The Run of Play is a blog about
the wonder and terror of soccer.
We left the window open during a match in October 2007 and a strange wind blew into the room.
Now we walk the forgotten byways of football with a lonely tread, searching for the beautiful, the bewildering, the haunting, and the absurd.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm off from an anointed Scot;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The manager elected by the Lord:
For every FA official Griffiths hath urg’d
To impose cruel fines against our parka’d self,
God for His Fergie hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Commissioners must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made still more discontented by shite calls . . .
Tis now the very bitching time of night,
When Wiley sweats and heavily breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink refs’ blood,
And do such bitter business as th’ FA
Would quake to look on . . .
And what’s he then that says I play the villain?
When this advice is free I give and honest,
Probal to cardio-vascular fitness, and
Conducive to correctness on the pitch? . . .
Is this a touchline ban I see before me,
Writ on official stationery? Sod it.
I love thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A memo of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw. . . .
by Alan Jacobs · November 14, 2009