Howard Webb’s Dream Match

by Jude Ellery

One afternoon, our Howard goes

To referee the twinkletoes.



All kitted out in gloves and vests,

This promises to be a test.

First minute in, he peeps a foul:

It’s greeted with a mighty howl.

“I didn’t touch him,” claims the man —

his feelings echoed by the fans.

But our man’s wise to this old game,

Not swayed by this young fellow’s fame.

“You did, and they know you did too

So back ten yards, or I’ll book you.”

And so it carries on, alas,

Now players tumbling to the grass.

“Oi, send him off!” the chorus comes —

Our ref decides to play it dumb.

Ignore the shouts, he’s got no choice,

To answer each would lose his voice.

Amidst the fouls and dives and cries

Some football finally arrives.

A cross, the ball is volleyed in!

Alone that goal deserves the win.

But as it nestles in the bag

The ref looks up to see a flag.

“No goal, offside, restart from there.”

He bellows, being only fair.

When finally the protests end

The ball gets moving once again.

Another shot soon thunders in

Catching our Howard on the chin.

All of a sudden things go black.

(A welcome respite from the flak!)

When Howard finally comes ‘round

He finds himself prone on the ground.

He blinks away the stars and then

Sighs as he looks towards the men.

Nobody’s seen poor ref was down,

The only proof a throbbing crown.

Yet all’s continued quite OK

And now there’s… fairness in their play.

“Sorry old chap, I clipped your heels,”

Replaces shouts and angry squeals.

Bemused, our ref rejoins the fray,

But now he just gets in their way.

They barely need the whistling chap;

They even stop for offside traps!

Such honesty he’s never seen,

Especially from these two teams.

Half-time arrives and Howard goes

To sip on tea and blow his nose.

Nursing his head he tries to find

An answer in his muddled mind.

Half-time break up, none the wiser,

Mystery he can’t decipher.

The restart brings more of the same,

This really is a funny game.

One team scores, a Charlton Riser,

Answered by an equaliser.

Now sixty in and Howard goes

To blow his whistle — grabs his nose!

The whistle left in changing room,

He’ll have to pop and fetch it soon.

But actually, what is the need?

They’ve all stopped following his lead.

As ninety minutes nears its end

Another shot Howard’s way bends.

And CLONK it pops him on the head,

The grass again his acting bed.

Once more he wakes, spits out the dust

And waits till both his eyes adjust.

Something’s amiss, he’s in a daze:

Thirty-five minutes, wrist watch says.

He looks around, at players’ faces,

Scowls have taken smiles’ places.

Our Howard asks, “Hey, what’s the score?”

To which the players frown some more.

“Nil-nil, who’s reffing, us or you?

Get up, this half still has ten due!”

Conducting a drop ball re-start,

Reality does sink his heart.

‘Twas just a dream, and nothing more:

This drab affair he must endure.



Howard Webb’s Dream Match by Jude Ellery is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License