Cumberbatch

 

Cumberbatch

 

 

‘Where’s your England shirt?’ I asked the Grandson,

14, young, strong, doesn’t have one –

so, I told him, ‘try one of mine for size’,

nothing doing there – ‘too big, too old’ - he cries,

wiser eyes than mine on the bigger prize.

 

I’d picked a Beckham, 7, from some tournament, long lost -

maybe from that time we’d tossed

pairs of plastic St George daubed hand clappers at the big screen,

got thrown out, banned forthwith, watched dreams

sail on, sail on down the line, Rooney’s off, Ronaldo winks,

the whole reel reeks, your heart sinks.

 

Half an hour until Sports Direct shuts tonight

2 hours until kick off, haring down Pydar Street,

that’s him and me – he picks a blue top,

they’re all out of white, red – none in stock –

you notice she doesn’t say, ‘due to popular demand’,

or some other cliché – still, he’s looking grand

in medium and, as I pay, I feel I should say

to her, ‘he should be prepared for decades of pain,’

but puts me in my place,

with her quiet titter, ‘I don’t own one.’

 

BBC1, we’ve switched it on,

I played ‘3 Lions’, ‘World in Motion’ - New Order - 12 inch,

what else? Done the Age UK nostalgia tour, put drinks,

your heart sinks, Chapman, Shearer, Mowbray –

quips about Lineker, cut and pasting poor taste – all they say

is guaranteed to court disaster and the best saved for last,

ill-informed public chestnuts then your very own Cumberbatch.

 

He’s a silhouette, throwing shade, rocking ‘With the Beatles’,

almost black and white, but not quite, nearly regal:

‘Seize,’ says he, ‘The Day! You lions!’ or some such crap,

that tumbles like clowns, pratfalls into your lap - that’s that.

 

Yesterday, I bought him his first England shirt,

then, when sleep flirted from behind her skirts,

stared at the ceiling, pondering a world of hurt.