Mention John Byrne’s hair or a field goal once more and I’ll retune my radio
‘Shoot Budgie shoot’ Brenda Mercer would fervently moan
I wish that Fox’s sports editor wasn’t covered in pock marks and who the hell is Clive Watts
Jon Murray’s stars bear no resemblence to a player’s performance

And all those people who you romantically linked to Kevin Brock’s wife are absent
And at least 1% of the other half of the county won’t get into the London Road at every home game

What will they miss? Paul Moody, of course, but where’s the inspirational no.7?
There’s a bloke in midfield who can’t pass and is no.8
A balding chap on the wing who can’t cross showing promise but not much magic
But he’s got Jim Magilton thighs

And all those people who go ‘ooh ooh ooh’ may seem alive but they’re really brain dead
And I’ll wipe their spit off the back of my head before I turn and give the racist scum some abuse

And all those away league games I’ve missed this season United have still yet to lose one
So I’ll stay at home and write crappy articles while keeping an ear out for the latest score

The Plain Chocolate Digestive