
    not the poets

for where
   are the old guys, what
happened those brigades
who came to
Spain, who streamed
in to Catalonia?

those old universalists,
absurd internationalists,
comic characters in
every historical
                       drama

so beautiful their
pipe dream of comradeship,
a lovely insanity
that could not hold
yet
   might have
saved us

not that I am here to knock
the appeal of all those
Caesars and Francos
rewriting the law
from the vaunted
point of advantage
of their
    glorious, golden,
divinely ordained thrones

telling it
      like it is, like it
has to be

polishing a set of shared words
until
    their speech being
all light
and fire

burn like suns
bright beyond question

AH, MANCHESTER UNITED

AH, MANCHESTER UNITED

Ah, Manchester United
just like during the blitz
we took a direct hit

bomb not loaded
with TNT, Vorsprung mit
Technik Waffen
loaded with
Stateside shit

two in a row
actually

we
muscled up
against City
with all
out false nines
and fake
fullbacks

and forgot
how to play

then our little
archangel in process
           (looks

more
like an imp)
entire foundation
for our future

now wants greener
pastures in hot
languid
Spain (could
settle for
Catalonia, the whole
world wants him
already
   knows his name)

but talking of names,
this name
     once illustrious,
is
   beginning to
fade

thing is
      this is said to be
an illustrious name
this is supposed to be
ultimate
football Mecca, given
the moniker
Theatre of Dreams

but gravity
cruel, greedy, only
in it for
the money gravity
got its
finger
       in the half-
time pie, light-
bending coils about
this club,
     strangling
its players, chopping blocking
its teams

begging
    a best fit for
purpose answer to
this question:

why do so many
coming here
      to play
lose
their way?

be like footnotes 
         to the script
die like
extras
    in an epic, actors on stage
in a tragedy play?

United are back
United
are back

the ghosts of so many managers
desperate to
     hear that again.

THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF MANCHESTER UNITED


THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF MANCHESTER UNITED

Sometimes to say it like it is, to show things as they really are, ordinary language and the kind of thinking it limits us to won’t work. We need special language that exposes things, penetrates the fog. We need metaphor.

So here’s a metaphor for all those devastated United fans out there: slavery. Being a United fan is a kind of slavery.

When the Glazer family leveraged debt to purchase the club using the club itself as collateral, it was not just the players, the coaches, the stadium staff, the stadium itself and the brand name that got purchased. We got purchased too. We got bought and sold too. Like enslaved people throughout history we had no choice in the matter. Oh we could have said to ourselves, we don’t like this deal, we are going to walk away from it, it doesn’t touch us, we are free to take our support elsewhere: across the road to City, over the Pennines to Leeds United, down the Manchester Ship Canal to Liverpool, across the sea to Real Madrid. Yes, we were all free to make that move, maybe some of us actually did it. I discovered one United supporter who started supporting United 40 years ago and sick of the pain of supporting this club confessed to moving to City. But such cases are an impossibly small number. The overwhelming majority of United fans are stuck. In it for life, in it to the end, even if it means a truly disastrous 2026-2027 season, even if the club becomes a middle tier fallen giant for the rest of its history. The lesser second club in Manchester by far: Manchester’s Espanyol to City’s Barcelona.

We suffer. We suffer. We are slaves to the support we give, to the love that we have for this club, slaves to the way the owners treat us, the spin they sell us, the outright lies they tell us. If I offered you a Devil’s deal: a life lived in abject poverty as the price for United becoming the best team in the world, with its greatest players, mesmerizing everybody every week and winning everything, is this an offer you would reject out of hand? Slave’s rations. Isn’t that what we are getting as supporters every week?

The social media verdict on our transfer business going into this season was that it was the 15th best, in other words the 6th worst, in the Premier League. And that was before the calamities started to happen. The transfer business was believed by fans to be something truly special, transformative in midfield, plugging gaps and providing key backups to allow United to compete across all competitions. We had finished third. The incoming players would help us to challenge for the league title, progress in the Champions League and maybe win the Carabao or FA Cup. Well we seem to be heading into the relegation zone and we are out of the Carabao Cup already by virtue of a diabolical performance that actually shattered a long-standing record which had been a matter of huge pride. Losing at home after leading 2-0 for the first time in 50 years.

Which raises the issue of the perhaps total mismatch between supporter dreams, hopes and expectations and what the owners are prepared to allow. It may sound crazy to you for me to express it this way, but bear with me. Back to the slave metaphor. Keeping people in bondage means controlling expectations. Meeting expectations costs money and leads, quite naturally, to greater expectations. Winning the league provides financial rewards but it also needs huge investment even to become a possibility. So the investment could be made with the absolute aim of winning the league and yet prove to be unsuccessful. I am not certain of this but I suspect that in that season where United overhauled the lead Newcastle had established over them in the last few games to win the title, the season of Kevin Keegan’s famous outburst, was a season where they had invested more in order to win the title than we had, and we simply found an extra gear, swallowed their lead and beat them to it. There are no certainties in football. Except maybe that winning the domestic league immediately raises the expectation that the team can compete in the Champions League, maybe win it, wiping out Europe’s finest in the process. But this is a huge step up. It requires further investment.

