Or even a bit of culture. Take your favourite poem and give it a golden twist. For my opening effort I apologise to John Masefield. I must go down to the Vic again, to the Rookery End and the Rous, And all I ask is a solid defence and a star to steer us by, And the striker's kick and the fans' song and the stand's shaking, And a yellow mist in the visitors' faces and a golden dawn breaking. I must go down to the Vic again, for the team an irresistible tide, Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a victory day with the yellow flags flying, And the Millwall Lions and Pompey Bells, and the Seagulls crying. I must go down to the Vic again, to the vibrant golden life, To the Vicarage Road and the Hornets' Nest where the attack's like a probing knife; And all I ask is another win against a team called Rovers, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long season's over.
For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a Watford chance, And every chance brought out a noble scorer. Such times have been not since young GT led The team that boasted gifts of Barnes and Blissett. But now the whole old order is dissolved Which was the finest in the mighty world; And we, the fans, go forth in nervousness. And the days darken round us, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." Till slowly answer'd Bazzer from the box: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good bankrupt should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? Get on with life, and that which I have done May soon the good old days restore! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Cheer for your team. More things are wrought by cheers Than this world dreams of. Alfred 'The Hornet' Tennyson
There's a breathless hush in the Vic to-night -- One to score and the match to win -- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, 5 minutes to play and the last sub in. And it's not for the sake of a golden shirt, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!' Oi Oi Newbolt!!!!!!!!!!!!
Up, up you Hornets, up and do your best. 'Cos when you do your best, you're much better than the rest! We'll cheer you on, right through thick and thin. 'Cos we're the ones from Watford and we don't give in......... Anon (Official Club song circa 1961)
Dagnabbit- I go out for two hours and you beat me to it 2RJ! This was my version - very similar: "There's a breathless hush at the Vic to-night -- A pen to convert and the match to win -- A lumpy pitch and a blinding light, A minute to play and the last sub on. And it's not for the sake of a big transfer, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!'"
back in the day... Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the Valley of Charlton Strode the six hundred. `Forward, the Yellow Brigade! Charge for their end!' we said: Into the Valley of Charlton Strode the six hundred. ..second verse gordon ???????
An Ellington was a-swimming round, around the great big lake, He said I want some chocolate, boys, I wants a chocolate cake, He said I am so hungry, boys, that I will surely die, So he ate the town of Ipswich and a maple pecan pie. He swallowed up three shins of beef, he ate a leg of ham, He thought "At last I'm really full", but then he ate a yam, He loved that sweet potato taste and so he had some more, Then ate a spit-roast farmer’s ox as he’d done in days of yore. Three wombats and a grizzly bear he swallowed one by one, He ate a large rhinoceros, although it weighed a ton, A vat of crisps and ginger bread, a stale week-old pork pie, Two meatloaves, some spaghetti hoops and half a loaf of rye. At last he cried, enough, enough, this is enough for me, It's Ramadan tomorrow and I’m off home for me tea. With apologies to Max Scratchmann
Are you psychic??? I was thinking on exactly the same lines too... I had Half a league, half a league, Half a league upward,* Once more to the Valley away Rode the six hundred. 'Forward, the Golden Boys! Charge the gates he said: Into the Valley of Death Walked the six hundred.** 'Forward, the Yellow Order!' Was there a man (or woman) dismay'd? Not tho' the supporters knew Some one had blunder'd? Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to watch and sigh Seats double booked again Cursed the six hundred. Home fans to the right of them, Home fans to the left of them, Home fans in front of them Grolleyed and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they sang and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Walked the six hundred. * Ok, Ok. I know. But I didn' want to put 'downward'. Too much like tempting fate. **BB is right- we'd take more than that. Ho-hum
Annus Mirabilis Association Football began In nineteen sixty-three (which was very young for me) - Between the end of the Chatterley ban And the Beatles' first LP. Up to then there'd only been A sort of playground game, A scramble for the ball, A game that started at playtime And spread to PE in the hall. Then all at once the penny dropped: Someone (I can't recall his name) Went to the Vic to see a game, And we all had to do the same Standing in the Rookery, A quite unforgettable game. So life was never the same again We went a lot and then some more Thrilled when Ron Saunders scored Sad when Pat went to the Lane. Some time in nineteen sixty-four (Sorry, Mr Larkin)
