So we won, a cracker of a goal by Wade Elliot and some "Alamo" style defending. Even though Sheffield United seemed determined to play the long ball and then fall over when approaching the box. But we are there, in the promised land, the Barclays Premier League.
Went for a run yesterday and this caused my ankle to swell and then that meant I couldn't play out last night.
Watching "The Assasination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford", long film, long title. It is quite good though.
I did have a longer post planned, one in which I would talk about Poetry and Poetics, but like so many other things it will have to wait. Besides, if you read the Defense of Poetry by Shelley or the prolouge to Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth it is all there anyway. Why say anything if someone has said it so much better before.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Play Off Finals
Burnley play Sheffield United, kick off 3 pm.
I am consumed with a mixture of optimism and nerves. This has been, no matter how today ends, the best season I have ever seen. We were two minutes from the Carling Cup Final after coming back from 4-1 down to Spurs, we got to the Quarter Final of the FA cup. We beat Fulham, Spurs, West Brom, Aresnal and Chelsea. We showed grit and some sublime moments of flair to beat Reading in the Play-Off semi finals.
We have played 60 games this season, that is six less then Man U! And we have used less players than anyone else in the Football League!
It is not an over-estimate to say that this game is the richest one in the world, as the winners will get about £60,000,000 pounds in TV Revenue, sponsership deals, parachute payments, final placing prize money and more people pushing their way through the turnstiles.
All of this and I am in Dublin, not South London, watching it on the TV instead of at Wembley. I went the last time we made the play-off final in 1994, but cannot afford to make it now. Not to worry, I have a hot line set up to my brother in Burnley, all major incidents and troubles will be discussed.
But if the worst happens, and we don't win. I will still say that this has been the best season I can remember and I have the feeling we will get promoted to the promised land of the top flight football next year!
I am consumed with a mixture of optimism and nerves. This has been, no matter how today ends, the best season I have ever seen. We were two minutes from the Carling Cup Final after coming back from 4-1 down to Spurs, we got to the Quarter Final of the FA cup. We beat Fulham, Spurs, West Brom, Aresnal and Chelsea. We showed grit and some sublime moments of flair to beat Reading in the Play-Off semi finals.
We have played 60 games this season, that is six less then Man U! And we have used less players than anyone else in the Football League!
It is not an over-estimate to say that this game is the richest one in the world, as the winners will get about £60,000,000 pounds in TV Revenue, sponsership deals, parachute payments, final placing prize money and more people pushing their way through the turnstiles.
All of this and I am in Dublin, not South London, watching it on the TV instead of at Wembley. I went the last time we made the play-off final in 1994, but cannot afford to make it now. Not to worry, I have a hot line set up to my brother in Burnley, all major incidents and troubles will be discussed.
But if the worst happens, and we don't win. I will still say that this has been the best season I can remember and I have the feeling we will get promoted to the promised land of the top flight football next year!
Monday, May 18, 2009
New Poem and other thougths.
Firstly, I should be cleaning. I am off work as my ankle is buggered but I have an impending parental visit, so I must clean. Cannot have my mother in a dirty house, what will she tell my brothers? Probably: "Matt's house is nice, but he couldn't even be arsed cleaning."
Secondly, Journal for Plague Lovers came out today and it is a really, really good album. Not a patch on The Holy Bible but it would sit comfortably between that and Everything Must Go. I like it and will inflict it on anyone foolish enough to come to my house or step in my car.
Thirdly, before I clean. Honestly, I have all the paraphernalia just need the application. But, to this poem. I do not think that one should spend too much time explaining poetry as it is all about personal response. How the words effect you and how the sounds roll through your mind. However, I feel I should explain it somewhat.
I grew up in a small former Mill town in Lancashire. It sits somewhat awarkwardly between Blackburn, Preston and Manchester. It is the kind of town that is far more pleasing to leave than to return to. It is dominated by Pendle Hill, the tallest and most domineering of the Pennines. Also, in the sixteenth century several poor, elderly women were excused of withcraft and hung. So the Hill becomes a Halloween hotspot for people with a mistaken belief in the afterlife.
