So what’s it called?

By Jim Mackintosh

This article first appeared in Issue 8 which was published in June 2018.

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.

This article first appeared in Issue 8 which was published in June 2018.

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