Sub Carol Ann Duffy

I came on in extra time in '66, my breasts
bandaged beneath my no.13 shirt, and put it in
off the head, the back of the heel, the left foot
from 30 yards out, hat-trick. If they'd thought
the game was all over, it was now. I felt secure
as I danced in my dazzling whites with the Cup –
tampon – but skipped the team bath with the lads,
sipped my champagne in the solitary shower
as the blood and soap suds mingled to pink.
They sang my name on the other side of the steam.

Came on too in the final gasps of the Grand Slam clincher,
scooped up the ball from the back of the scrum, ran
like the wind, bandaged again, time of the month
likewise, wiggled, weaved, waved at the crowd, slipped
like soap through muddy hands, liked that, slid
between legs, nursing the precious egg of the ball,
then flung myself like breaking surf over the line
for the winning try, converted it, was carried
shoulder high by the boys as the whistle blew.
They roared my name through mouthfuls of broken teeth.

Ringo had flu when the Fab Four toured Down
Under. Minus a drummer, the gig was a bummer
til I stepped in, digits ringed, sticked, skinned,
in a Beatle skirt, mop-topped, fringed, to wink
at Paul, quip with John, climb on the drums,
clever fingered and thumbed, give it four to the bar,
give it yeah yeah yeah. The screams were lava,
hot as sex, and every seat in the house was wet.
We sang Help!, Day Tripper, Money, This Boy,
Girl, She Loves You – John, Paul, George and Moi.