In the late 90's, 1999 to be precise, a series of violent riots between the town's White and Asian communities erupted and became newsworthy. They were not riots in isolation as Bradford had race riots. However, they were marked out by the length of, and damage caused by, the rioting. "I remember when the town burnt". As a result of these riots, the British National Party (BNP) a far right and barely disguised facist party, descended on mass during elections. The leader Nick Griffin (a man with as many ideas as eyes, and a former Holocaust denier - in public anyway) singled Burnley out as a prime example of how multiculturalism isn't working. And every election year they gain significant results, with councillors being appointed (and then fired).
Some people in Burnley claim that the riots were caused by the sale of drugs, and this is a reasonable assessment.
The peom is a response to a childhood there, and Channel Fours belief that if they get a group of mixed race teenagers to "make art" it will change things. It won't. I have friends who work in the community and their hardwork and dedication is more likely to solve things that a gimmick for a Television show.
Also, as a caveat, and a blatant piece of self-protection, it is a work in progress and all comments will be appreicated. Negative or otherwise. Feel free.
Secondly, Journal for Plague Lovers came out today and it is a really, really good album. Not a patch on The Holy Bible but it would sit comfortably between that and Everything Must Go. I like it and will inflict it on anyone foolish enough to come to my house or step in my car.
Thirdly, before I clean. Honestly, I have all the paraphernalia just need the application. But, to this poem. I do not think that one should spend too much time explaining poetry as it is all about personal response. How the words effect you and how the sounds roll through your mind. However, I feel I should explain it somewhat.
I grew up in a small former Mill town in Lancashire. It sits somewhat awarkwardly between Blackburn, Preston and Manchester. It is the kind of town that is far more pleasing to leave than to return to. It is dominated by Pendle Hill, the tallest and most domineering of the Pennines. Also, in the sixteenth century several poor, elderly women were excused of withcraft and hung. So the Hill becomes a Halloween hotspot for people with a mistaken belief in the afterlife.
In the late 90's, 1999 to be precise, a series of violent riots between the town's White and Asian communities erupted and became newsworthy. They were not riots in isolation as Bradford had race riots. However, they were marked out by the length of, and damage caused by, the rioting. "I remember when the town burnt". As a result of these riots, the British National Party (BNP) a far right and barely disguised facist party, descended on mass during elections. The leader Nick Griffin (a man with as many ideas as eyes, and a former Holocaust denier - in public anyway) singled Burnley out as a prime example of how multiculturalism isn't working. And every election year they gain significant results, with councillors being appointed (and then fired).
Some people in Burnley claim that the riots were caused by the sale of drugs, and this is a reasonable assessment.
The peom is a response to a childhood there, and Channel Fours belief that if they get a group of mixed race teenagers to "make art" it will change things. It won't. I have friends who work in the community and their hardwork and dedication is more likely to solve things that a gimmick for a Television show.
Also, as a caveat, and a blatant piece of self-protection, it is a work in progress and all comments will be appreicated. Negative or otherwise. Feel free.
“Deprivation is for me what Daffodils were to Wordsworth” Philip Larkin
Burnley, a reflection
Disused factory chimneys
penetrating the sky.
Once they shot out black smoke semen
now they rest impotent.
My Grandfather pictured this whole area.
The history was his, in glossy photo books,
in thousands and thousands of discarded slides.
The boarded up windows
of terrace housing,
the dog shit filled back streets
and pissed up teenager dominated town centre.
The places my father played as a child,
are mostly gone, concreted over
for another McDonald's or
24 – hour Tesco's.
I remember when the town burnt.
The fascist billboards
near local round-a-bouts,
as the town became a battle
cry for Nick Griffin.
The shops in the centre,
close and fail,
Bernard Manning was banned,
Bernard Manning became an idol,
I am just from a small town,
I am from where the
history outweighs the present.
I am from the nowhere in between.
I remember when the town burnt,
TV is coming to fix everything,
Thank fuck for Channel Four,
Art will show that racism isn't pervasive.
The town is an animal,
lying prostrate on the vets table
pining to be put to sleep.
