Poetry

Niece

My niece, a spark of bright delight, With laughter soft as summer’s sigh, She dances through the garden light, Her eyes alight with curious sky. She gathers daisies in her hand, A tiny

Annan Athletic

Annan Athletic, pride of the Solway plain, Your stripes run deep as river‑tide, A crimson flash against the grey, Where Galloway hills whisper encouragement. On the hallowed pitch of Galabank, Boots thud in

Wigan Athletic

In the heart of Greater Manchester’s mist, Wigan Athletic wears its blue and white, A club that rose from humble roots, To chase the dream beneath the floodlit night. From the DW

Shit! It's Jeremy Clarkson!

Shit! It's Jeremy Clarkson! Revving his wit like a turbo‑charged V8, He barrels through topics with a cheeky grin, Leaving a trail of burnt rubber and banter. From Top Gear's tarmac to

Fleetwood Town

In Fleetwood’s salty breeze the gulls cry low, Where amber tides meet navy‑clad ambition, The town’s old pier stands watch as crowds ebb and flow, And hearts beat loud for the club’s loyal

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