Bolton Wanderers FC

Connected to my bid to keep my pecker up and remain positive (more of which to come in a separate post), and to honour the BBC digging up the mighty Pam Ayres for a triumphant (…???) appearance on last week’s ‘QI’, the latest match review will be written as a piece of rhyming verse. Just in case the likes of Brian Sewell happen to chance upon this blog thanks to a yearning for football writing allied to a bit of culture…

The dark days of January will soon fade away,

Perhaps, now, a win may come our way.

With depressing regularity we find,

That the ‘big four’ always cane our behinds.

And so to the turn of the champions of the world,

Shorn of their superstars, their fringe players unfurled.

But even with Evans, Anderson & O’Shea,

They still have enough to make the Super Whites pay.

We had the odd chance; it’s fair to admit,

But we didn’t capitalise, our finishing was shit.

Makakula a surprise start, on his own up front,

Why that stupid shove on Vidic, the big crazy…sausage…

Defending like Michael Caine in the classic film ‘Zulu’,

It was backs-to-the-wall, the Reds found no way through.

Chris Basham was the link between defence and midfield,

For an untried young kid, he proved an effective shield.

Jussi, yet again, pitched a virtuoso show,

A titanic battle unfolding between him and Ronaldo.

The Portugese preener kept firmly at bay,

The sour face spoke volumes, it just wasn’t his day.

But oh how we knew as the clock ticked away,

That the resolute defence would slip up and we’d pay.

It really didn’t come as a great surprise,

When the jammy red bastards netted before our eyes.

A moment of class from young Carlos caused trouble,

Squared up poor Dimitar, who snapped from his big surly bubble.

And just did enough to hit the back of the net,

The miserable, piss-faced, bone-idle get.