Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

11 October 2011

I was the one who held the knife. 
I was the one cut Town from my life. 
I was the one who put kids and wife 

before. 

I'm the one who has a hole in his life. 
I'm the one who made the slice. 
I'm the one who has no vice. 

Look how those lines shorten... 

That's not the last ellipsis. 
Am I another Oasis? 
Sad tribute acts. 
N'thing b't f'cts. 

I'm the one who doesn't know Hearns. 
I'm the one who can't see if Coulson earns. 
I'm the one who one can help you learn. 

It's rubbish not having Town. Seeing them up (faintly 
remembered), seeing them down (forever 
dismembered). So much gone: No personal link, no 
national ink. Too many new players. Too many 
forgotten prayers. Pontoon friends and Saturday 
ends... Saturday has no punctuation, Saturday has no 
termination. A beer, no tear. To bed. Then Sunday 
morning MotD instead. Reds and blues and shine my 
shoes; ready for Monday and nothing to say. 

It's rubbish not having Town. Just real life to make 
me frown. I'm not one of the boys, not got no cool 
toys. Am I still allowed to read the Diary? Has it got 
anything to do with me? Can I write about funny, 
funny Fenty? Town give me choice, Town give me voice. 
I'm available for birthday parties, christenings 
and there's even a wedding. 

I can help choose bedding! 

I can catch up on my shredding... 

It's rubbish not having Town. How many 'i's in sigh? 
Pick and choose my games is a lie. And it's not the 
football I miss, it's Blundell Park's cold kiss. The 
familiar chill that could sometimes thrill. It should 
never be a treat. It could never be a treat. Familiarity 
breeds content, absence puts your heart up for rent.