Poetry: If

By Phil Dimitriadis If Crompton stayed dour in ’64 … If Potter had’ve kicked in ’66 …

Poetry: Bill and Bob

                                                    Bill and Bob                                                   By Phil Dimitriadis                                       Bill played forward, Bob played back,                                                             man on man, the olden days.                                       Body hair, Brylcream, going the whack.                                                               Arch rivals these clubs remain,                                       two young men with a bitter secret,                                       who [Read more]

Poetry: ‘Achtung Mick’

                                                                                                                                  Achtung Mick!                                                                                                                                    by Phil Dimitriadis                                                                                                   The Boundary line is his best friend.                                                                                     His moustache bristles at ‘their’ mistakes.                                                   Nobody else seems to comprehend,                                                   only he appears to be awake.                                                     It’s everyone else’s [Read more]

Clean Hands

By Phil Dimitriadis Thirty-five touches. The cleanest hands at the club. Flawless disposal and three goals capped off a great afternoon. Hubris has been sitting on the bench all day, invisible, but determined to get a run when it counts…after the game. Backslappers are aplenty. Pre-pubescent girls hang on his every expression. Desperate housewives hope [Read more]

From The Village to Victoria Park

A Villanelle that is an ode to my Father By Phil Dimitriadis From dodging bullets in World War 2, to stepping on broken bottles of Abbott’s Lager. Ah, the relative peace of Turner Street in 1952. While Communists and Royalists searched for prey, The slums of Collingwood seem like heaven. The wounds were still raw, [Read more]