It seems like a dream now:

the 1-4 scoreline;

Lampard’s goal that never was;

watching the game with Carol Ann Duffy.

 

She turned up amid the half-time gloom

in a Ludlow pub, asked if it was ok

to sit near the TV. I made some crack

about political-historical contexts

and Nazi fugitives, and why

Uruguayan officials favour Germans.

She half-smiled: that’s when I guessed. 

 

The sort of joke you only make watching footie.

Sport and literature don’t mix,

well, not in my book. But I peppered the goal

 with witty apercus, thinking England’s

laureate might write about the Three Lions

who had watched the match with her,

read it that night at the festival.

 

She didn’t, of course. Although at one point

she did ask if Crouch had come on.

The referee blew. Did England’s worst

World Cup finals beating mean

I should give up football for poetry?

The camera lingered on Capello, the tabloid target.

He should be carrying an umbrella, she said.