Ver: A Modest Proposal
Martin Malone

“And if you know your history, it’s enough to make you heart go oh-oh-oh-oh”
Terrace song, sung at Everton and Celtic

Citizens! We are but one syllable from a better world.
Governed by old-Evertonians think how much better we’d fare.
Work with me here, forget the current Cabinet and picture this:
Howard Kendall is Prime Minister, Duncan Ferguson his Chief Whip,
and, in Number 11, Kevin Sheedy lines up the tricky Spring budget,
like a direct free kick. Venerable Father of the House is Dixie Dean,
whilst Peter Reid directs communications; his trademark directness
a constant source of privately-educated discomfort.
Duncan McKenzie, ever the entertainer, nutmegs Boris,
then does it again just because he can; the loveable Bertie
landing flat on his wadded arse, gazing up at God-given talent
from some Kensington gutter. Gove simply goes, giving way
to the educated right foot of state-schooled Paul Bracewell.
When a special guest on Desert Island Discs, Premier Kendall
makes no pretence of loving early REM, dubstep or The Smiths
in some misguided attempt to get down with the new-vote kids;
preferring instead Sinatra’s My Way and confessing his regard
for both Rene and  Renata. In some not-too-distant future, be assured,
the Thirty-Year Rule will not reveal secret plans to crush the unions,
put troops on the streets or close down entire mining communities;
but a rather stylish passing and pressing game that graced our screens,
brought modest success in Europe and two league championships
which the Heysal mob denied due credit. Judicious dealings
in the transfer market keep us ticking along and a ruthlessness
at home means avoiding tricky away trips to remote island groups
in order to stay alive in the competition. For this reason, we welcome
migrant workers who add depth to the squad, rather than dilute
the pool of home-grown talent carefully developed in our academy.
Most of all, we refuse to sell our best weapons to rivals across the park;
who then come back to haunt us in tough away fixtures all over the place.
No shoot-to-kill but ‘aving a dig from distance, no appropriation
of World War One but an honest minute’s silence before kick-off.
Unfashionable in Norway and the Far-East, we too struggle to attract
inward investment but, when the boom goes bust, we’ll still be here
with our modest means and manageable overdraft. I could go on.
This is not the politics of envy but those of free association,
born of frustration at the state of the nation, no consolation
to the rhyme-heavy slam of the Neo-Toff networks that run us.
It’s a loose manifesto but I put it to you. Imperfect but better, surely.
Just think about it is all I ask. Then again, we know our history…

Born in 1963 in West Hartlepool, Martin Malone now lives in Warwickshire. A winner of the 2011 Straid Poetry Award and the 2012 Mirehouse Prize , his first full collection, The Waiting Hillside, is published by Templar Poetry. Currently studying for a PhD in poetry at Sheffield University, he edits The Interpreter's House poetry journal.

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