IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on Green,
If you can trust Hamer when all men doubt him,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
For a mere 15 seconds on the Football League show
Or being called lucky, don't believe in luck,
And yet don't boast too much, nor feel too low:
If you can deal with "our away support is S***" comments and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Massives - nor lose the common touch,
if neither Spanners nor Stripy Nigels can hurt you,
If all fans count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving season
With 46 games of distance run,
Yours is the Championship and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Charlton fan, my son!
Comments
Someone waves and says hello to you at the ground, shouldn't you say hello or at least wave back?
Thou art more nervous and more distressed:
Rough winds do shake the promotion hopes in May,
And summer's buys hath all got in a mess:
Sometime too hot the head of Kermit shines,
And often is the long ball play'd;
And many contentious decisions the ref declines,
Through fear, or lack of decent passes made;
But thy dreams of Bradley scoring will not fade,
Nor our possession of that ball thou desires;
Nor shall Massives brag we wander'st in their shade,
When Jacko's freekicks doth stoke those fires;
So long as Powell can breathe, or his eyes can see,
So long lives our one aim, and this gives life to me.
millwall are blue
Ones going up
and the other is poo..
I think the preferred term is "initiation ceremony" rather than "tea". That's your clique application form to the bottom of the pile.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Omar Khayyam
Turf Moor or to The Valley, dear friends, once more;
For a chance to play the ‘Wall and the Nigels instead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a fan
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of whistle blows in our ears,
Then realise the chance to play the Tigers;
Put down the burger, roll up the programme,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then cheer Red warriors onward to the Amex;
Let Pride park in Portman Road instead
Like the brass cannon; let Red o'erwhelm the Vicarage
As fearfully as maybe in amongst Wolves
O'erhang and jutty are the bellies
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful lager.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Charlton.
I think the preferred term is "initiation ceremony" rather than "tea". That's your clique application form to the bottom of the pile.
Damn I was so close to getting in I could smell it, still the pile might not be a big one
They fuck you up, your Football team
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in tracksuits and sheepskin coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Fan hands on misery to fan.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't support a team yourself.
For those that are feeling a little jittery after last night, this one is unaltered from the original:
If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don't.
If you'd like to win but think you can't,
It's almost certain you won't.
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster man,
But sooner or later, the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
Walter D. Wintle
When the road to promotion seems all uphill
When goals are low and moans are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh
When worry is pressing you down a bit
Slag off the Wendies, if you must, but don't you quit
Football is queer with its twists and turns
Especially with Charlton, as every one of us learns
And many a game turns about
When it might have been won had we stuck it out
Don't give up though through this sticky patch
We will succeed with another match
Success is failure turned inside out
And come the end of the season we’ll have no doubt
You never can tell how close you are
Until you look at the table and you see it’s not far
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
And just remember, whatever happens, Palace will always be shit
Anon.
Seriously, good stuff !
Going to have to dig out my Roger McGough now & see if I can adapt a verse or two.
Inspirational you are!
COYR x
i feel like a nun standing
in a commercial centre queue
quietly thinking
as the bank card details run through
how nice it would be
to buy season tickets for two
and fill the stands up with our loyal fanss.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a supporter
as modest stillness and humility.
But when the blast of the referees whistle blows in our ears,
then imitate the action of the tiger;
stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage;
then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
let pry through the portage of the head
like the brass cannon; let the brow overwhelm it
as fearfully as doth a galled rock
overhang and jutty his confounded base,
swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
to his full height. On, on, you noblest Addicks.
whose blood is fet from addicks of war-proof!
Addicks that, like so many Addicks,
have in these parts from morn till evening fought
and sheathed their replica kits for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
that those whom you called fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in South East London, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start.
The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Henry Irving, Charlton, and Chrissy Powell!'
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
will stand on tip-toe when the day is named,
and rouse him at the name of Stevenage.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is the feast of football for a fiver v Stevenage:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his macron home kit.
And say 'This is the shirt i wore on football for a fiver day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
but he'll remember with advantages
what feats he did that day: then shall our songs.
familiar in his mouth as household words
Chrissy the king, Jackson and Solly,
Morrison and Taylor, Wiggins and Green,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the old Addick teach his son;
And football for a fiver v Stevenage shall never go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of addicks;
For he to-day that sings his songs with me
Shall be my brother; be he never so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their loyalty cheap whiles any speaks
that fought with us upon Stevenage day.