Friday, August 03, 2007

Lead ahouy - spieling Dream

Let me be your reader; i bessech you all here today for the goodness that is bono Love; good, good loving..Bob sung and continues to in his uniquely spiritually irish country and western way of american expansion first lore, heard wiv the song when sung, in pure dub..mahn.

Expand my base of Love. please, i urge you vist and speak uncensored by time. Nea snip but a double gift of two coterminious threads,

Wanna waffle wiv yer gob in the vacuum?

..who do we choose, dearest reader of One love, one hug, we gotta harry that language bro..go wan and be on yer own sailor breathing in shadow and shade in ones native..english innit, peesey pie laah, so go lick the tree in a room full just being tree like, in littered garish faux aul D minus and piece of peace ohhmm'ing as only a wooden can.

So suck on the twig witchery bog breath, druidical space magi gather..literature, Love 3 sweeden O that night stan first appeared as saviour wiv a living legend, Robbo in full five year bus pass OAP back up mode, stood starring by cameras squeezing stan's hand; before he was hospitalised with another health fright, he once again, amazingly defied and sailed through - A1 living legend Mr robson; wiping our manager's imaginal arse..and yet nea, for we and bobby, robbo, bob rosbon he is mate, why eye, if it aint mah gee'ordie wan Roberto Cúchulainn, and i beat them 3 nothing scando sweede breateing turnips that raw spring night, April stars, slick sky, the roar of support keeping all there warm, in a friendly wan - and yet still - passion reversed and reserved, coyote like shyness, a diametric oppositional flux in perfect harmony, essentially itself, yerself; and being friendly an all, true national spirit of fair play appeared..phoof..just like that; 40 thousand witnesses; coopered to it,

Love... The next game, alas, bobby was needed to wipe stan down, after a drubbing we got by poorer opposition and staunton's golden glow disappeared in bitter recriminations, Keano sized slaggings and batterings in a continual and unceasing wave after wave of woe for the spirit of soccer on the island.

And when stan appeared pitchside, as manager, making it happen on the pitch by sheer belief alone, none nea more were wanting to believe, for the results and state of on pitch action, spoke far far louder than the Louth wan, getting it wrong; even uninventive soccer hacks slagged, wounding staunton at will, embarresing to read really, and tv interviews showing yer man under the cosh and in supreme personal turmoil, professionally, as saviour and flame of island soccer spiritual lore writing his own myth.

Alas; it went downhill, this geordie louth paradise of sir and partnership of stanley staunton avec roberto robson; taking on the hue and tenor - in the press - of true greek tradegy worthy of a laughably inventive armageddon myth; itself to appear in the next match, as Hera doing whatever it is she does to ramp up prophecy, her locks of woe in what three tri con of pure bollix beleif stan was having back then an all...

Coz stan was shown up for the chancer he bleeding was see; prophetic doom was voiced in the fecking Star, the Sun affirming how shit he was, how worthy of pure viciousness he was deserving, how professional soccer journalist jihadic windbags exhaled their green bile on this man of tender wan years being beaten racketeringly by these horrid mob of negative trollie gits.

Thus to fail stan had to be, and..hey, get real and sack the turnip breathing thick git, before michael barrymore nicks his job.

But then, a random and even more supremely divine intervention. the miracle everyone knew in their most secret of selves, who - it is clear now - collectively held similar pictures, within the immediate and central same border of dernier or some such natural tide-mark of anarchy this island has, and thus life in the psychic breath of her living wans; and stans professional armageddon within the pincers of fictional lore, at that time.. back then an all..when we was bludding in yer new wans..had a tough druidical call to it, a big ask; yet a printed sacrafice in the press; the stringing up of stan an all..afore the match.

