Author: phil-martin

They say you play in heaven but that’s a bit far-fetched,
You’re more likely to kick about on the pitch where we were blessed,
To have you represent us, the field where you’ve shone,
I like to think Old Trafford’s where your legacies play on.

I like to think you’re watching us, your spirits in the stand,
I like to think from time to time that you give us a hand,
I like to think that bobble or that swerve is really you,
Playing the ball towards their goal just like you used to do.

I like to think you push the team ‘don’t give up my son,’
I like to think you’ve played your part in every trophy won,
I know that it’s because of you we play the way we do,
Coz the spirit of our flowers will always filter through.

Bent and Bryne defend the flanks, Jones commands the back,
Coleman, Pegg and Whelan, all feeding the attack,
Edwards covers every blade, imperious everywhere,
Tommy Taylor leads the front, still deadly in the air.

So when the team looks beaten and the shirts can’t find the heart,
I like to think your spirit…gives today’s boys that kick start,
To pile on the pressure and not give up the game,
Because of you we’ll never die, we’ll always be the same.

A lucky spin, a deflection or pinball in the box,
I like to think the lucky bounce comes from the ones we’ve lost,
A ninetieth minute winner, scored in Fergie time,
A helping hand from the Busby Babes just like in their prime.

Coz the flowers and the phoenix shaped United to the core,
And like petals from those ashes, we knew that we could soar,
For from that fateful runway, our club’s destiny was made,
So we sing about you every match so our memories never fade.

We sing about our Munich dead and a team that lay in the snow,
Shrouded in our deepest red, all those years ago,
We sing Forever and Ever, and of Sir Bobby and Matt Busby,
And how they fought on for the Flowers to win at Wembley.

I hope my granddad’s singing too, in his ‘popular’ stand,
I like to think he’s clapping and waving a victorious hand,
I hope he’s there with other granddads, the ones that have passed on,
So the crowd’s not seventy thousand but seventy million.

Those long lost Flowers of Manchester are the real reason why,
For ninety minutes every match, our team will never die,
We’ll rise and rise and rise again just like Matt Busby did,
And play on in your memory; always U-Ni-Ted.

(But still those clowns sing Munich and mock their hero too,
Coz one of the flowers of Manchester will always be a blue,
When they’re praying for deflections or asking god for a gift,
I wonder if that bobbling ball is saved by Frankie Swift.)

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.


He convinced the world to sing along in pure Mancunian,
Putting Manchester on the map as much as anyone,
A working class Manc hero, focussed on his goals,
Manc accent and Manc attitude, it’s the way he rock n rolls.

His words stir pure emotion, his rifts and melodies rule,
No matter what he’s doing he epitomises cool,
He’s the very personification of everything that’s Manc,
A musical inspiration, for his Manc soul we should thank.

He gave us Morning Glory and packed out Wem-ber-ley,
He told us we should Talk Tonight, I thought Definitely Maybe,
His songs would Live Forever; they loved ‘em Round Our Way,
And Like a Force of Nature he’d Never Fade Away.

Known All Around The World, and Half the World Away,
He Rolled With It not caring whatever Some Might Say,
Right from the beginning he had a Masterplan,
And now he’s in his forties, It’s Getting Better Man.

He never looked Back in Anger, even Hung In A Bad Place,
From Wonderwall to Bag It Up, his tunes were f’@ckin’ ace,
He Put his Money Where his Mouth Is and sang about hisMagic Pie
And now that he”s gone solo, his birds are flying high.

Noel Gallagher is a genius; in fact he is a God,
And every time I hear him speak, agreement makes me nod,
Unless he’s talking football and then he’s just a blue,
And excels in speaking nonsense, like all those berties do.

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.

