After Reading The Works of Pope Pius XII, A Football Club Chairman Meets The Racists Head On

Long-famed not only for our fluid movement
But for courtesy and manly virtue,
We now discover some among the terraces
Who voice displeasure with our darker players,
Who, through no fault of their own, were born
Or had their antecedents far from the nest
Of true football that is Carrow Road.
We see these supporters like new trainees, coltish,
Blinded by the shining grass at Colney, slicing at the ball,
Ripe with love for the club, embarassing themselves.
As Chairman, we simply urge that they resume
Singing with the Barclay End the loyal hymns
Of reiteration and praise; likewise, as the living, physical  head
Of the mystical body that is Norwich City Football Club,
We, together with the Board, will saddle our workload and  resume the fight
Behind closed doors.

                                        Do we pontificate ?
It is our place to do so.

For with deep anxiety and increasing dismay,
We now hear the harsh, confused calls of fans
Demanding that we bind the club to the FA's Campaign:
Let's Kick Racism Out Of Football.
Hothouse liberals and thru-penny Marxists
To peddle such heresies,
The chairman speaks, do they hear none of my address?
Can their view be clearer than that from the directors' box?
Would they take power into their own weak, waving hands?
We will keep our club's self-government.
We will keep this kingdom of football
Intact. We are the chairman and we act
Through love, not superiority.
Love and trust in our true supporters.
There is no problem here
As We have shown.
And now we close our eyes
To darken all the world.



Before You Answer

               don't forget
that scattered details
give a conversation grip.
So if it's mum play safe, stay neutral,
mention you've been reading old newspapers,
gathering dustballs, realphabetizing your vinyl,
no problem, but keep schtum
about the telescope in the bathroom,
the notes to the milkman,
the salt and the slugs and the toast.

OK, now it's ringing let your heart-rate settle

               and remember
any twigs of information
dropped for your sister
go straight back to mum,
so concerning the afternoons leering at traffic,
the project to feed next-door's cat
with last week's failed souffle,
the millenial twitch ( now perfected )
stay buttoned up.

Make the ringing work for you, a reminder

that those few days your brother waited
before he slit the seams on that confidential chat
weren't a lapsed attempt at tact,
but a measure of his laziness,
even as a gossip.

That's it, stretch it, leave it just a little longer

then if it's mates
and you're busy
peeling rude vegtables,
coining new nick-names
for kids from your old school,
flicking the tele on every sixth minute
to slice across scheduling slots and increase
your chances of finding something bearable,
share what you're doing,
that's fine. They'll sigh and shrug
and condescend a visit
but won't be flaring nostrils,
coughing up the self-improvment quotes
that would be provoked by your tales of
spreading jam on stale crusts
whilst reading biscuit wrappers,
that visualisation you learnt
where those dear to you
are held in the purple nurturing glow
emanating from your cystolic sphincter,
the uncertain thrill of wedging yourself
under the sofa, pretending to reach for a tape
and feeling the dustballs,
soft as feather boas, on your lips.

Now you're ready; you'll be fine; act natural; answer it.

^

Biography

Lawrence Bradby was born in Glasgow, raised in Kent and started his working life in Cromer. He now lives in Norwich and teaches an Open Univeristy course on geology. He rarely travels without a map.