Brian Clough

(i)

He could turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse,
He berated the fans for the way that they’d curse.
If you didn’t defer, he was tetchy and terse,
But you prospered in Cloughie’s regime.

As a footballing pundit, he was brash and outrageous.
His humour was dry and completely contagious.
His tactics were bold and uniquely courageous,
For he knew how to manage a team.

We were taken aback when he first burst upon us,
His sides had no superstars, no prima donnas,
But he moulded them well and achieved many honours,
Including the ultimate dream.

He could brandish the chequebook, but only when needed,
And budgets were rarely, if ever, exceeded,
His own fallibility was never conceded,
And he rose to the top like the cream.

Quotations are legion, the myths are updated,
The anecdotes told and the folklore related,
The thirst for the stories has not dissipated,
For he was the manager supreme.

(ii)

“The Germans, Brian,” said Brian Moore,
“Have not been too inspiring.
It doesn’t seem they want to score,
And some of them are tiring.”

Cloughie didn’t say a word,
The silence was unbroken.
It seemed as though he hadn’t heard
The words that had been spoken.

“Brian?” said the anchorman,
As though he’d indigestion.
“Yes?” replied Clough, quite deadpan,
“You’ve not asked me a question.”

(iii)

When Forest won at Wembley,
He took the Cup back home,
Placed it on the telly
And watched the game again
On “Match of the Day.”

Now that, I dare suggest,
Is class in the extreme.

© Peter Goulding 28th September 2004