Doorway Under The Arches


Those lightly chequered Farah’s; they really have to go,
The seventies are long gone; it’s clearly time to show,

An eye for building fashion; a new age, dynamic streak,
And an Arndale tower for Manchester that matches Market Street,

For nestling quite obscurely in the modern Manchester sky,
Stands an architectural relic from an era that’s gone by,

When curly roofs kept us dry outside M&S,
And smoke-filled bus stations wreaked havoc with our chest,

When shady underground jean stalls were the place to shop,
And huge sloping ramps on Cannon Street led to car parks up on top,

When cars could motor freely… right up Market Street,
They even had a go back then that the Arndale din’t look neat,

So why can’t the Arndale tower blend in, in silver or in grey?
Can someone take those Farah’s off and please throw them away?

It looks like the investment …was ready for a while,
Market Street’s resplendent with its aesthetic grey retile,

The Food Court and indoor market they got the facelift too,
It’s just with Arndale tower they didn’t quite know what to do,

Of course it should stay standing, it’s part of our city scene,
Just finish off the tiling work, the whole city is keen,

To see a better tower, I know that times are tough,
But our Arndale’s dated collar should at least match with its cuff.

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved


If you hail from Manchester, you’re an expert soaked wet through,
If you’ve reigned at all in this city, no one feels it more than you,
If you’ve showered in our glory; then its’ soaked into your brain,
Coz, there ain’t no folk more clued up when it comes to rain.

There’s rain that spits like Peter Kay’s but soaks you to the bone,
A fine and near invisible sheet that engulfs your whole route home,
It wraps itself around you, though you never see it fall,
And though it is the finest, it’s the wettest rain of all.

If you’re out in it for too long and this may make you laugh,
This rain wrinkles your fingers like they’re soaking in the bath,
Your toes and face will wrinkle too, making folk look funny,
But put all your notes into a bag or its papier-mâché money.

Then there are the raindrops the size of dogs and cats,
Just one drop will drench you, as against your head it splats,
Just one hit’s enough… to knock you from your stance,
Umbrella’s don’t protect folk, when these heavy raindrops dance.

Never try to catch this rain playfully on your tongue,
Coz in this town folk have drowned when they’ve got this wrong,
Imagine a grand piano falling quickly from the skies,
One drop will take your head off if it hits you in your eyes.

Though heavy rain is funny, I warn you never dare,
To laugh at any female with the flattest of flopped hair,
As just one drop is nuclear; a follicular mishap,
And just one smirk’s disastrous, only ending in a slap.

Next is rain that bounces up; it likes to ricochet,
Attacking from all angles, you can’t keep it at bay,
Then there’s rain that don’t fall down but likes to fall across,
Driving rain and blinding rain, the sort that gets folks lost.

I swear this rain is heat seeking, you won’t escape it if you try,
It’s trained to land at face height and drench you in the eye,
It’s learned to curve round corners and chase folk as they stride,
It’s learned to almost levitate, turning gravity on its side.

Then there’s rain that flutters down and masquerades as snow,
It slithers down your hood and neck, there’s no place it won’t go,
It’s trained to travel under skirts and up some ladies’ frocks,
It’s learned to slither up your legs and drip into your socks.

There’s rain that piggybacks the wind and slaps you in the face,
There’s acid rain that stings your eyes, I swear it’s laced with mace,
There’s rain that’s learned as it lands to quickly start to huddle,
So passersby fail to see and run straight through a puddle.

There’s clever rain that waits to see what folk are putting on,
Like the sudden summer downpour after the sun has shone,
Then there is endurance rain that lasts day after day,
It forces us to go out in it… in case it never goes away.

There’s ice cold rain straight from the fridge making us all chilly,
Tickly rain that tickles us and prickles us so silly,
Rain that runs right down our necks sending icy shivers,
Rain that turns our roads and streets into cascading rivers.

Not forgetting the deluge rain, like the shower has come on,
By the time you get your brollie out the deluge has completely gone.
There’s rain that is so focussed aiming for the base of your jeans,
Rain that makes us dance, as we try to run or least it seems.

Then there is the hail rain that freezes in the air,
And lands as hard as bullets, it’s the most painful I swear,
Folk are known to cry out and run for cover as it strikes,
It’s nasty, evil, horrible rain that everyone dislikes.

