The history of scunnered includes all of us
in our shades of team colours, joy, misery
& everything in between
Me, I stare into a glass, sharpen a pencil
stare some more & nothing happens.
I should be used to scunnered, such
that we share a season ticket
& know each other intimately.
I will now do an hour of mourning
for the missed chances
followed by an hour of hee-haw.
I will blame all known Gods.
I do it shamelessly, will feel good
because I’ve done it so many times.
then I will empty the glass in a oner,
feeling resolved although nothing ever is.
That’s what you get for following your club.
I could’ve picked another team.
I could’ve picked another sport
but no I didn’t and understand this result
was just another knee in the bollocks
from the back catalogue of lifelong purgatory
wrapped in a shiny film of temptation
taped down with false promise.
I listen to the radio and ignore the comments,
the social media posts, the tags, the feeds & smile.
There is something wrong with me
besides the scunnered so I fill the glass once more
& retrieve the season ticket from behind the telly.