Fairytale of Old Trafford
(with apologies to The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl)
It was Christmas Eve, Babe,
In Old Trafford.
And Ten Hag said to me,
Mauricio Pochettino lands in the USA full of hope, but World Cup glory looks a long way off
With less experience but plenty of X-factor, Connacht should be fun to watch this season
Totò Schillaci’s joy was infectious and he was loved in Ireland, despite that goal
Mikel Arteta’s Arsenal are disgustingly accomplished, with a hint of Tony Pulis
“Won’t see another one.”
And then he sang a song,
“Come on Ye Reds,” he cooed.
I turned my face away,
No dreams to cling to.
Got on a lucky one,
Maguire’s groin is done.
I’ve got a feeling,
He’s out for a month or two.
So here comes Christmas,
Three games in seven days.
We are Man United,
A couple of draws will just about do.
We’ve got Rashford and Mainoo, Eriksen and Shaw,
Varane goes right through you, he’s so slow on the draw.
There’s Lisandro Martinez, who hasn’t stayed fit.
There’s Antony and Hojland and neither is It.
Jonny Evans,
And Dalot,
Alejandro Garnacho.
They can’t be the answer when the question’s this hard.
Lindelof’s hulking,
Jadon Sancho is sulking
Casemiro was deadly but he isn’t no more.
And the boys on Soccer Saturday
Will laugh and dance and sing.
United could be sixth
On Christmas Day.
We have Martial.
We have Mount.
Wan-Bissaka don’t count.
Our top scorer’s McTominay, who was out on his ear.
Onana, the stopper?
A cheap lousy dropper.
A good goalie my arse
I pray God he’s sold fast.
And the boys on Soccer Saturday
Will laugh and dance and sing.
We’ll probably be seventh
On Christmas Day.
We’ll have to sign someone.
We can’t get anyone!
There’s nothing left this year,
Unless you count the Cup.
“The Cup it is,” he said.
Wigan away, first game.
No danger there, no shame.
We’ll build our dreams around it.
And the boys on Soccer Saturday
Will laugh and dance and sing.
United will be eighth
On Christmas Day.
♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊
JP Baby
(with apologies to Eartha Kitt)
JP Baby,
Just slip a million under the tree for me,
Been an awful good club.
JP Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.
JP Baby,
Won’t say a word about your tax affairs, no sir.
We won’t be rude or uncouth,
JP Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.
Think of all the S&C,
Think of all the sports psychology.
All your cash is safe and sound,
Performance coaches, one, two, three.
JP Baby,
You’re all the government ain’t, a saint.
We all appreciate you.
JP Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.
JP Honey,
I wonder might there be a little bit more, see your
Kindness has caused a stir.
JP Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.
Here’s the thing – we spent it all.
We got an outside manager from Donegal.
Car expenses, meals on wheels,
A GPS system that cost a bomb to install.
JP Sugar,
I feel as if we let you down, but don’t frown.
Next time won’t be the same.
JP Baby,
Just hurry down the chimney tonight.
JP Baby,
Sure what’s another million to you? Or two?
Been an awful good club.
JP Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.
♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊
LIV Christmas
(with apologies to Bing Crosby)
I’m dreaming of a LIV Christmas,
Just like the one Jon Rahm will know.
Where the Saudis listen,
And fat cheques glisten,
Enough to stop him saying No.
I’m dreaming of a LIV Christmas,
Where you forget all human rights.
May your head be leaky like a sieve.
And may all your Christmases be LIV.
I’m dreaming of a LIV Christmas,
Drinking with Phil and Patrick Reed.
Where there’s endless money,
And nothing’s funny.
And all that matters is the greed.
I’m dreaming of a LIV Christmas,
Where golf moves on and speaks no ill.
May you forget – and possibly forgive,
And may all your Christmases be LIV.
♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊♦◊
Jingle Bells
(with apologies to ... everybody!)
Jingle Bells,
Sad farewells,
Snyman’s heading east.
Munster’s loss,
Their fans are cross,
They’re riled to say the least.
Oh!
Jingle Bells,
More death knells.
The rivalry’s a cod.
Oh what fun,
Another one,
For Leinster’s brilliant squad.
Dashing to the Pale,
A Springbok on the way.
No more fitness fail,
Laughing all the way
(HA-HA-HA)
Munster left like chumps,
Ten matches in four years.
Oh, what fun there is to come
When Leinster see their tears.
Oh!
Jingle Bells,
Shouts and yells,
“GO ON YA USELESS LUNK!”
Munster mad,
Supporters sad,
The system looking drunk.
Oh!
Jingle Bells,
This one smells.
He’s hardly played a game!
A Leinster man,
And somehow grand.
How come he’s no longer lame?
