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" You young pretenders, keepers of the nought".

Goalkeeper with a Cigarette

By: Simon Armitage

That’s him in the green, green cotton jersey,

prince of the clean sheets – some upright insect

boxed between the sticks, the horizontal

and the pitch, stood with something up his sleeve,

armed with a pouch of tobacco and skins

to roll his own, or else a silver tin

containing eight or nine already rolled.

That’s him with one behind his ear, between

his lips, or one tucked out of sight and lit -

a stamen cupped in the bud of his fist.

That’s him sat down, not like those other clowns,

performing acrobatics on the bar, or press-ups

in the box, or running on the spot,

togged out in turtleneck pyjama-suits

with hands as stunted as a bunch of thumbs,

hands that are bandaged or swaddled with gloves,

laughable, frying-pan, sausage-man gloves.

Not my man, though, that’s not what my man does;

a man who stubs his reefers on the post

and kicks his heels in the stud-marks and butts,

lighting the next from the last, in one breath

making the save of the year with his legs,

taking back a deep drag on the goal-line

in the next; on the one hand throwing out

or snaffling the ball from a high corner,

flicking off loose ash with the other. Or

in the freezing cold with both teams snorting

like flogged horses, with captains and coaches

effing and jeffing at backs and forwards,

talking steam, screaming exhausting orders,

that’s not breath coming from my bloke, it’s smoke.

Not him either goading the terraces,

baring his arse to the visitors’ end

and dodging the sharpened ten-pence pieces,

playing up, picking a fight, but that’s him

cadging a light from the ambulance men,

loosing off smoke rings, zeros or halos

that drift off, passively, over the goals

into nobody’s face, up nobody’s nose.

He is what he is, does whatever suits him,

because he has no highfalutin song

to sing, no neat message for the nation

on the theme of genius or dedication;

in his passport, under ‘occupation’,

no one forced the man to print the word

‘custodian’, and in The Faber Book

of Handy Hints his five-line entry reads:

‘You young pretenders, keepers of the nought,

the nish, defenders of the sweet f**k-all,

think bigger than your pockets, profiles, health;

better by half to take a sideways view,

take a tip from me and deface yourselves.’

Simon Armitage

Simon Armitage was born in Marsden, West Yorkshire and he still live there. he went to school at Colne Valley High School and went on to study geography at Portsmouth Polytechnic. He was a post-graduate student at Manchester University where his MA thesis concerned the effects of television violence on young offenders. He was awarded an Honorary Doctor of Letters in 1996 from the University of Portsmouth. He then lectured on creative writing at the University of Leeds, the University of Iowa and the Manchester Metropolitan University. In February 2011 he took up the position as Professor of Poetry at the University of Sheffield. He has done a lot of work in the Film, TV, Theatre & Radio works.

Awards and Honours

1988 Eric Gregory Award

1992 A Forward Poetry Prize for Kid

1993 Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year

1994 Lannan Award

1998 Yorkshire Post Book of the Year for All Points North

2003 BAFTA winner

2003 Ivor Novello Award for song-writing

2004 Fellow of Royal Society for Literature

2005 Spoken Word Award (Gold) for The Odyssey

2006 Royal Television Society Documentary Award Winner for Out of the Blue

2008 The Not Dead (C4, Century Films) Mental Health in the Media Documentary Film Winner

2010 Keats-Shelley Prize for Poetry

2010 Awarded the CBE in the Queen's Birthday Honours List, for services to poetry

2012 Hay Medal for Poetry

Goalkeeper with a Cigarette

By: Simon Armitage

Key

Eye of the Tiger

Imagery - Red

Diction - Light Green

Metaphor - Light Pink

Allusion - Purple

Symbol - Dark Green

Similes - Teal

Personification - Yellow

Onomatopoeia - Orange

Oxymoron - black

That’s him in the green, green cotton jersey,

prince of the clean sheets – some upright insect

boxed between the sticks, the horizontal

and the pitch, stood with something up his sleeve,

armed with a pouch of tobacco and skins

to roll his own, or else a silver tin

containing eight or nine already rolled.

That’s him with one behind his ear, between

his lips, or one tucked out of sight and lit -

a stamen cupped in the bud of his fist.

That’s him sat down, not like those other clowns,

performing acrobatics on the bar, or press-ups

in the box, or running on the spot,

togged out in turtleneck pyjama-suits

with hands as stunted as a bunch of thumbs,

hands that are bandaged or swaddled with gloves,

laughable, frying-pan, sausage-man gloves.

Not my man, though, that’s not what my man does;

a man who stubs his reefers on the post

and kicks his heels in the stud-marks and butts,

lighting the next from the last, in one breath

making the save of the year with his legs,

taking back a deep drag on the goal-line

in the next; on the one hand throwing out

or snaffling the ball from a high corner,

flicking off loose ash with the other. Or

in the freezing cold with both teams snorting

like flogged horses, with captains and coaches

effing and jeffing at backs and forwards,

talking steam, screaming exhausting orders,

that’s not breath coming from my bloke, it’s smoke.

Not him either goading the terraces,

baring his arse to the visitors’ end

and dodging the sharpened ten-pence pieces,

playing up, picking a fight, but that’s him

cadging a light from the ambulance men,

loosing off smoke rings, zeros or halos

that drift off, passively, over the goals

into nobody’s face, up nobody’s nose.

He is what he is, does whatever suits him,

because he has no highfalutin song

to sing, no neat message for the nation

on the theme of genius or dedication;

in his passport, under ‘occupation’,

no one forced the man to print the word

‘custodian’, and in The Faber Book

of Handy Hints his five-line entry reads:

‘You young pretenders, keepers of the nought,

the nish, defenders of the sweet f**k - all

think bigger than your pockets, profiles, health;

better by half to take a sideways view,

take a tip from me and deface yourselves.’

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight

Risin' up to the challenge of our rival

And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night

And he's watchin' us all through the eye of the tiger

Risin' up, straight to the top

Had the guts, got the glory

Went the distance now I'm not gonna stop

Just a man and his will to survive

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight

Risin' up to the challenge of our rival

And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night

And he's watchin' us all through the eye of the tiger

The eye of the tiger

The eye of the tiger

The eye of the tiger

The eye of the tiger

Risin' up, back on the street

Did my time, took my chances

Went the distance now I'm back on my feet

Just a man and his will to survive

So many times it happens too fast

You trade your passion for glory

Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past

You must fight just to keep them alive

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight

Risin' up to the challenge of our rival

And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night

And he's watchin' us all through the eye of the tiger

Face to face, out in the heat

Hangin' tough, stayin' hungry

They stack the odds, still we take to the street

For the kill with the skill to survive

Group

By Survivor, an American rock band

Jimi Jamison (vocals), Frankie Sullivan (guitar), Marc Droubay (drums), Billy Ozzello (bass) and Walter Tolentino (keyboards/guitar)

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