Whilst Robson plays his Sharp CD. And Beardsley paints his lounge "hint of green". And the big clubs dream of a Superleague. Of Keegan's "reasonable" three thousand a week.
When Grandstand's finished, and Sport On Two. And there's nothing much left to do. Too lazy to leave the armchair. Can only manage to plug in the computer.
From Upton Park to the Baseball Ground. From Old Trafford to Anfield Road. It's the same old story if you're disabled. Just token gestures, no real facilities.
In the light of the ignorance and misplaced fear. Of the panicked bosses of the Football League. It isn't surprising that hugging and kissing. Are banned on account of the threat of AIDS.
When racing fast it's easy enough. To make a wrong decision. Just be sure that when you crash. You're on television. You're on television. You're on television.
The wife she washes the football strip. The wife buys my sports socks and irons my kit. I lose a golf shoe, the wife looks for it. And that's what I call teamwork.
A quiet Sunday afternoon, away from town and work. Scatter all the groundbait down, relax with rod and hook. But as the worm he wriggles round he dreams of just one wish.
Sat with strawberries and cream. Listening to all the players scream. From right to left and left to right. "The ball was in!". "No, it was out!". The money goes up the fun has gone.
Away from work finding peace. With a swing on the seventeenth lined with trees. You're out playing golf for the day. Hoping that with a bit of luck. Someone will study a chemistry book.
In '36 the world's teams. Played up, played up, and played the game. Runners, jumpers, footballers. All sieg-heilling the Fuhrer. Not so the black Americans.
At the beach, pressure's on. Dad in trunks and vest. Four years old, today's the day. He gives me my big test. Picking up a beach ball. Red, green, yellow, blue.
Sniffer Clarke. Chopper Harris. The Doog. Crazy Horse. Norman Bite Yer Legs. The Barnsley Spud. Bonetti The Cat. Alan Ball's White. Alan Ball's White.
Bees buzzing, birds singing. The jack turning off the crown. A lawnmower in the distance. The wood coming nicely 'round. Sitting near the green just chatting.
I heard that in the First World War. The soldiers called a truce. For a Christmas game of football. Instead of fighting their pointless war. Instead of fighting their pointless war.
At Farnley Park cricket ground there's a Sycamore tree. And it stands thirty feet inside the boundary. I think that someone slapped a Preservation Order on the tree.
Boys own hero born again. Savior of the Empire. Come to save our national game. Against all odds, and umpire. Once a simple cricketer. now champion of bravado.
Never good enough to win the race. He was always asked to make the pace. Speeding off then left behind. To watch someone else win the golden mile. Tired of always being forgotten.
The Saturday afternoon tradition. Three falls and one submission. Boston crab and half-nelson. Bouncing around for television. Learn the moves and collect your pay.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dogs. Aided and abetted by the Local Hunt Sabs.
Here's a good sport, it's easy to play. And as good a way as any of throwing your money away. Betting offices, men only. Tobacco smoke and radio commentaries.