Playing Badminton With Morrissey

This is now officially Not Going In the second pamphlet. So, it can go here instead. 


Playing Badminton With Morrissey

He hits the court and waits

bullchest belligerent

the fey years have given way to stockiness

and with his vanity hooded

in a diffident smirk

Morrissey is here to win

at badminton.

The truculent shuttle swoops

high as falsetto

(Boz has assumed position

at the rear of the court.

He knows his place.)

With a rush and a push

and a bullying elegance of play

the game is irrefutably



A loss would be met only

with a feathered poisonous silence.

A win with a cocked eyebrow

and a quip

‘Oh, it was really nothing.’

His calves are surprisingly toned.

[Rachel McCrum, 2012]


*There is a story why this poem exists, involving a wet cold night in Edinburgh, a bar and a taciturn man called John who liked The Smiths and badminton. That’s the story.


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