Nothing is going to change.
I remembered when the town burnt.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Super Nova
A famous Artist
Takes his life.
He leaves a short note
For his estranged wife
He points a knife
Towards his chest,
Sighing, he pierces
His pampered poets flesh.
His body is found
Several days later,
Propped up against
A broken bathroom radiator.
Several of the broadsheets
Will run a feature,
The TLS will run a cover,
He will be added to the Syllabus
For bored teenagers
To pretend to discover
His meanings
And dissect his rhyme schemes
For the most part,
He is forgotten
To be resurrected, rarely,
As a Sunday supplement
In The Guardian
A Reality TV Star
Catches something terminal,
Leaving her doctors
She calls Max Clifford
To get her a Chat Show deal.
So to Richard and Judy
She will tell of the lumps
She found under her towel,
To Paul, she talks about the
Obstruction in her bowl,
On Phil and Fern
She will learn how to
Flambé correctly.
Hello, Chat and OK
Will let her have her say
And take photos of the Chemo,
Her condition will
Consume every edition
Of all the Tabloid Magazines
And when she weds
They will all exclaim
How her bald head
Compliments her dress.
When she croaks,
It’ll be all over the news and
Taxi driving blokes,
Will pause and say:
“She meant the world
To the missus and me,
She was the fucking
Queen of Bromley”
Tribute editions
Will fly from the shelves
As the population
Become beside them selves
In grief that is intense.
And brief.
Her diary will sell,
He house will as well,
Her husband will
Give seven exclusive
Interviews a week
Then go back to Jail.
But another star will come,
And it will all be redone.
Another bleached blonde
Girl will sell the world and
It will all be redone
And redone, and redone.
And the Artist is dead.
And the Star is dead.
And I am bored of it all.
Takes his life.
He leaves a short note
For his estranged wife
He points a knife
Towards his chest,
Sighing, he pierces
His pampered poets flesh.
His body is found
Several days later,
Propped up against
A broken bathroom radiator.
Several of the broadsheets
Will run a feature,
The TLS will run a cover,
He will be added to the Syllabus
For bored teenagers
To pretend to discover
His meanings
And dissect his rhyme schemes
For the most part,
He is forgotten
To be resurrected, rarely,
As a Sunday supplement
In The Guardian
A Reality TV Star
Catches something terminal,
Leaving her doctors
She calls Max Clifford
To get her a Chat Show deal.
So to Richard and Judy
She will tell of the lumps
She found under her towel,
To Paul, she talks about the
Obstruction in her bowl,
On Phil and Fern
She will learn how to
Flambé correctly.
Hello, Chat and OK
Will let her have her say
And take photos of the Chemo,
Her condition will
Consume every edition
Of all the Tabloid Magazines
And when she weds
They will all exclaim
How her bald head
Compliments her dress.
When she croaks,
It’ll be all over the news and
Taxi driving blokes,
Will pause and say:
“She meant the world
To the missus and me,
She was the fucking
Queen of Bromley”
Tribute editions
Will fly from the shelves
As the population
Become beside them selves
In grief that is intense.
And brief.
Her diary will sell,
He house will as well,
Her husband will
Give seven exclusive
Interviews a week
Then go back to Jail.
But another star will come,
And it will all be redone.
Another bleached blonde
Girl will sell the world and
It will all be redone
And redone, and redone.
And the Artist is dead.
And the Star is dead.
And I am bored of it all.
This is New to me
I am not too sure what to do with these, do I use them to force my own ideas and opinions on others, or alternitvely, do I simply put new poems and poems which are being worked on here and let the world say what they want?? I think, for the sake of ease and for those times when the poetical Muse is not bothering with me, I will do a mixture of the two.
And that is as far as a statement of intent as any one is going to get from me.
As for what I write about, I do not have any specific themes or, I would argue, style and I write about what I think about. Feel free to comment, insult, glorify anything you see and read.
Matt
And that is as far as a statement of intent as any one is going to get from me.
As for what I write about, I do not have any specific themes or, I would argue, style and I write about what I think about. Feel free to comment, insult, glorify anything you see and read.
Matt
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