A win. Up to second with two games in hand. That’s all you really need to say about this one.

I went to an art exhibition on Easter Sunday, The Threads Of Life by Chiharu Shiota at The Hayward Gallery on London’s South Bank. Consisting of beautiful, immense and intricate web-like installations, exploring the body, memory, consciousness and the fragility of existence; it was the complete antithesis of this awful stinker of a football match. I’m not sure it’s even legal to mention the two in the same sentence.

But as they say, a win’s a win.
Norwich away next!

Ipswich Town 2:1 Birmingham City, 06/04/2026

Fart Exhibition

On Easter Sunday under the South Bank’s sun
I went to an art exhibition of threads, spread, spun.
Shapes made of old clothes in rows and string strung.
Weird, but as I feared, Easter Mon
day was more frayed, stressed
and less fun.

One expects, as one wipes their specs of little flecks
and checks across Portman Road, showed
anticipation like a load
ed gun, appreciation, pregnant hope roped-in
like the warm sun. Easter eggspecations cracked,
when all we wanted was to smack the Brum.

We tried hard, with heart, but this was stop-start,
less exhibition football more a foot stall rocking
from a dropped fart.
Static, huffing, puffing
like an asthmatic puffin,
a damp, cramped attic full of nothing.
And not art.

Racey Kasey was through and blew
several presentable chances (who knew!?)
Brum broke and some bloke nets and gets
to show off how he dances.
But the circumstances are Town’s advances paid off,
McAteer amends and Ben’s scruffy scuffed shot stopped
the rotten apples we grappled, like pigs in a trough.

And if not perverse, the second half was worse!
Like an empty purse.
Like a play no-one rehearsed.
The realisation of an ancient curse.
All the inherant joy of a herse.

And fine, the sun would shine, not shun
on the whole, and luck probably crossed a line
to deny our top guy an own goal.
It didn’t warm the soul,
but we didn’t ask for diamonds
just not an old bit of horseshit, served cold.

All told, this performance wasn’t art
or at least art we understand.
But does it matter if we don’t batter like we reckoned
when we’re up to second
with two games in hand?
Stand and be counted, get the points in the bag.
Art is fleeting, like heating
and like the dullest work meeting
sometimes winning
is a drag.

armchaircritic59 added 00:39 - Apr 9 I can't get this image out of my head of an asthmatic puffin! Keep up the good work.
1

Blogs 299 bloggers