Tonight Tonight Tonighr

 Tonight Tonight Tonight

Let’s all get up and dance to a song

that was a hit – there’s fragments of it,

shake yourself from an afternoon kip –

let slip slumber, lose any grip

of internal worlds you’d unspooled and projected.

It’s half of two, give or take –

day of a big game - well they’re all big, this late

on in tournaments, England Norway -

He would’ve loved that, found a pub somewhere,

wittered on about live atmospheres,

Erling Haaland – you don’t get much more

corporeal than him – certain to score –

press sharpening knives, watch how he skives

on the park, but, boy, he’s sharp.

Find yourself in town, wandered down

from Angel Towers - some excuse about potatoes,

sun’s a thieving crook, gone and took

what water he can squeeze from your sponge –

and although you mostly avoid pubs,

you still hang on to the Con Club –

order a quick shandy, nip inside.

Maybe you’re halfway through

when you’re recognised –

hailed with a ruck of a shout, a hearty maul,

but you don’t remember his face at all,

later, when he’s off for a slash

you make a quick pass at boy bartender,

confess you can’t remember

who the hell he is – but didn’t you hide it well?

Jason’s back, now you’re in the know –

recalling how we used to go

with Chris … remember Old Trafford, England game,

we had more than a few, him, me, you,

he bought his lad – no, no, that was my boy –

was it? You fell down the steps,

well, we was all fucking wrecked,

twenty years back along, Steve McClaren, Rooney,

and City, lifting the Vase at Wembley -

choker about Chris – let’s not go there –

no, no, you’re right, shit, one day, he’s just gone –

I know – passed on, it’s just bloody wrong,

isn’t it? It was, like – let’s not bring it all back,

he was my best friend, come on,

I’ll put one in, have another one…

You make your escape,

but City have got Exeter, Saturday next, pre-season

friendly, well, there’s another reason

to hang on, you guess,

agree to catch up in the bar, bring the Grandson,

because we all belong

to some sort of football family.

And if he could brush ashes from his eyes,

wake up from an afternoon kip,

wonder what he’d make of it?