There’s rain that forces us to sprint our absolute personal best,
As we feebly try to stay dry in the clothes that we are dressed,
Then there is the naughty rain that makes tops go see through,
And that constantly trickling rain that makes folks need the loo.

All kinds of rain fall in Manchester; it makes us groan and grizzle,
But I think you’ll find we’re all experts in every kind of drizzle,
That’s nowt to do, if you’re soaked wet through, except hope one day to find,
That a rain expert from Manchester … has cleaned up on Mastermind..

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.

Doorway Under The Arches

Madchester rocked my nineties but where did it all begin?
Most people say the Free Trade Hall with just forty people in,
But in that crowd of Pistol’s fans, a new wave of stars was born,
And from that night in seventy six, so many bands were spawned.

The first in many critics’ eyes, the reason Manchester rocks,
Was the debut of a Bolton band the legendary Buzzcocks,
Blending punk with indie rock, a new age style came out,
And Ever Fallen in Love made them post punks jump about.

Next came the music of the Fall fuelling more revision,
Then a sound to dominate Mancunia came from Joy Division,
A new Transmission caused Disorder, Love Will Tear Us Apart,
But it was tragedy that struck them hard and a New Order would start.

Simply Red, a soul/jazz band were at the Free Trade Hall,
Twenty five years of music, 50 million albums sold in all,
Their music Holding Back the Years, once Something Got Them Started,
With Stars and Ain’t That A Lot of Love, Mick left girls broken hearted.

The Smiths were influential with a most alternative of sound,
With Charming Man and Panic, they were musically crowned,
Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One and Girlfriend in a Coma,
Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, with Morrissey as their crooner.

Blue Monday brought electronic in, a sound before its time,
And suddenly synth bass lines and kick drums weren’t a crime,
Then came something different to blow club land away,
A Guy Called Gerald rocked the Hac with a tune called Voodoo Ray.

The Acid House Revival took hold in eighty eight,
When Chicago and Detroit house made illegal raves vibrate,
Italian Old School Piano boomed from Ride on Time,
So many movements happening, it really blew your mind.

House made its way to Manchester; a drum machine made beats great,
Blending acid house with melodies re- mastered by 8-0-8 State,
Pacific State and Cubic were really In Yer face,
And Manchester’s new music splintered at awe inspiring pace,

Madchester spawned a brand new sound; a psychedelic rock,
As indie merged with Acid house another beat would drop,
Stone Roses led the indie route, they knew This is The One,
Fools Gold, One Love, would Be Adored with Sally Cinnamon.

Northside tripped down memory lane and told us to Take Five,
The Inspirals knew This is How it Feels… when Two Worlds Collide,
Standing proud in Sackville, their T-shirts cool as f@ck,
Hallelujah for the Mondays who warbled Wrote For luck.

Shaun Ryder looked to Step On, The Boys were back in Town
As James told us to all Come Home and collectively Sit Down,
The Charlatans weren’t The Only One I Know from way back when,
Tim Burgess in his White Shirt singing Opportunity and Then.

Manchester covered every sound; N-Trance would set us free,
How could we love M People more? Moving on Up on Angel Street,
One Night in Heaven, probably more, Pickering knew just what to do,
Sub Sub rocked the Hac once more, Angel’s miles and miles of you.

Nothing stayed still, the Roses split but Brown didn’t get the Fear,
He had Unfinished Monkey Business that’d rock both far and near,
The Dolphins were the Monkeys, they’d join him on his Star,
He even borrowed Mani to play on bass guitar.

The Mock Turtles Could Dig it? The Doves they had their Words,
Evolving from Sub Sub’s house to the most peaceful indie birds,
Morrissey’s genius went solo, Ryder formed Black Grapes,
But still Manchester rocked the charts and still produced some greats.

The techno edge of brothers Chemical would very soon emerge,
Big beat psychedelia was the sound those Uni boys would purge.
They Galvanized electric sound with their famed Block Rocking Beat,
Hey Girl, Hey Boy, Out of Control moving clubbers’ feet.

