Foopball

The Sistine Chapel is, more or less, stunning,

Helen of Troy’s face was known to set heart-rates running,

Many a Mozart ditty

Has previously been called quite pretty,

And the Taj Mahal looks rather splendid,

As does a broken Ming vase (once it’s been mended).

The majesty of a sunset can seemingly stop time,

There’s even a certain elegance in a well… placed… rhyme,

A Steinway Grand still looks cool, even if you upend it,

The phrase “And then things got ugly” has little to recommend it.

Most people would agree

That the first time you catch sight of the sea

After driving with a carful of children for several hours

Couldn’t be more beautiful if the horizon was made of flowers,

Which, in turn, were being watered by multi-coloured rainbow showers.

Beauty is all around us:

In nature, in life, and in art, Beauty is on hand to constantly astound us.

If a poetic defining of Beauty is what you’re after, for my money, nobody 

   beats,

John Keats:

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness.

Which does make me wonder

About the linguistic competence of people who will insist on using this 

   monstrously inaccurate blunder:

“The Beautiful Game”?

Thank you Mr Pele,

For coining this ridiculous and inaccurate epithet to describe what is little 

   more than a ninety-minute melee.

Football? Beautiful? Really?

Not even nearly.

Twenty-two dim-witted thugs, all abnormally fit,

Run around a field doing one of two things: play with a ball, or spit.

“Did you see Wayne Rooney’s perfect lob?”

“No, mate; I was too busy watching David Beckham gob.”

“Yeah, his free spits are amazing; talk about Expectorate it Like 

   Beckham…what a shot!”

As another square inch of the hallowed Wembley turf is covered in 

   mucus and snot.

Some players, like Zola, may only be little,

But look at the things which they do with their spittle.

“And Ashley Young shows us why he has a reputation as a diver.”

“Oi Ashley, your shirt’s all covered in saliva.”

“The referee’s booked him; he’s not about to quibble.

It’s one thing to spit, but to stand there and dribble… without a ball?”

I’ve never been to a pre-match talk,

But I imagine the coach stands next to a blackboard, holding some chalk,

Which he uses to write just one word: Hawk.

They probably don’t do a FIFA coaching badge in aesthetics.