MartinOde

South by South West, and nowhere to hide, 

Kaiser’s at the wheel, it’s a white knuckle ride.

Give the Wreck a ball; give a dog a bone,

Trussed up in a Coach, yeah, Testosterone….

We’re on our way to Wimborne; we shall not be moved, 

Fifty-something footballers with a point to prove. 

It’s the Wimborne Ultimatum; we’re going 4-4-2,

With Siagos in the hole, the sweetest taboo.

The M3 knifes through chalky South Downs, 

A bus-full of playmakers, send in the clowns.

Don’s pedal to the metal, he’s in like Flynn, 

The tarmac ribbon unfurls at the Premier Inn.

No time for cocktails, or a cheeky macchiato, 

No Bar-B at the beach-hut, no plaza passagiato, 

We’re on our way to Wimborne; we have a point to prove,

Gather up your shin-pads, the Wrecks are on the move.

The scent in the changing room is liniment and shit, 

Yet we’re smelling roses with King Alfred’s’ azzuro-nero kit. 

It’s the Wimborne Ultimatum, in the low autumnal sun 

Its pistols at noon. Christ the oppo look young!

Our back four is a problem, pointless to deny,

Everyone thinks they’re Messi, not ageing fat guys, 

Rocky’s looking quizzical, wing-back’s not his game, 

He’s a back of the diamond geezer, Licensed to Maim.

And Mardee’s not a left-back; he’s going to take a stand,

“I’m a fookin’ striker me, and a Socialist firebrand.”

It's the Wimborne Ultimatum, who wants it the most? 

Some hail it the “El Classico of the Jurassic Coast.”

The Wrecks do have challenges, (let’s not talk about Stockman,)

Drew is only fifty-fifty and Campsie’s done a Bosman,

But up front though Hubz and Paddy provide a quality family blend,

And we’ve snatched a ringer who once played for Southend. 

In the dugout The Suffolk Two chew gum and act pally,

But are you really laughing Little Ben .. and Manager Thornalley? 

They’ve seen the oppo midfield – potent - physically and sexually,

And there’s Stocky tossing up, confused about his Wimborne Identity.

The game kicks off to muted applause,

It's all nervy, hurly-burly, early doors.

It's a bloody big pitch, are the goals really that large?

(The world was a different place before Nigel Farage.)

The locals press and buzz, pretensions of tiki takka,

The Wrecks prefer to lump it up to our solo attacker. 

Wave upon wave, the oppo force a goalmouth melee’, 

Kaiser’s eating dirt and it's a tap-in for the Wimborne Pele.

No oranges at half-time, but the language is getting fruity,

We’re one-fucking-down and every Wreck must do his duty,

Poor Drew’s back has gone, he knows he’s gonna be subbed, 

Phil’s peeling off his sheepskin, will he save the Club? 

The second half is better with Siagos running the show,

(He’s a Paddington Adonis and a café’ owner in Truro,)

Paddy’s bossing the middle and Alfie’s skating the wing,

The ball’s loose in their box and Hubz unerringly slides it in.

The pendulum has swung, Wimborne’s a house of cards,

Andrew’s tasting blood and lobs the keeper from 30 yards. 

But the local lads are far from witless, 

And we all know the beautiful game is a faithless mistress,

They rampaged the Wreck’s box in those dying minutes,

And tested our creaking back four to the outer limits

Stockie engaged in some surreal pantomime, 

“It's Over Me” he cried to Kaiser, as we entered added time,

The ball bounced through, and just like Wembley 66,

The opposition equalised with perhaps the final kick.

So the bitter-sweet pleasure of penalties arrived,

(No more casually ruthless denouement has ever been contrived.)

Our ringer, the self-styled “Super-Cooper” hammered his into the roof, 

Then young Alfie belted his home with the swagger of youth,

Paddy and Phil too managed to find the onion bag,

And with one of the oppo nearly hitting the corner flag,

It was all down to hapless Stockaldo to ensure our football legacy,

He duly scuffed it home to secure The Wimborne Supremacy