But soon it was some other siblings successful turn to shiiiiine,
As Noel and Liam Gallagher made the stadium stage their shrine,
Their sound would Live Forever, they really had it all,
They Rolled With it, The ShakerMaker’s on their WonderWall.

With Cigarettes and Alcohol, they had a Masterplan,
Half a World Away and back again but always being Manc,
Never caring what Some Might Say just Feeling SuperSonic,
Long outlasting Madchester, the Gallagher’s were right on it.

We even had a boy band, one to Rule The World,
Singing songs like Pray and Babe, It Only Takes a Minute Girl,
One day they would be Back for Good, so we’d Never Forget,
How Barlow’s Million Love Songs made a million more girls (s)we(a)t.

Elbow brought a chilled out sound, they loved The Bones of You,
But they’d settle for One Day Like This as long as its Powder Blue,
The Starlings and The Birds would also bring them hope,
That they’d achieve their High Ideals and get An Audience With The Pope.

The Courteeners Falcon rose and rose, they crossed their heart and hoped to fly,
But they weren’t Nineteen Forever so chilled out with a Lullaby,
What Took You So Long brought lots of rock, That Kiss brought all the roll,
Cavorting, Aftershow, Will It be?… You Overdid it Doll.

Now if we push the boundaries… and I think we’ve got the nerve,
We can include Lisa Stansfield and Richard Ashcroft’s Verve,
Then stretching back to Bolton we’ve got Badly Drawn Boy,
Whilst Stretford-born Jay Kay became Jamiroquai.

The last few years were quieter; the conveyor belt slowed down,
But nice one Greater Manchester, so many bands and sounds,
Innovation’s in Man-chester genes, in that we should take solace,
So over to The Slow Readers Club, Mount Fabric and Optional Wallace.

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.


It sneaks in through my window, through my duvet too,
It crawls under my bed sheets; I haven’t got a clue,
How to keep the city out when I try to sleep,
For just one night I’d love to write, that I didn’t hear a peep.

The voices shout and laugh at first; somebody thinks they’re funny,
There’s someone sitting right outside asking folk for money,
The football chants start quite soon too, every night they sing,
United are the team for them and Eric is their King.

Wolf whistles pierce the city air, as drunkards start to slobber,
At hen girls strolling down the street dressed in burlesque clobber,
One bloke tries a chat up line, his mind it plots and schemes,
Do one you punk, you must be drunk, not even in your dreams.

The hens all laugh and scuttle off to find their chippie shop,
A herd of galloping horses pound, their heels all clippety clop,
A car slams on and beeps its horn as one steps into its path,
Then someone tells a dirty joke and a hundred hyenas laugh.

What’s going on? Was that a fight? Is it kicking off outside?
I’d better look; I’d better check, someone could have died,
But in seconds flat the hens are back, singing loudly and in time,
“I’ve had the time of my life,” they sing. I want to finish mine!

A mobile phone is ringing but the tune’s not clear to me,
Then someone’s shouting in their phone like Trigger Happy TV,
Every word filters up and wanders through my head,
Whole sentences are queuing up at the bottom of my bed.

Back to my pit, I try again to block out all the noise,
But someone finds a traffic cone, to entertain his boys,
He shouts through it and sings a song then puts it on his head,
Then sirens fill the city air, and silly boys with dread.

They shout and scatter everywhere but the sirens carry on,
Police cars roaring ever loud, then eventually they’re gone,
At last I think there’s quiet, the city sounds quite calm,
I spoke too quick, I must be thick; a shrieking car alarm.

I sit up to figure out; did they move me in my sleep?
Has someone pushed my bed outside, am I sleeping in the street?
The noise is loud and shows no sound of ever letting up,
Give up I think, you won’t get a wink and consider getting up.

My early night will never be, I might just join my friends,
Might just see what bar they’re in and see where my night ends,
But silence falls to coax me in and keep me in my bed,
It’s like it knows when I get up and sends quietness instead.

