Tag Archives: football

TOLCHOK 79

TOLCHOK 79

got clockworked by a plod
me and my droogs we did

basically copped us
soon as we tumbled out
to play
ball in the street
just round the corner
from the Maine Road stadium

and he
ruffled our feathers, may.have
been a fat fuck
but was
really
up for it

and there we were
just out for fun
have a bil of
a kickabout
(nothing too
revolutionary)

thought
      being close to
an old bomb site, would
not be
worrying
nobody

the sky sky blue
but three of us reds
and the fourth
of us
for Arsenal

good
   that he

want to protect
this neighborhood from us
but
   we all in the shadow,
of the SS-20s

and him
desperate to take us down
cart us off
down to the station
in his tiny car

but we
      gave him the look
and a
few choice words

spelling out how that
would not
have been

a good
idea

this on the eve
of the Thatcher election
about
   to kill

that Britain of old, finally,
definitively

once
and for all

got clockworked by a plod
we did
   came so close
to a brutal tolchokking
purely
    in self-defence Your
Honour
(that Peterloo mindset
hard
   to forget)

as you sow
so shall you reap
(maxim valid
for the police and
State
      dystopia displacing
all hope of
dreamscape)

only
   wanted to
play football, national sport,
favourite pastime,
that bottle
    in blue, par
for the course
misreading wholesale,
P.O.V. skewed
completely

thought
    we were going Alex
Delarge

about to turn punk
proletarian evil

in this city
     where Marx and
Engels

saw
    the machinery of
power and profit
in what
they saw.


CERTIFICATE OF EXONERATION

CERTIFICATE OF EXONERATION

Regarding the FIFA World Cup 2026 Semi-Final: England vs Argentina, Atlanta
Issued this day in Mahikeng, South Africa, July 2026

Let it be known that I, the undersigned, being a supporter in good standing of: 
Manchester United, the San Francisco 49ers, Mamelodi Sundowns, the Natal Sharks, the Springbok Rugby Team, Boca Juniors, and yes — the England National Association Football Team

Do hereby DECLARE AND CERTIFY the following individuals wholly GUILTLESS and EXONERATED from all blame, shame, and generational trauma arising from the abysmal, unforeseen, unprecedented, historic and supremely cowardly surrender to the Argentinian football team in the final forty minutes of the aforementioned semi-final:

THE EXONERATED:
1. *Ollie Watkins*
2. *Kobbie Mainoo*
3. *And any other players who did not receive a single minute of playing time*

This Certificate affirms that the above-named cannot and shall not be held responsible for the hideous psychological scarring inflicted upon supporters of the England National Team, and English people more generally, the effects of which are likely to persist for generations.

FURTHERMORE, I take this opportunity to REPUDIATE all pundits, commentators, content creators, theorists and philosophers of football who seek to explain the defeat not as cowardice, but as “football brainlessness” endemic to English players and people — when compared to the cultured and intelligent footballing nations of South America and the African continent.

IN EVIDENCE THEREOF:
The lack of tactical and strategic insight displayed bears a telling parallel to chess, that most strategic and tactical of board games.

It is noted that:
– No Englishman or woman has ever won the World Chess Championship
– The only English-speaking World Chess Champion was American (mid-1970s)
– Victory in chess requires control of the centre
– It is impossible and illegal to jam eleven pieces upon the back rank of eight squares
– There is no recourse to penalties in chess
– Checkmate is final

Funnily enough, the manner of England’s defeat to Argentina was the closest approximation to a chess checkmate ever witnessed on a football pitch.

SIGNED AND SEALED* 
In Mahikeng, South Africa 
This 18th day of July, 2026

Supporter, Witness, and Survivor

TOLCHOK 79

TOLCHOK 79

got clockworked by a plod
me and my droogs we did
 
just for
kicking a ball around
next to an old bomb site
around the corner
from
  Maine Road
 
behind which, in the distance,
the brutalist concrete Sauron towers
of Moss Side
speak gloomily, epitomize every
class-driven mistake in social planning
  (and now
we know for a contested fact
how easy these
vulgar monoliths have
the capacity
to burn)
 
 and all of us
United fans
the five of us
living in
a tiny
  terraced house
under the shadow
of the floodlights
just a stone’s throw
 
so we were
playing
celebrating
(me getting my Masters
droogs passing
their exams)
 
but then he arrived, breath of
freezing air,
  stripped that street of all its
June sun warmth
instantly
  shunting us once, twice, off
the street,
  threatening with (absurd as it sounds)
jamming the four of us into
his tiny British Leyland plod vehicle

taking us down
  to the cop shop, Star
Chamber, Guantanamo, Devil’s
Island
  to a place beyond the stars, or down
in the basement cold storage locker
of the Overlook Hotel
 
face
  pudgy, near featureless,

 harbinger of whatever V of Vendetta
police state future
  Thatcher revolution
waiting in the wings (waiting for
the killer pass
out on
  the outside right
position)
  back to the
future, no hope
of world cup revisiting
 
so
  fat blue referee in
car far too
small for him
 
bundling himself out
shoving himself
up in our
  faces
 
one fat dude with
thge power of State over
life and death
  and yet
 
could see from his face
 
one step too far
knew
 
all on his own
  this side of nowhere
tactically clueless
 
no cavalry
to call in
  rush, a la, Big Horn,
a la Peterloo, Starmer Met-style
to his rescue
 
