All this week I've been looking forward to the first match of the season at our brand new stadium, as The Guardian called it 'the imaginatively named Cardiff City Stadium' ( just wait till it's a 14 syllable Malaysian name!). I was very excited, yet uncharacteristically pessimistic. Maybe I should not wear my lucky scarf more often, because we lamped Scunthorpe with a bit of luck and plenty of skill.
As a writer I have relished writing about Cardiff City FC over the years. I wrote one story called 'Dead Hero Silence' which was based on an Away trip with fellow writers of the fanzine WTBF! ( aka 'Watch the Bluebirds Fly!'), which has recently been revived to challenge the dominance of messageboards. Away trips are always special ( I don't go on many), but this was extraordinary. Torquay's striker Justin Fashanu had just become the first ( and only? ) footballer in this country to 'come out'. He suffered a lot of homophobic abuse from sections of our numbskull fans. When he scored , he was magnificent : a true fingers-up moment to the dinosaurs in the our support.
I've also written about a character I call 'Orange-peel Man' , which appears in 'Laughter tangled in thorn' ( a small selected from Carreg Gwalch). He was an old bloke from the Valleys who used to stand behind a row of taller fans, yet seemed to know exactly what was happening on the field. As play progressed ( mostly 'regressed ' in those days), he'd lob orange-peel onto the field and complain loudly.
My most important sequence on the Bluebirds was 'Singing the Blues', eleven poems about the ups and downs of supporting them, including the opening poem called 'The Ayatollah'. I still don't know where our signature slap-chant originates, but some say we borrowed it from travelling Azerbaijanis. However, I do recall the very first time I witnessed it ( described in the poem). It was Away at Hereford and there was a long, rubbly area at the front of the away shed ( I wouldn't call it a stand). A fella called Big Nick ( actually a nurse at a Merthyr hospital), a well-built and tall skinhead, leapt up and down and across the front of the terracing hitting his pate, as everyone chanted - 'Do the ayatollah, do the ayatollah! Nah nah nah nah! Nah nah nah nah!'
More recently, I was delighted to be interviewed and to read on Radio Wales, several poems I'd written about our epic FA Cup journey. Now , I'm glad to have the fanzine once again to focus on and want to produce lots of poems and articles for it.
My son bought me a brick for my birthday which graces our new walkway. It's much better than being 'just another brick in the wall' and maybe I'd never want to be the Club's official poet, having to come up with
fawning poems like some Court Bard.
This one's the latest from 'WTBF!' , which still costs a mere 50 P and is brought out by the amazing Nick Shelton and others -
WITHDRAWAL SYMPTOMS
I twitch at the text
hopeful of the next big signing
to solve everything.
I sweat just thinking
of players leaving
or even our manager
(who I've vilified
for ignoring the 'diamond system').
I shake at Echo headlines
'City To Sign Star Striker!',
only to find it's Chopra.
I jabber and gibber
about friendlies, the new stadium,
position of our seating ;
touch the cold,hard plastic
of my season ticket
and wonder if the chanting
will ever become corporate.
I long for the first inhaling
of a Saturday afternoon atmosphere,
when, out of the tunnel of hope
they appear and I'm flying
with all the other footie-addicts
who never want a cure.
As a writer I have relished writing about Cardiff City FC over the years. I wrote one story called 'Dead Hero Silence' which was based on an Away trip with fellow writers of the fanzine WTBF! ( aka 'Watch the Bluebirds Fly!'), which has recently been revived to challenge the dominance of messageboards. Away trips are always special ( I don't go on many), but this was extraordinary. Torquay's striker Justin Fashanu had just become the first ( and only? ) footballer in this country to 'come out'. He suffered a lot of homophobic abuse from sections of our numbskull fans. When he scored , he was magnificent : a true fingers-up moment to the dinosaurs in the our support.
I've also written about a character I call 'Orange-peel Man' , which appears in 'Laughter tangled in thorn' ( a small selected from Carreg Gwalch). He was an old bloke from the Valleys who used to stand behind a row of taller fans, yet seemed to know exactly what was happening on the field. As play progressed ( mostly 'regressed ' in those days), he'd lob orange-peel onto the field and complain loudly.
My most important sequence on the Bluebirds was 'Singing the Blues', eleven poems about the ups and downs of supporting them, including the opening poem called 'The Ayatollah'. I still don't know where our signature slap-chant originates, but some say we borrowed it from travelling Azerbaijanis. However, I do recall the very first time I witnessed it ( described in the poem). It was Away at Hereford and there was a long, rubbly area at the front of the away shed ( I wouldn't call it a stand). A fella called Big Nick ( actually a nurse at a Merthyr hospital), a well-built and tall skinhead, leapt up and down and across the front of the terracing hitting his pate, as everyone chanted - 'Do the ayatollah, do the ayatollah! Nah nah nah nah! Nah nah nah nah!'
More recently, I was delighted to be interviewed and to read on Radio Wales, several poems I'd written about our epic FA Cup journey. Now , I'm glad to have the fanzine once again to focus on and want to produce lots of poems and articles for it.
My son bought me a brick for my birthday which graces our new walkway. It's much better than being 'just another brick in the wall' and maybe I'd never want to be the Club's official poet, having to come up with
fawning poems like some Court Bard.
This one's the latest from 'WTBF!' , which still costs a mere 50 P and is brought out by the amazing Nick Shelton and others -
WITHDRAWAL SYMPTOMS
I twitch at the text
hopeful of the next big signing
to solve everything.
I sweat just thinking
of players leaving
or even our manager
(who I've vilified
for ignoring the 'diamond system').
I shake at Echo headlines
'City To Sign Star Striker!',
only to find it's Chopra.
I jabber and gibber
about friendlies, the new stadium,
position of our seating ;
touch the cold,hard plastic
of my season ticket
and wonder if the chanting
will ever become corporate.
I long for the first inhaling
of a Saturday afternoon atmosphere,
when, out of the tunnel of hope
they appear and I'm flying
with all the other footie-addicts
who never want a cure.
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