The riling and back bitchery goss, spuming in byzantium labrinth, pro-begrduger nasities and yer wotist wans all gunked wiv hate an all..back in the day when it where fair go and game to play the man; no intention of kicking the ball, going for bone, a clean unlucky break, accidental wans..erm..a hem..was not the true Keano spirit, the defiance that goes beyond being pensioned out at the foot of a living soccer Legend from the most staunchly pro territorial bunch. thus doesn't it just be then, Stan staunton's Art - dan; sidhe it is..bleeding faeries all that keeps him sane..stanley in swan grace with apple and yew trees, an acorn and ridge pole,

the silver branch of an enobling stroll on the sand looking for clues to cement success in his future, but all stan found was an inebriated troll, flaming on the aul wounds, picking at scaps, wanting answers form Lugh himself..gadzooks stan; get a bleeding grip of the pisshead and toss him to the ground..who we man, we gotta pretend we like the wan..playing shit innit..i love you stan...wot a tit..c'mon golden ballss..snigger..hey pack it in, stan is our leader in soccer lore, have some damn respect..cuisle on and hate but remeber we Love, stan..we thought you would turn up for the guard of honour, keot waiting by yer wans, to upset at the trauma of the drubbing to face the stewards silent inquiry that night i cannot forget, but no longer recall who beat us, prefer to forget the bhouys do stan...we Love; do you stan staunton?

And yet nea, but yet the soccer magus and prophet staunton from Drogheda was delivered a galactic intervention needed to rescue him off pitch. The human stan appeared; after a semi comatase drunken mentally ill person - in clear and supreme dire straits beyond the one that went beyond stan's - drew, not the bannana of an criminally amatuer virgin heist ending in failure; but a replica firearm; or airpistol...i dunno; but summat looking approximate enough when recklessly whipped out after several bottles of buckfastfor, to cause supreme a fright to send one bannanas on the beach when in immensely serious think.

And so, at work, out of office hours most certainly - but stan works pitchside see..injecting faith, whilst trying to shoulder an arm around the new blood; wans getting a right pasting in the home arena..cries of rubbish and such..not inspiring then. Yet the odd glimpse - the san marino game..stan. Love, we'll always have the san marino match; when we humilated them just for a psycho rite of blind faith, bonkers and went a trouncing these sporting good lookers in the first and full bloom of..stan..was Marino beautiful as the Formorian Balors who ended up back wiv the gals gracing the the page in rags, glend, sars and wotsit, wiv udder wans, Aoife and her croney young aul wan, the three of as/is in one triple protectional aspect of sheer sidhe and wind, dust and a handful of broken tongues, sounding suitably stupid, thus a poetical lyricist


struck the glyph stan..

you were confidence personified in chill April..force for Good, the cold a reminder of what ghosts them wooden-cups bowled at lansdowne, april four degrees, above or below, none know, but cold most certainly; the hot breath froze and red nose glowing, but the voice spoke volumes, sung the fields of athenry through a megaphone, that Muster Aine sidhe, her man yer wan was a a legend, central boudhran co-ordinating 50 drums, dr Yees wiv his megaphone at Lansdowne for the real game of Legend, Leinster chaps and Limerick dockers, there for a friendly - grudge - match of sheer stubborness, brutal logic of one for all or die trying; the one in the top five of any sport, the ye observing and turning life to Art.

And this fake piece of metallic armoury was wielded by the drunk, interupting within Mr staunton's personal space and national soccer lore - peace - when our leader do be pacing a shoreline in deep ponder, wondering what professional woe was to appear next in his war with the hacks.

And what did is the most so bizzare thing, that it was, effectively, a miracle of sorts. At the next press conference, about the ensuing game for which stan had been pacing about, for it were a day or two afore the actual existential kick off, the home game, after the fake gun; not banna - had been pulled on stan, by an irrate; not fan - but bewildered fellow citizen and lunatic - Stan was pissed off personally, and his deeper spirit, not only flickered, but thus, flamed.

As he actually couldn't give a toss about the personal trauma to himself of havinmg a pisshead wield an imitation arm in his space - man who pulled a fake gun on him - ..erm; actually i remember now, the gunman was bladdered on heavy proof liquors, a concoction of much booze; so stan properly copped onto that sharpo.

But either way, stan staunton wasn't arsed about himself; but his parents and family, as the press intrusion angle, of them not being relevant to a soccer match. And yet in a mad way, a good - bono - crazee sense of irrefutable logical irish way, life works ok; the island where memory is queen and royal flush busting, or at least check mating any other wan, yers aul wans a holding as sidhe, shee, tuatha de dannan..she..shh, sh - Love

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