But next it is nature’s turn, rain crashes on my window,
And I beg for silence to return from the deep depths of my pillow,
All thoughts of sleep have disappeared; from my mind they’re quickly wrenched.
As howls of pain pierce my ears as folk are swiftly drenched.

Shrieking fills the night again, laughs peppered by a scream,
The noises keep my mind awake, it’s impossible to dream,
It’s like I’m on the street with them, it’s like I am outside,
Headphones, ear plugs, background tunes, there’s nothing I ain’t tried.

The only cure, it seems to me, if revellers make you groan,
Is stay out late; like way past eight, and be the last one home,
Last man standing, last to bed, make sure you miss the noise,
Then straight to bed, and straight to z’s bring stillness to your poise.

But at last it’s silent outside my flat; the revellers have gone home,
No shouts, no sirens, no alarms or annoying mobile phones,
I turn my pillow, cold side up and shuffle snugly in,
As silence shrouds my city night, no noise at last, no din.

But then I hear it faintly, although it’s getting near,
Then realise to my horror, the road sweepers are here,
Clearing up the rubbish from the night before,
I know it’s time to give up sleep as that hum becomes a roar.

The bottle bins are emptied from the bar over the street,
I hear two women walking; high heels on their feet,
The bin men are outside my flat; it couldn’t get much worse,
With their lorry beeping loudly as they slow-ly reverse.

I know the screech that follows too; I know it straight away,
As metal squeals around the town; the first tram of the day,
The main road is alive outside; the next roar is from a bus,
Night time’s gone; I’ve missed my sleep and morning time’s on us.

Manchester has woken up; my sleep shattered as it fails,
The city from my pillow; it tells a thousand tales,
A thousand conversations all shouted and not said,
When the only sound I want to hear begins and ends with Z.

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.

Doorway Under The Arches


The markets, the markets, the markets are here,
As once again Albert fills with festive cheer,
They’re amazing, I love them, we just have to go,
I can’t wait to see Zippie. Do you think it could snow?
Girls wrap up pretty in Christmasy coats,
As lads throw bratwursts and beer down their throats,
It’s a bustling place where we all come to meet,
When work has finished for mulled wine and a treat.
All food imaginable and all sorts of goods,
From Lancashire hotpot to goulash with spuds.
Profiteroles, pancakes, pies and paella,
Crepes that are smeared in lashings of nuttella.
We’ll meet under Rudolf and merrily swallow,
Hot chocolate with baileys and gooey marshmellow,
Waffles, buntzles, deep fried pigs in blankets,
Coz Albert’s is the most Bavarian of banquets.
The mulled wine is flowing, it’s deliciously hot,
But be careful at home time, it’s deceptively got,
Alcohol concealed, in fact it is laced,
There’s a fall over hidden in its vimtoey taste.
But it’s a nice kind of tipsy as you giggle and talk,
Then nip back to the pig stall for a nice bit of pork,
Your nose looks like Rudolph your cheeks have a flush,
The lavatory beckons, but no chance to rush.
So onto the conveyor belt of folk you must wait,
For people to move on, just don’t let them grate,
As they push and move in every direction,
The crowds are the markets one imperfection.
‘Stop pushing stop pushing, there’s room for us all,’
But the crowds get packed tighter at the Christmas stall,
Crammed in like sardines, no toilets in sight,
You can’t hold it much longer, try as you might.
They’re queuing for beer and they’re queuing for bratwurst
But you’re mulled wine is surging and you’re ready to burst,
They’re queuing for pancakes, or returning a glass,
Your pilgrimage to the toilets is a pain in the ass.
You can’t hold it much longer, you start to feel dizzy,
When did the markets get so unbearably busy?
The loos come into sight, but there’s queues at the door,
Your mulled wines gonna wee out all over the floor.
They’re not bursting, they’re laughing and happily natter,
Don’t they know that your wee is a serious matter?
You smile politely at the toilet queue,
Praying fervently that they don’t need a poo.
‘Are you ok, love, you look a bit stressed?’
‘The disabled’s empty if you’re really that pressed.’
You look over in hope at your wee liberator,
And look back at the queue, you don’t care if they hate yer.
Your need is a must, it’s greater than theirs,
So you rush to the disabled, ignoring their stares,
Heavenly relief as your bladder runs dry,
Pee panic subsides with relief you could cry.
Then back to the markets, the crowds and the battle,
Pushing and shoving and prodded like cattle,
Back with your friends and the memory has passed,
Of the queues and the toilets, it’s all in the past.
The scene is so perfect as the snow starts to fall,
The market, your friends, you’re in love with them all,
You can’t quite remember what it is you’ve just said,
Maybe the mulled wines gone straight to your head.
But regardless, the markets are THE thing to do,
For nearly a month they’ve entertained you,
Night after night for fun with your friends,
You’re dreading the night when it comes to an end.
But the sign on the exit, informs you quite blunt,
Tomorrow the markets will be quite defunct,
They’re packing up later, so the sellers can go,
Back home to their families and Bavarian snow.
And suddenly Albert Square looks so alone,
As you stand in the bustle and inwardly groan,
Tomorrow there’ll be nothing and no one to see,
Except for one solitary … Christmas tree.
Last orders is called time for one last mulled wine,
It’s Christmas, be happy, but you’re sadly resigned,
That the markets are over for one more year,
It’s like Christmas has ended before it got near.
But take stock of your thoughts and start to reason,
Our Albert’s a square for every season,
Not long til you sit here one summery day,
Thinking markets? Did they happen? Here? No way!


Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.



Under the city, half a mile down,
Legend has it there’s a forgotten town,
Way below where we eat, work and sleep,
Is a secret world way down in the deep.

Cellar dwellers back in Victorian times,
Sheltered down low from the wintry climes,
They had shops down there in this subterranean space,
Everything they needed in this deep down place.

In the nineteen thirties, they had it quite cool,
With an underground heated swimming pool,
It’s still there today as historians showed,
Underneath the BBC on Oxford Road.

Then into the wartime as somewhere to hide,
When the Germans came bombing from every side,
There are secret tunnels, in fact quite a maze,
Where people hid for hours and days.

But when wartime was over and we’d stopped the attack,
What if some of those hiding didn’t come back,
Scared of being killed by bombs in their sleep,
Maybe they tunnelled further down into the deep.

This secret band made the tunnels a home,
To hide from the world, and grow up alone,
Wearing clothes from the forties, in suits and in hats,
They ate what they could mainly spiders and rats.

They had children down there that had never seen day,
Who’d never known life any other way,
They made homes and beds from what the Victorians gave,
And used the underground pool to wash and to bathe.

Generations later and their memories would fade,
They forgot quite what they were trying to evade,
Eventually the world in their heads had expired,
With a feeling of danger, they slowly rewired.

Decades went by and they adapted their sight,
To see in the dark as their world was in night,
They scuttle and scurry and all have a hump,
From crouching over they’ve developed this lump,

Their language has changed too, they whistle and click,
Their hair is all matted; their beards long and thick,
They became less and less human as their elders did die,
And they threw off their clothes as the years went by.

Their skin is affected by the dark where they dwell,
Deathly white, skinny, they all look unwell,
With yellowy eyes sensitive to the light,
And rotting teeth falling out when they bite.

They have no idea that there once was a war,
But still stick to the pact that they long ago swore,
To stay hidden from view and just carry on,
Burying deeper and deeper ‘til danger has gone.

To never go back just in case it ain’t safe,
There’s bad things up there, it’s part of their faith,
So they make sure they’re hidden as they live out their days,
Buried under the real world and set in their ways.

There’s hundreds there now, they bred and they bred,
I guess there ain’t much to busy their head,
A sub-human race living a quite different way,
Miles down from where we work, rest and play.

But one day one of ‘em will go against the grain,
So if you ever see eyes looking up from the drain,
You’ll know one was swayed by his curiosity,
And came back up the tunnels to find out and to see.

Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin

All rights reserved.


