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In The Theater of Dreams The Boos Ring Out

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Boos in The Theater of Dreams

fog hung over Busby Way
like a true life Lowry painting.
the streets not ladened yet
a matchstick man from
the side calls out:

five pounds.
come & get your scarfs
for tonight’s game…………
five pounds only
in a soft southern accent.

ticket slid into reader
& the turnstile buzzed:
N10404. seats 223 & 224.
the pitch. we’re so close!

we giggle. cuddle. twinkle.
then the super stars
enter the fray.
not as big as i imagined.
it was extra ordinary.
what was I expecting?

skilled aliens? giants?
super human activity?
beads of sweat dropping
& transforming mid-air into
golden nuggets?

to be honest,
the tickets
were complimentary.

my niece complained throughout.
manchester would lose.
powerful lights dissolved the fog
but gloom permeated 70,000 people.
weird but you could feel it.

opposition fans raucously sang
if you don’t like it you can leave!
& losing badly we left
five minutes prior
to the man in black blowing
his whistle.

& the crowd booed.
& the crowd booed.
& the crowd booed.

& a small number
were gleeful….

& the tram ride to piccadilly
was extra ordinary too.
shall we walk from here uncle?

yes. but wait, as I entered
the neon lighted mini store
& from my minimum wage

that fat cigar of mine
the one wrapped in yellow

we took off
the last leg our the journey,
the night perfected,

my niece still complaining
in certain terms
breaking down her

Shattered Dreams: Manchester City F.C.’s Lost Generation


Author Skendong

Metamorphosing Clunky Narratives

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