Friendly Matches Read online

  It was a precious moment

  Which I never will forget

  When that lovely ball of leather

  Went flying in the net.

  The Betsy Street Booters

  We are the Betsy Street Booters

  We are the girls you can’t beat

  The sharpest and straightest of shooters

  On twenty-two talented feet.

  The boys in our school think we’re clueless

  Which just shows how little they know

  We played them last week in the playground

  And beat them five times in a row.

  The boys say our tactics are rubbish

  Soccer skills nought out of ten

  We played them once more on a real pitch

  And beat them all over again.

  The boys in our school blame the weather

  The bounce and a bad referee

  We played them in glorious sunshine

  And hammered them 17–3.

  The boys now appear quite disheartened

  And wonder just what they should do

  They’re talking of taking up netball…

  But we’re pretty good at that too.

  We are the Betsy Street Booters

  We are the girls you can’t beat

  The sharpest and straightest of shooters

  On twenty-two talented feet.

  Team Talk 14

  Lads, believe me

  You know it

  I know it

  We are not the best team

  In this league

  But this lot –

  Marcus, are you listening?

  This lot

  I have to say it –

  Are worse!

  Believe me

  We can beat ’em

  What am I saying –

  We are beating ’em!

  Yippee!

  So this is the situation, lads

  Stay calm

  Stay focused

  Get out there –

  Yes, now Billy –

  Get out there

  And whatever it was you were doing –

  This is the plan, right Michael?

  Right Charles?

  Whatever it was you were doing

  Keep doing it.

  OK?

  The Goals of Bingo Boot

  The fans in the stands are silent

  You could hear the fall of a pin

  For the fabulous game just ended

  And the tale that’s about to begin.

  In nineteen hundred and twenty-two

  A little boy was born

  His baby cot was second-hand

  His baby shawl was torn.

  He had no teeth or teddy bear

  His hair was incomplete

  But he was the possessor of

  The most amazing feet.

  When Bingo Boot was two years old

  He chewed his little crust

  His poor old dad was on the dole

  His poor old pram was bust.

  Yet Bingo wasn’t worried

  Though his baby feet would itch

  And he could hardly wait till

  He could stroll – out on the pitch.

  In school young Bingo languished

  At the bottom of the class

  His ball control was good

  It was exams he couldn’t pass.

  His little pals all shouted, ‘Foul!’

  And tended to agree

  If only teachers tested feet

  He’d get a Ph.D.

  And all the while in streets and parks

  On pitches large or small

  Without a proper pair of boots

  Sometimes without a ball!

  With tin cans in the clattering yard

  In weather cold or hot

  Young Bingo shimmied left and right

  And scored with every shot.

  His poor old mum scrubbed office floors

  His poor old gran did too

  The pantry was an empty place

  The rent was overdue.

  Then Bingo had a brainwave

  Shall I tell you what he did?

  He sold himself to the Arsenal

  For thirteen thousand quid.

  The first game that he ever played

  At the tender age of ten

  Young Bingo just ran rings round

  Eleven baffled men.

  The fans of course went crazy

  The fans went, ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Ah!’

  While Bingo took the match ball home

  And bought his dad a car.

  And so the years went flying by

  In liniment and sweat

  Life was a great high-scoring game

  An ever-bulging net

  And Arsenal won the cup and league

  Six seasons on the trot

  All on account of Bingo Boot

  And his most amazing shot.

  But now the storm clouds gathered

  And at last the whistle blew

  For the start of a really crucial game

  The battle of World War Two.

  It was England versus Germany

  And Bingo heard the call

  He marched away in his shooting boots

  To assist in Adolf’s fall.

  Then when the war was finished

  And he’d left the fusiliers

  Brave Bingo served the Gunners

  For another fifteen years.

  No net was ever empty

  No sheet was ever clean

  He scored more goals a season

  Than even Dixie Dean.

  His goals in life were modest though

  He had no wish to be

  Sir Bingo Boot of Camden Town

  Or Bingo O. B. E.

  He loved his wife and family

  His kiddies, Joyce and Jim,

  He never went to see the King

  The King came to see him.

  His twilight years were mostly spent

  With a ball in the local park

  Kicking about with the local team

  Having a laugh and a lark.

  Yet still they couldn’t stop him

  His old swerve worked a treat

  Till he died at last with his boots on

  Those most amazing feet.

  Eyes down for Bingo (in his grave)

  The final whistle blown

  The fans rolled up from miles around

  ‘You’ll never walk alone!’

  While Bingo’s spirit shimmied

  With all its usual grace

  And then was… relegated

  To a most appalling place.

  The Devil sat in his chairman’s chair

  And spoke in Bingo’s ear

  ‘I’ve pulled a few strings, I must confess

  To arrange your transfer here.

  For we’ve got this little match, y’see

  (And I’ve got this little bet)

  Away to the Heavenly City

  And we’ve never beaten them yet.’

  The Heavenly City were quite a side

  (With fans who could really sing)

  Cherubs and seraphs in the squad

  And angels on the wing.

  St Paul was a rock at centre half

  St Elvis a rock ’n’ roll

  They had Mother Teresa to captain the team

  And Almighty God in goal.

  The kick-off time was three o’clock

  At the City’s heavenly ground

  The angels of the Lord came down

  And passed the ball around.

  The tackles started flying

  Nero fouled a nun

  And the ref booked Good King Wenceslas

  For a trip on Attila the Hun.

  The Hades fans were howling

  ‘We’re the boys from Beelzebub!’

  While God took Charlie Chaplin off

  And brought Jesus on as a sub.

  The second half went racing by


  The pace was faster still

  There was less than a minute left to play

  And the score remained nil-nil.

  Then Bingo dribbled round St Mark

  Who never had a prayer

  Left frail St Francis on his knees

  And danced past Fred Astaire.

  The goal was at his mercy now

  It seemed he couldn’t fail

  When – bang! – a tackle from behind

  From Florence Nightingale.

  A penalty! The crowd was stunned.

  The Devil’s lot gave thanks,

  Though God in goal, the angels cried,

  Was as good as Gordon Banks.

  A cruel choice for Bingo

  Whatever should he do

  Be false to his god-given gifts

  Or give the Devil his due?

  Even God had a frown on His face

  And powerful reasons to pray.

  If I let this in He told himself

  There’ll be the Devil to pay.

  Now Bingo stepped up with the ball

  And placed it on the spot

  Stepped back, breathed deep, ran calmly in

  Then shimmied left… and shot.

  *

  In nineteen hundred and twenty-two

  A little boy was born

  His baby cot was second-hand

  His baby shawl was torn.

  Who would have guessed that at the end

  This tiny tot would be

  The one who beat Almighty God

  With the perfect penalty?

  No goalie could have saved that shot

  No God or Holy Ghost

  But it went where Bingo placed it

  And hit the holy post,

  Rebounded like a rocket

  To Marie Antoinette

  Who skipped up to the other end

  And slammed it in the net.

  The fans in the stands went barmy

  City had won one-nil.

  The Devil stayed down in his dugout

  Defeat was a bitter pill.

  Till God came along with an offer

  Quite genuine and real

  To forget their bet and agree instead

  On a little… transfer deal.

  So Bingo rose to Heaven

  Up to the Pearly Gate.

  ‘The boy done good!’ St Peter cried

  ‘The boy done great!’

  And there he lives… forever

  His goals in life complete

  That sainted soccer player

  With the most amazing feet.

  The fans in the stands are leaving

  As fast as their wings will allow

  They think that the story’s over It is now.

  * Rhymes with ‘car’ – Charlotte’s a Black Country girl.