As somebody mentions 'broadsheet',
I'm cast back almost forty years,
to when I'd pounce like our cat
the moment the 'paper appears
in the porch, and open it out
across the hallway, at the scores
from the previous evening's set
of matches. I'd scan the scorers,
attendances and each report;
the movements in the tables; where
my team, Queens Park Rangers, now sit.
And then pyjama'd Dad appears,
impatient for his turn at the sport;
one of those Guardian-readers
Dave Allen pokes fun at: the sort
who ought to be Prime Minister.