PORTHLEVEN COWERS... (My poem about stormy seas at Porthleven, Cornwall...)

 Porthleven Cowers…

(Stormy seas, February 2007…)

The swell swings, almost contained

By inner harbour’s angled walls,

Swaying, swooning, almost cascading

Before it spirals, then breaks and falls.

The tumult teeters, nearly convulsed

In outer harbour’s insufficient trough,

Seething, swooping, almost escaping

Before it deflects, sensuous, yet rough.

The sputum sails, almost floating

Onto harbour’s environs it rains,

Shifting, soaking, almost snowing

Before it settles its nauseous stains.

The torrent taunts, unpleasantly threatening

Over harbour’s inanimate rock,

Screeching, screaming, almost twisting,

Before it dives, cavorting to shock…

Pete Ray

A dirty, oily foam was being whipped up by the raging sea at Porthleven and although the inner harbour was virtually unbreached, the outer harbour was like a witch’s brew, bubbling and wild…

WITTON THREAT... (My poem about leaving Aston Villa's stadium in the 1970s...)

 Witton Threat…

(Following an Aston Villa match…)

The disturbing silence promised trouble.

An air of expectancy made one’s head turn.

Human taunts.

Milling groups hovered

Ready to pounce

Upon herded, guarded aliens.

Equine police trotted alleys

Amongst ranks of bellowing creatures,

Pushing and turning,

Trying to get a glimpse

Of the obnoxious red and white people

Awaiting mass-shipment…

A bottle exploded into a shattering array 

Of sworn responses

And muffled, almost innocent

Complaints at strained lawmen.

Horses twisted to gain access

To a detached unit

Of moronic sheep.

A girl uttered laughable criticisms

At some distant peacekeeper.

Vehicles, en masse, added obstacles

To the spectacle

Under the bridge

Watched by local shopkeepers

Bemused by this misplaced aggression…

The seething snake of human insult

Slid slowly through the station gate, 

As bounding, leaping simpletons

Excreted their misguided victory cries,

As if their inane presence

Was forcing the gradual disappearance

Of this horde of verbal garbage.

One powered a glance of hatred

Across the glass-strewn road,

Towards a fist-thrashing,

Filth-spewing enemy

And he was glad to be returning 

To home territory,

Temple bloody,

Appetite satisfied,

Mouth wet

With excitement

And verbal excrement…

Pete Ray

Late 1970s and leaving Villa Park after a match, 

having to pass Witton Station where opposing fans awaited access to their train.

They wore red and white…

Some moronic Villa fans nearby felt that the 

similarly moronic horde was fair game for a scrap, despite the presence of mounted police.

I got through the demented chaos, watchfully…

THE BULLS IN LYE MEADOW... (My poem about a memorable soccer clash between Alvechurch & Hereford FC in April 2016...)

 The Bulls In Lye Meadow…

(Midland Football League, 2016…)

The Bulls arrived at Lye Meadow,

Players with muted, edgy impressions.

With a slight bow I ushered them past me,

To amused, confused expressions… 

Recognition permitted my admission

And proceeding, I made for the bar.

I noticed a chap sweeping rain from the roof,

A photographer, doubling as a char…

Access to the roof was at the rear of the building,

For wedged near a caravan and tractor

Was a shaky aluminium extended wet ladder

And to climb it was a risky factor…

Algae hid beneath several puddles

Across the dark felting, rain-sodden.

After scaling the height, I kept a close check

On where my boots had just trodden…

The view, once I was comfortably settled

Was quite literally stunning

But moving about on a potential rink

Took stealth and a good deal of cunning…

As Hereford’s fans trickled into the ground,

With the kick-off scheduled for just over an hour,

Charcoal clouds hung low over Alvechurch

And deposited a sharp April shower…

Soon all the seats had been taken,

More Bulls congregated behind one net;

Their chanting began, their drummer drummed,

Their resolve undiminished, despite getting wet…  

The press-box on the roof was carpeted but drenched,

With no head-room to stand up straight inside;

There were no chairs, or even a wooden bench

In what felt like a lakeside bird-hide…

The scene thus set and beer being sold from a gazebo, 

Portaloos stood straight as a sentry

And still the singing Hereford throng

Clamoured to gain late entry…

The game was tense, Hereford settled

But Alvechurch were uncreative.

The Bulls netted first and took the initiative,

With Rob Purdie quite superlative…

A second concession, poorly defended by ‘Church

Surely left them with too much to do,

Then substitutions, a goal pulled back

And The Congregation’s hopes grew…

Nadat fell, as if suddenly shot and a penalty was awarded

But trouble flared amongst the troubled fans.

Harassed officials attempted to becalm,

Waving their arms and flapping their hands…

Tension, pressure, Nadat stepped forth,

Confident, with his left boot trusted

But Horsell, the ‘keeper was alert and intent, as

His fans bellowed derision, whilst he stood unflustered…

The shot, well struck, was knee-high,

The dive, low right, was successful;

The save, beaten out, was relieving,

The fans spilling over, was regretful…

Then rage, confrontation, 

Engaged aggravation…

Fencing hauled, 

Beer hurled, 

Punches thrown, 

Hate full-blown, 

Then vilification

And enraged castigation…

Unwilling police pushed back the angry,

The players looked on in disbelief.

Nobody was arrested, blamed or disgraced

And the game restarted to general relief…

The intensity dropped, the ‘Church offense ran cold,

And the Bulls were able to see out the match

For an important victory over their rivals,

In an all-ticket game on a wet, muddy patch…

The Bulls’ chanting reverberated long after the finish, 

The inebriated, the drummer, the madder

And it remained only for me to negotiate 

That rickety, unsecured, aluminium ladder… 

Pete Ray…

Kevin Carroll was the referee and I knew him because his son used to play football with my son Jamie.

KEV CARROLL MANAGED A TOUGH EVENING WELL...

He told me years later that the pitch was unfit on the night but because the all-ticket game had been postponed once already, there was an urgent need to get it played. 

He became really concerned about the behaviour of the spectators during the tense match which basically won promotion for Hereford FC and wrecked Alvechurch’s aspirations…

0-1...

0-2...

JORDAN NADAT'S PENALTY WOULD BE SAVED...

Both teams amassed more than 100 points during the season but Hereford scored 138 goals, conceding only 33, leaving them with a fine goal-difference of +105…

NADAT MEETS THE BODGING PRE-GAME...

NEAT SKY 1...

NEAT SKY 2...

I had been asked to record highlights of the match with commentary and thus I climbed onto the wet grandstand roof to film from what proved to be a great position...

PUDDLES ARE SWEPT FROM THE ROOF...

ME FILMING FROM THE ROOF...

MY BROLLY LEANS IN ANTICIPATION OF IMMINENT ACTION, WHILST THE CLUB PHOTOGRAPHER TAKES A FEW SHOTS...

ACCESS TO THE ROOF...

...AND AGAIN...

NOT EASY TO DESCEND IN DARKNESS...

WELL, I SEEM HAPPY ENOUGH...