HairyD's World of Hair
Hairy Owls Poetry
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I have just put together a book of Sheffield Wednesday poetry, a small but random selection can be found below.

Some of the very short fiction can be found here


Taken at the Flood


There is tide in the affairs of men

Which taken at the flood

Leads on to watered down Bovril

And a soggy meat pie.


I suppose you’ve seen it’s been raining,

There’s flooding in Hillsborough park.

The council’s got two of each animal

And the Methodists are building an ark.


Most of Wednesday’s ground has been flooded

The office, the pitch and the shop.

Leppins Lane’s been infested with lobster.

And crabs have took over the Kop.


The grandstand’s been damaged by sea fish

The Pru says that they won’t them pay out

They say you’re not covered for mackerel

And for acts of cod you get nowt.


They’ve had to bring in some new signings

There’s at least one or two that you’ll know

There’s Marineboy and Man from Atlantis

And a Frenchman that’s called Jacques Cousteau


The new kits are totally awful

The aqualung doesn’t look right.

They’re all wearing trunks and a snorkel

And flippers in blue, black and white.


They shouldn’t have swapped Ozzie for Barnie

The marketing men never learn

So now they’ve got Sidney the Seagull

And Arnie the Antarctic Tern


The one game we’ve played has been rubbish

I might as well stayed in the pub

There were eight players sent off for diving

And one was brought on as a sub.


I don’t want to fail Sheffield Wednesday

But I think that it has to be said

I won’t watch them play water polo

So I’m going fishing instead



An angry grey sow of a sky

Leaches colour from the world

As the concrete terrace

Leaches warmth from my tired toes

Turning them into troll’s teeth

Of frozen hatred.


The sow spits indiscriminate saliva

Onto row upon row

Of hunch fronted dwarves

Their battle cries dimmed

By the ignorant mumbles of

The conscientious objectors

Blue and white becomes

Grey and paler grey

And I wonder





The ball falls to Johnson

On the edge of the box.

He looks up

And he spanks it


The sky becomes a sustaining blanket

The troll’s teeth become a star’s shining dents

Sow’s spittle becomes the tears of purest joy

Dwarves explode into giants

And blue and white become

Diamonds and sapphires

And suddenly

I know.


Going Home




I’ve had my fill

of losing

Losing games and losing hope

just can’t cope

with losing

Going boozing

Then I’m going home


It’s just beginning

Live for winning

Live for every kick

and live for every touch

It’s much too much too much to much

To bear and care

To call this fun and when we’ve won

I’m going home


They score and then

They score again

Then when you’re down

It’s back to town

And have to say

It’s a long, long

long, long, long, long way

going home


Two hundred and ten


and miles and miles and miles and then

no happy greeting

misery meeting



I’m going home


Train of Thought.


It was years since the Blades played the Owls

And such was the anticipation

That a man from the TV company

Filmed two men at Midland Station


The two would be driving the Capitol train

One an Owl, the other Blade

And although they’d not get to see the match

Predictions just had to be made.


The Owls will win

The Blades will win

The Owls will win

The Blades will win

The Owls will win

The Blades will win

The Owls will win

The Blades will win


But all of a sudden there was a comment

It was the driver – the Blade – that made it

In an unguarded moment of honesty

He said that “the Pigs might shade it”.


“Who are you calling a pig?” said the Owl.

“You,” the Blade answered with glee.

“There’s only one piggy here,” said the Owl,

“And I’m telling thee pal, it’s not me.”


But you’re a pig

No, you’re a pig

But you’re a pig

No, you’re a pig

But you’re a pig

No, you’re a pig

But you’re a pig

No, you’re a pig


The man with the mike looked uncomfortable

As the men in the cab kept on rowing

Neither man showed signs of winning the fight

Neither man showed signs of kowtowing


But the train was going to London

Nearly two hundred miles down the track

I knew they were stuck with each other

All the way there and all the way back


All the way there

And all the way back

All the way there

And all the way back

All the way there

And all the way back

All the way there

And all the way back

Feeling Down


Season ending, feel the panic rising

Holiday missed ticket, pub instead

Strangely quiet, pint of Guinness warming

A slowly building sense of fear and dread


Early scare then Wednesday playing brightly

Ambrose corner Palace netting first

Equaliser spirits in ascendance

Half time tussle, watching, fear the worst


Second half a half of half made chances

Grant slotted past to make the going tough

Purse pops up with close range equaliser

But sad we know a draw is not enough


No floods of tears, no sign of women wailing

No sobs, no bawls, no whining at the score

Nought but shrugs and just a calm acceptance

We’re Wednesdayites and we’ve been here before


The Whisper


She glides across the room.

Upright legs

Hidden by a floor length robe

Of midnight silk


She smiles, quicklime teeth

Framed by a golden waterfall

And a ray of moonlight

Floods my startled face


She lightly touches my arm

Completing a circuit

That staggers me

Yet makes me whole


Her crimson lips

Brush my roseate cheeks

And she whispers in my ear.

“I can make all your dreams come true.”


And I say:

“You mean the one where I’m fighting my way through the rain forests of the Amazon and I encounter a tribe of pygmies who guard the fountain of youth but let me drink too much so that when I return to Britain I’m only eight years old so I can dedicate my life to football, becoming an internationally famous footballer and steering Sheffield Wednesday to the European cup final in 2037 finally receiving the cup from president of the world, Chris Waddle?”


And she looks at me beatifically

Then whispers

“No, not that one.”

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