COMMON TOUCH

THE PLAYERS WITH THAT COMMON TOUCH



I love the players with that common touch,
Jinky Jim Smith’s nutmeg in his own box,
Albert Scanlon on the Coast Road bus,
boots wrapped up under his arm,
on his way to the game,
players with that common touch.
John McNamee swinging from a Roker cross-bar,
Mirandhina in his wooly gloves.
Gascoigne chewing on a Mars Bar
before he takes a corner,
I love the players with that common touch.
As a postman, I once delivered packets
to John McGrath’s door,
predicted the score
as he patted my head,
another player with that common touch.
Alan Suddick pulling shorts down
in the wall,
the triumphant leaps of Martins and Lua Lua,
I love the players with that common touch.
Bobby Mitchell smiling behind the Lochside bar,
the human decency of Frank Clark.
They reach your black and white soul they do,
all the players with that common touch.







KEITH ARMSTRONG

a letter from george

MELLY: IN MEMORIAM

Something sad about clowns;
something thin between laughter and tears.
Pity the dignity, the love and the hate,
the twitching wire between body and soul
and you on that stage,
drunk on rum and borrowed blues again;
unique in the balance you keep to yourself -
never quite losing it,
never quite making it;
bawling out between Magritte and Morton,
playing the droopy-drawered clown
with yourself,
you

do the Melly-Belly,
the Ovaltine,
big brash belly-laugh blues.




Keith Armstrong

the gloucester arms, penrith

The Gloucester Arms Hotel can claim to be one of the oldest inns in the country, dating from 1477. It is thought to have been the residence of Richard III, and bears his coat of arms.

long meg and her daughters