![]() Took time out to watch the Sidlaws unsheathedįrom their great black tarpaulin, the haar burn off Tayport To find Leuchars was not where he’d left it, Of a lone fighter-pilot, who, returning at dawn Then tries to swank off like he meant it. He neatly back-heels it straight into the gutter Of allotments, the black shell of Skelly Dry CleanersĪnd into his cul-de-sac, where, accidentally, Past the stopped swings, the dead shanty-town Playing desperate two-touch with a bald tennis ballĪlastair cheats, and goes off with the ball So smelly the air seems to quiver above him – Who answers to ‘Forty’, and wee Horace Madden, Ten years of dwindling, half-hearted kickabouts Terrified fat boys with callipers mindingįour jackets on infinite, notional fields Grim fathers and perverts with Old English Sheepdogs Stud-harrowed pitches with one-in-five inclines, Then the Boy’s Club, sponsored by Skelly Assurance, The half-time satsuma, the dog on the pitch, Open hatchbacks parked squint behind goal-nets, The deadlock with Lochee Harp finally broken ![]() In the Cup (Lochee Violet, then Aberdeen Bon Accord, Will earn him a name-check in Monday’s obituaries.īesides the one setback – the spell of giant-killing No respectable journal will print them though one day ![]() The dismal nutmegs, the scores so obscene The absolute sitters ballooned over open goals, Pay-cuts, pawned silver, the Highland Division, ![]() Like bubbles to speed the descent into pitch-sharing, McGrandle, Visocchi and Spankie detaching It’s all down, from the First to the foot of the Second, Where a plague of grey bonnets falls out of the clouds.īut ours is a game of two halves, and this game Of the net a shaky pan to the Erskine St End His balletic toe-poke nearly bursting the roof The length of the park for the long hoick forward, His golden hair shorn to an open book, sprinting McGrandle, majestic in ankle-length shorts, Just as any truly accurate representation of a particular geography can only exist on a scale of 1:1 (imagine the vast, rustling map of Burgundy, say, settling over it like a freshly-starched sheet!) so it is with all our abandoned histories, those ignoble lines of succession that end in neither triumph nor disaster, but merely plunge on into deeper and deeper obscurity only in the infinite ghost-libraries of the imagination – their only possible analogue – can their ends be pursued, the dull and terrible facts finally authenticated.įrom the top, then, the zenith, the silent footage: ![]()
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