Killing a goal post

First, it was a five-a-side goal
on the green by my house
I didn't think much of it
til it started attracting tracksuits

not kids
tracksuits
wafting around, gaudy stripy-armed phantoms,
flopping on the bonnets of our cars, with girls,
caps, hooded tops, a can of warm Stella
passed around, nursed all night, you know what I mean?
A spilled laundry basket, animated with amphetamines

and wanting to maintain diplomatic relations
I went through the proper channels. I rang the council
specifically "Operational Services" who moved it within
ten working days.

The crestfallen expressions, their sound! I ostriched round
a little: "Who's the man?" (in thought, only,
non-confrontational)

then, inexplicably, it was replaced. More nerve than a
nervous system. More guts than a whale's digestive tract.
Wondering where all these goals came from, I asked the
police if any were missing, but the sizzling sound down the
receiver was a frying pan with bigger fish in it

so it was back to the local authorities. They made the
mistake of coming in the holidays, and were ambushed
with stones, got back in the van, ping, clang, screeched

away, leaving me despairing of the world today, but I
rebooked the goal-getters. Gone in sixty minutes. Yay!

But six months later
like ants, carrying poles on shoulders,
disproportionate to clothes size,
the floating tracksuits were back for more

weary of red tape, it was Bronson time,
fuelled by booze and god-knows, the woman was buzzing
in the zone; I was frozen, paranoid. But in the cover of
dark, we grabbed a piece each, scuttled like kids from a
randomly rung door bell, down a ginnell, flung into an unsighted
garden: job's a good 'un.

Revenge tasted like a new chocolate bar in a focus group.

And it returned. And I flew solo at three hundred hours.
This time they had secured the posts somehow to the garden
behind, which meant I had to trespass, unwind, watch it
launch like Fatima's javelin, wince at the hollow bell chime
as it collapsed like a narcoleptic on terra firma. I was a pro
now, a ringer: black clothes, woolly hat, pre-surveillance, the
stride that kicks fast without arousing suspicion. Three
pieces in three resting places. But but

it has come back. I will not rest until the huge patch of grass
wiped out by trainers

not kids, just disembodied trainers

is able to grow back. 'Cause I love this estate.

Remember that.