having
pushed his luck
exceeded his mandate,
torn the heart out of our moment,
killed our day
 
no more
intricate dribbling,
magical ball wizardry
                     for us to
attempt
   imagine we
had mastery
 
just the trudge back home
  chance for the
justice
  of a people’s tolchok
 
gone
out of touch
fallen by the wayside
 
risked the red card
crazy courage
found wanting
 
guess like it is
for
everybody here
then
  and now
 
closer by the day
the Britain I was born into
to fate of dystopian state
 
  determined, as of old,
to close down everything, close
down spaces,
no space
  to play, no
place to be free
 
got to
  take to insane conclusion
the logic of enclosure
  no space to write, no
space to be
 
and me
 picked out from the gang of us
on account of my twangy
hybrid Mancunian
Souf Effrikan accent
 
marked for
interrogation, on
the spot cross question
 explaining to him

who I am
  what I am doing here
 
dissertation on satire, learning
my trade at the heart
of his fiefdom
 
bit by
bit

becoming
street smart about
finding a
special acumen,

learning the lethality
of every potential linguistic weapon
getting the
distinct hang of
how to dismantle everything
 
got
clockworked by the plod
once upon a time
me and my droogs
we did

TOLCHOK

TOLCHOK

got clockworked by a plod
me and my droogs we did

next to Maine Road
for playing street football
alongside a football ground
(none of us
even a
City supporter)

and pushed around by
the law severely human right
violated
   and seriously affronted
aforementioned street
being empty
the thought
    did cross our minds of
doing him in
(burying that fat
navy blue body beneath
the Kippax Stand)

and all of us
at Manchester Uni
me for
me Ph D

working on Swift’s excoriating
satire
  most violent stuff
confined
to print

tolchock called down
on mostly everything

got
clockworked
but no orange

that
C-charged
most creative of
colours
Eden-juicy
most sustaining of fruits

ROCK BOTTOM

ROCK BOTTOM

Playing for
team humanity

I have tried
my best
as have
we all

and yet
we languish at
the bottom
of the league

zero points, expected goals,
goals, assists
the statistics show us
to be
the supreme
soft touch

slaughtered every
game whether
home or away

no match for
the power of every ambitious
all or
nothing
team

   stocked with
foul misanthropes and
cheating galacticos.
 

THE ODDS

THE ODDS

threw a
Hail Mary

what are
the odds
       historically

it be caught for six points
or fly to the Moon
on the wings
of Apollo?

less or
more
    always a risk factor

must check those sacred pages
in my father’s manifesto
of social disconnection

great-grandchild of
some famine immigrant
sold a dream story
of opportunity

progeny of some child
of Africa transported
across the Atlantic
chained
       in the hold
to work
those prosperous fields

out there in the touch zone
holding the victory ball
or still waiting
          receiver by trade
and set
to receive

the crowd ecstatic that we
have a
Sitting Bull ambush, have
a Wild Bill
          shootout

have some music demigod
to serve the half-time feast

red zone
hell hole

too far ahead in
space and time
for me
      to ascertain with
degree of
certainty

the shifting nature of this game
cowboys, packers,
miners, and most
typically
      raiders, chiefs and
buccaneers

see in its logic
          all we need to know
must
     now envision

the spectacle
         telling its truth, making

the ambition of its
        intentions clear

MONTANA

MONTANA

set up
a Hail Mary

pass to fellow
creature of longing

doomed to wait
to receive

being that likewise
would if could
fritter away time
reading, reciting
every spectacular Canto
of Signor Pablo Neruda

tracing the stellar pathways
between meanings
     from
word to word
between the sheets

whilst I scanned
every planned text
at the
   line of scrimmage

waiting
     upon word of touchdown
from deep distance
beyond

but nebulous
are the chances with
cast-iron defences

space time so curved
makes a nonsense
of trajectory

and you
    so far from my life as
the vast
    State of Montana

need the range
and telescopic accuracy of
Joe to
    deliver this
here message

coasts to be crossed
hazards negotiated

still
    to have hope
for my faith and
      restoration of belief

FIELD OF PLAY

FIELD OF PLAY

yet another humongous
rock approaching

coming at toxic velocity
to slap the dinosaur out of me

see if
    I can bounce back
school
     of hard knocks
    
take
it on the chin

but
   did underestimate me
and my technical prowess
a devotee
        sensei

of the
beautiful game

as I rose like a missile
to meet aforementioned comet
with the meat
of my forehead
clear my lines head
it away having
      a neck of steel

sent that interstellar off
course trollop back
where
       it came from

teach it to steer well
clear of this our
beloved Terra
        this bright blue
ball that
we care so much for

never never
ever again
       love itself so
shamelessly aimlessly
into our field of play
     

SOUPER

SOUPER

it is the souper
souped-up cup

supermen ubermensch
teams of eleven Messis
eleven Cristiano Ronaldos
each managed
       by eleven Pep
Guardiolas

no offside law, infinite
omniscient VAR

four quarters, half-
time penalty shoot-outs
everyone wins but
survival of the fittest
massive
      reigns supreme
most gladiatorial of
all festivals of galactico
                     
those about to do
do salute
             load of their shoulders
now no stupid
qualifying
     the algorithm determines
and (above all) relegation free

giving the people
the fans

exactly what
they have been told to want
(who says you can’t get
     exactly what
                         we want?)

no boring overthink
of structures, formations,
systems, tactics

in fact no such thing
as tactics at all

      the numbers
determine