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.
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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[contact-form 5 'Email form']