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I am not a fan of westerns particularly.

quote by Patrice Leconte
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Fanmail

Welcome
Weve dedicated our entire album cover
To any person who has ever sent us fan mail
This is a journey into life love
And the future of music fan mail
Tlc would like to thank you
For your support fan mail
And just like you
They get lonely too
Just like you
I get lonely too
Ahhhhhhhhh fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh fan mail
Just like you
I get lonely too
Ahhhhhhhhh fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh fan mail
Just like you
I get lonely waited for you for so long
Too many days since january
Im still sittin miss alone
We shoulda did this already
Said I got an e mail today
Kinda thought that youd forgot about me
So I wanna hit you back to say chorus
Just like you
I get lonely baby
I could really get to know you
Take my time to show you
Dont tell anybody what we do
When I get lonely take me
To another place where Ill be
Into space just you and me
With no rules
Just like you
I get lonely too
Just like you fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh
Just like you fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh
Just like you fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh
Just like you
I get lonely too
Ahhhhhhhhh
Just like you fan mail
Ahhhhhhhhh
Just like you fan mail

[...] Read more

song performed by TLC
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Fan The Fire

Maurice white, donald whitehead & wade flemons
**ohh its a shame
Its a shame its a shame
The flame of love is about to die
Somebody fan the fire
The flame of love is about to die
Somebody fan the fire
Love is dyin today
Somebody fan the fire
The flame of love is dyin I say
We gonna fan the fire, come on along
Little children starving in a foreign land,
Talk about it brother
Man afraid to shake his brothers hand
(fan the fire, fan the fire)
Woman in trouble callin but nobody cares
(fan the fire, fan the fire)
People denied the rights that are truly
Theirs
(its a shame)
*i believe I believe
(I believe I believe)
I believe I believe
(I believe I believe)
I believe the flame of love is about to die
(fan the fire, fan the fire)
I believe the flame of love is about to die
The flame of love is about to die
Somebody fan the fire
Flame of love is about to die
Were gonna fan the fire, come on along.
Violence striking down great men of peace
Poverty in the homes and crime in the streets
(fan the fire, fan the fire)
Kind-hearted people turnin to hate
(fan the fire, fan the fire)
Mans about to destroy the human race
(its a shame)
(*repeat)
(its a shame)
(* * repeat)
I believe the flame of love is about to die
(repeat)

song performed by Earth Wind And Fire
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San Francisco Fan

San francisco fan
Loved a no-good gamblin man
She drank the coffee dregs
So she could fry his eggs in a golden frying pan
Can-can-ed by command of the gold rush cafe clan
She gave her man her pay
He gambled it away
Playing chinatown fan-tan
Once they caught him cheatin
And he knew that he was beaten
When a miner aimed a pistol at his head
Fanny when shed seen him ran and jumped right in between em
And she stopped a dozen slugs of poison lead
There was fanny dyin
While a hundred men stood cryin
And the angels up above were cryin too
When seven horses started draggin
Fannys coffin in a wagon
Through a dusty californian avenue
San francisco fan
Gave her life to save her man
A man who wasnt worth
A shovelful of earth
From the grave of san francisco fan
San francisco fan
Loved a no-good gamblin man
She drank the coffee dregs
So she could fry his eggs
In a golden frying pan
San francisco fan
Gave her life to save her man
A man who wasnt worth
A shovelful of earth
From the grave of san francisco fan

song performed by Joe Jackson
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The Fan : A Poem. Book III.

Thus Mommus spoke. When sage Minerva rose,
From her sweet lips smooth elocution flows,
Her skilful hand an ivory pallet grac'd,
Where shining colours were in order plac'd.
As gods are bless'd with a superior skill,
And, swift as mortal thought, perform their will,
Straight she proposes, by her art divine,
To bid the paint express her great design.
The assembled powers consent. She now began,
And her creating pencil stain'd the fan.

O'er the fair field, trees spread, and rivers flow,
Towers rear their heads, and distant mountains grow;
Life seems to move within the glowing veins,
And in each face some lively passion reigns.
Thus have I seen woods, hills, and dales appear,
Flocks graze the plains, birds wing the silent air
In darken'd rooms, where light can only pass
Through the small circle of a convex glass;
On the white sheet the moving figures rise,
The forest waves, clouds float along the skies.

She various fables on the piece design'd,
That spoke the follies of the female kind.

