A working knowledge of mid to late 70’s football chants might be helpful but not essential

We are out of the ground and we are on the street.
There they are. There are more of them than there are of us but that is just part of the pleasure when you see them run.
We issue our challenge and spit out the ancient forms.
Hands held out wide we beckon them on. We move a few steps forward then we move a few steps back.
We’ve danced this dance a thousand times and we will dance this dance a thousand more.
But they are not dancing.
Where’s the thin blue line of brave British bobbies who normally choreograph our little ballet?
They come for us.
They rip us apart.
Horny handed dockers and proper working men
I won’t be going back there to see them again
I won’t be shagging their women or drinking their beer
My only desire is to get out of here
We said we’d see them
And we’d see them outside
And we probably did
As we ran for our ride
The car has gone!
Which is ironic
It was a stolen car
Beaten, bloodied, bowed and cowed we make it to the station. We force our way onto the first available train, the first available train to anywhere, anywhere but here.
We reach Euston. Euston station where early in the morning, if you follow a trail of rainbow coloured piss
you will almost always find a homeless person, curled up, like a nesting dormouse, in a tatty old sleeping bag.
Life is full of such wonders.
“What do we pay our taxes for?”
It is the inalienable right of every British citizen to be able to hurl insults at opposing football fans and call their wives whores without fear of physical retribution.
Coming up the escalator is a member of a different tribe
A fresh faced youngster who wears his scarf with pride
We chase him and we hunt him until we loose him in the crowd.
The battle of Euston station!
“Oh we’re the lads!”
We’ll shag your women
And we’ll drink your beer
Lippy little runts we are here!


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