Show me the streets he kicked about on… when he was just ten,
Show me the shipyards where he grew to be a leader of grown men,
Show me the fields where he first dreamed of his footballing fame,
And the walls his leather casey struck, as he learnt his beautiful game.

His first love Glasgow Rangers could have tinged his red blood blue,
But I need to visit Queens Park, East Stirling, St. Mirren too,
And Ayr, Dunfermline and Aberdeen to see if it’s hidden there,
I need to know the answer, coz it’s drives me mad, I swear.

Because something happened to this man at some stage of his life,
He wasn’t born one of us, thinking – United, kids then wife,
But it happened somewhere as he grew and I need to know,
What made his heart United, what drove his spirit so?

He could have followed Fagan, Paisley or Dalglish,
But his heart brought him to Manchester so he could unleash,
Twenty five years of trophies from when I was a kid,
A career rewriting history books for Man U-ni-ted.

But why us I think, why Manchester, for your manager’s fix?
Why so happy giving us your life since Nineteen eighty six?
It wasn’t quick fix glory in the most selfish-ist of sense,
You built us a whole empire and went on the offence.

You made the dreams come true that I didn’t know were mine,
You found us all the kids who would peak in ninety nine,
From near and far, you found them all, relentless in your search,
Your one track mind, quite focussed, knock the scousers off their perch.

The trophies rolled, the records broke, the accolades did flow,
But even through these glory years, there’s one thing I must know,
Why here, why now, continuously, what drives this great man on?
Dedicating his life to Manchester but not born Mancunian.

You’re Scottish and proud, the super race, superior you say,
But give him the keys to Manchester; he’s Manc in every way,
He changed our path, he made us laugh, he filled our lives with glee,
No man it’s true could ever do as much as our Fergie.

You dragged us from the eighties and the doldrums of our dread,
You changed the happy gene for good for generations of red,
You put us on the map again; you made our city known,
All round the world and back again, United on our throne.

Even now with records broke, it’s plain for all to see,
You won’t just leave but leave us with a ten year legacy,
The safest structure that ever was, a team for many years,
You’ve earned your place in history, the third of all our sirs.

His cheeks are red, his language blue, he dances like my dad,
But he’s a winner through and through, the best we’ve ever had,
With his hairdryers and tea cups he’s ruled the dressing room,
With a clenched fist to the Stretford End, he made Old Trafford boom.

He changed my life, he changed yours too, lest we should forget,
It’s doubtful any other man put such a spring into your step,
This steely Scot, he’s won the lot, our saviour from Govan,
But still I really need to know what drives this great man on?

There is a picture hanging, it’s said above his bed,
Is it a clue, it must be true, why he became a red,
For smiling down on his eiderdown in coat and trilby hat,
Is a picture of another great; the legendary Sir Matt.

Is this the reason that you’re shaped in just the way you are?
Is this the man whose ambition has driven you so far?
It has to be the answer; at last I think I know,
But now another question nags at me what drove Matt Busby so.


The reason we’re called Manchester, and I hope this don’t sound crude,
Is because the Roman warriors settled at a hill shaped like a boob,
When General Agricola marched from Chester up to York,
He needed somewhere safe to rest, to eat his tea and talk,
Perfect in its curvature, like every man’s best friend,
The curving slope in Castlefield was the easiest to defend,
The breast shaped hill was perfect; it’s where our town grew from,
And the Roman word to sum it up was Mamucium,
The first part of this word translates as ‘shaped just like a breast,’
The second part means camp or site, somewhere for them to rest.

Now even though our rivals may gleefully pour scorn,
It was due to this comparison that our boob shaped town was born,
The Saxons came in Century five and changed the name again,
Calling us Manigceastre but still focussed on the M,
Invasions came each century from Northumbria and the Danes,
With Mamecaestre and Manceastre evolving as our names,
So if you’ve ever wondered why we’re all called Manc,
Women’s boobs and roman hills, we’ve got them both to thank,
And if anybody says to you that you look a right teet,
Explain to them your heritage and say ta for seeing it.


Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin

All rights reserved.

Doorway Under The Arches