Well I know we weren’t good enough. And we can’t blame the ref, John Busby, for everything. But he was terrible, and this poem is mostly blaming him. So sue me.

I hope you worked out the title, but if you’re confused, look up 'spoonerism' and all should become clear.

Ipswich Town 1:1 Preston North End, 31/01/2026

Writ Chefs

Strewth,
a toothless, useless ref.
Lame of brain, all plain sense left
long ago.
To flow; a blow, a theft.
A tone-deaf chef of slop, bereft.
Our XG flexed, but vexed, embroiled
in spoilsports of sorts, well-oiled.
Like white shorts, caught-short, taut and soiled.
Attack swords snapped, or broken foils.
We toiled, as Busby stirred and boiled
the pot, the Lilywhites stopped and spoiled.
McKenna’s anger management, coiled,
boiled over,
closure foiled.
Held.
Hell-d.
Jack Clarke felled,
bashed and chipped
for all the world like peeling
ballroom ceiling plaster.
Busby, a recipe
for disaster.
Not a babe, unstable, wet:
The referees
we only get.

Blogs 297 bloggers