United, it is now painfully clear, cannot make the kind of investment necessary to win, or seriously try to win, the Premier League, let alone the Champions League. Realistically all we can do is to get as close as we possibly can, given our financial limitations, which keeps us in the spotlight at least, helping to sustain the brand’s financial operations, and maintaining or increasing profit levels across the board. It is all about managing and controlling expectations within tight economic constraints.

Last season actually spelt out our ceiling: third, behind two of the rest of the big six, in the case of last season Arsenal and Manchester City. Great for supporters who at one stage feared missing out on entry into the Champions League, but maybe a little too high for our owners since fourth would have sufficed. Worse still, in securing third spot we narrowed the gap between ourselves and the runners up to a mere six points. And the runners up were Manchester City. For a whole decade we had finished lower than City and the gap had been in double digits. Suddenly we found ourselves breathing down their necks, and in our home game against them we had not just won but played them off the park. To United fans this was not just a sign that the team, if not the club entirely, could “be back”, but gave them the tantalizing hope against hope that the eternal order of Nature, the Universe, the Premier League, and football power in the city of Manchester could be restored: the law which asserts red will always have supremacy over sky blue.

If United fans had misgivings about whether the ownership could have recognized and set out to seize this historic moment, the sign that they had would have been to break the bank to sign Elliot Anderson and Aurelien Tchouameni, which they did not do, a wave of unexpected optimism broke out after football columnist Andy Mitten was permitted to interview United CEO Omar Berrada. Berrada spoke with what certainly seemed and felt at the time to be sincerity and conviction, revealing the owners’ project to transform the club positively, taking it into what began to sound like a new golden era.

I think that given where we actually find ourselves right now, it is difficult to take what Berrada told Mitten at all seriously. Were we being played? Certainly the mismatch between Berrada’s words and how the owners appear to be managing things could hardly be more starkly different.

Are we just stupid fans, easy to dupe, easy to control, easy to exploit because we can be bought and sold, slaves to our passion for and love of this club, a club clearly in serious decline and ever more shameless in the way it treats us.

That is the question at the heart of the People’s Republic of Manchester United. The republic still exists. It has no shares, no board seat, no vote. It lives in Old Trafford and in every living room where a man still checks the score at midnight. The politburo that owns it does not need it to win. It only needs it to keep hoping.

TO BE FAIR

TO BE FAIR

to be fair to Andy
he was sitting
there
   overawed
parked his sharpness, his
acumen at the door

sank down
in that theatre of dreams
chair of
   ultimate plushness
Omar’s supreme sanctuary
such a
fantasy football
Arabian Nights feel

and
    the man knows
words, he
can weave a web
of wizardry

Andy
   taken in, me
taken in
     every United fan and
pundit sent
reeling, instantly taken in

so we
    should not be
too hard on ourselves, these
were the tales
      we wanted to hear, were
desperate to believe

happy
    to be taken on
that giddy spin, hit
new heights,
               such

an unbelievable magic
carpet ride

sad
    to

wake up on that bone cold
terrace in
that draughty stand

a million miles from
our long lost palace

to be fair
        to Andy
feel
he, we won’t
get fooled again

never going to party
like it’s 1999

PANCAKE

PANCAKE

goddess-created, Oh
batter my heart
thou most
delectable of pancakes

drenched in syrup, she
of the honey fingers
has laboured
in her kitchen to
create you, true
paragon of foods

and there you
are rolled, stuffed
with incredible sweetness

sheer magic
        a masterpiece

each
   and every mouthful

a magic
carpet ride
               across deserts
across oceans

my heart suddenly open
to the dream
of
confection drawn
    as perfect circle

taste on my lips,
of infinite space

POEM OF SORTS

POEM OF SORTS

I was writing a poem
erasing words, scratching
through lines
as I wrote

couldn’t be sure
whether this were
a poem of
love
or hate

a poem of rebirth, renewal,
or death and extinction.

The more I erased
cut to shreds, slashed
through the page

the more intensely they came
image after image;
allusion after allusion

and so
the envelope I mailed you
was empty of
contents

you can imagine the
madness of
inspiration
unending labour,
pain of
creation

that produced this masterpiece
through version
upon version

delivered as it was in its final, unquestionable most perfect of states.

PINEAPPLE

PINEAPPLE

was commissioned,
instructed

to write a short story
about a pineapple
that can talk

so not knowing
where to start
I asked pineapple
to write
the story for me

and so
pineapple promised
to write
me my
story

knowing that this
was  request
I simply
could not, would not
wish to refuse

and so
pineapple came up
with
      its story
making it short
but
   sweet and
(obviously) unsliced

FOCUS

FOCUS

I am everything
the sea had to do
to create
a single molecule of me
or, even better,
a grain of sand

I am the pressure your brain
brought to bear
to create this
diamond of a combination
targeting that square
in one
supreme swoop

this board the test and
measure of our evolution

and then
      what we have here
those neurons firing, the
quantum field
shifting
   accordingly having its say

a titanic battle
to get this out
onto the page

and yet
    it looks so ordinary, reads
run-of-the-mill

been
done before but better,
passe, cliche.