The Poolie Bunker

Heard a news report today that had me larfing like feck.

Luton and Newell concerned about their worst run of form in 100 years where at a loss as how to stop it.

The reporter reckoned thanks to Mike Newell posting on the dressing room wall a copy of Rudyard Kipling's poem IF,you know the one If you can keep your head when all around you is losing theirs etc,etc.

Luton,amazed at the virtues of this event and the poem itself and how it helped win the game and get three points.

The reporter turned to the goal scorer and asked what he thought of it all and he said "I did not read it as I thought it was a letter from an angry fan and avoided it" , laugh, I nearly pissed myself again.

Then I thought hang on if the threat of a letter from an angry fan got to him and he went out and won the game for them,LET'S ALL GET WRITING TO DANYY BOY AND CO.

I was thinking about that. I think we should come up with a joint collaboration explaining how we are feeling and how they can make it up to us. Telling them how much the club means to us. Perhaps not overly agressive but enough to motivate them. I know some of them are only here for a wage but it's worth a shot...

Perhaps I'm living in dream world.

I will be at the AGM on Wednesday night and I bet some of the spin will leave us dizzy.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

England will be playing; 4,4, fuck ing two.

That's the one. clap