The fate of pride in Niobe she drew;
Be wise, ye nymphs, that scornful vice subdue,
In a wide plain the imperious mother stood,
Whose distant bounds rose in a winding wood;
Upon her shoulders flows her mantling hair,
Pride marks her brow, and elevates her air:
A purple robe behind her sweeps the ground,
Whose spacious border golden flowers surround;
She made Latona's altars cease to flam,
And of due honours robb'd her sacred name,
To her own charms she bade fresh incense rise,
And adoration own her brighter eyes.
Seven daughters from her fruitful loins were born,
Seven graceful sons her nuptial bed adorn,
Who, from a mother's arrogant disdain,
Were by Latona's double offspring slain.
Here Phoebus his unerring arrow drew,
And from his rising steed her first-born threw,
His opening fingers drop the slacken'd rein,
And the pale corse falls headlong to the plain.
Beneath her pencil here two wrestlers bend,
See, to the grasp their swelling nerves distend,
Diana's arrow joins them face to face,
And death unites them in a strict embrace.
Another her flies trembling o'er the plain;

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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The First Fan

READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-A-BRAC
CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877

WHEN rose the cry 'Great Pan is dead!'
And Jove's high palace closed its portal,
The fallen gods, before they fled,
Sold out their frippery to a mortal.

'To whom?' you ask. I ask of you.
The answer hardly needs suggestion;
Of course it was the Wandering Jew,--
How could you put me such a question?

A purple robe, a little worn,
The Thunderer deigned himself to offer;
The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,--
You know he always was a scoffer.

'Vife shillins! 't is a monstrous price;
Say two and six and further talk shun.'
'Take it,' cried Jove; 'we can't be nice,--
'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's auction.'

The ice was broken; up they came,
All sharp for bargains, god and goddess,
Each ready with the price to name
For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.

First Juno, out of temper, too,--
Her queenly forehead somewhat cloudy;
Then Pallas in her stockings blue,
Imposing, but a little dowdy.

The scowling queen of heaven unrolled
Before the Jew a threadbare turban
'Three shillings.' 'One. 'T will suit some old
Terrific feminine suburban.'

But as for Pallas,--how to tell
In seemly phrase a fact so shocking?
She pointed,--pray excuse me,--well,
She pointed to her azure stocking.

And if the honest truth were told,
Its heel confessed the need of darning;
'Gods!' low-bred Vulcan cried, 'behold!
There! that's what comes of too much larning!'

Pale Proserpine came groping round,
Her pupils dreadfully dilated

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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I'm A Fan

It’s football season again
I hope my team does well this year
Football season again
I’m a fan

It’s football season again
Spread that ball across the field
Football season again
I’m a fan

Through the cold and the rain
I’ll be there at the game
A voice screaming to be heard
I’ll cry sometimes, sometimes I’ll smile
As my voice echoes through the crowd
I’m a fan, I’m a fan, I’m a fan

It’s football season again
I hope my team does well this year
Football season again
I’m a fan

It’s football season again
Tackle hard and play it fair
Football season again
I’m a fan

And at the end of the year
We’ll be dressed in the gear
As they turn to salute the crowd
And we’ll stand with pride
‘Cause they’re our side
And we’ll sing their praises loud
We’re the fans, We’re the fans, We’re the fans

Copyright Colin Coplin 2004 / 2010

poem by Colin Coplin
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Yo

* jewel and atz together
A little yodeling song
For my man yo
And I know that yo dont know
That I wrote this song a late one night
Hed heard me yodeling down at hobo gins
And we were hanging out at the putter inn
He was beggin me to yodel
And oh yo he wasnt half the type
He held out his hand
I said whats your name?
And he said yo
So I asked him again
And he said yo again
So I figured it must be his name
Well I was having some perculiar thoughts
But you cant say much with a name like atz
So I settled back
Tried to figure out yo-yos game
Now yo was sailin three sheets of the wind
With a frozen stare
And an ear-to-ear grin
He kept beggin me to yodel, sayin
G-gget up there and yodel with the band
It was my good friend rod with a hired gun
So I stepped up to have a little bit of fun
With the lead, and the bass and the drummer and the rhythm man
Now yo he staggered right up to the stage
He had this angelic smile on his face
That sucker looked like he floated up to heaven and he died
While I never had a fan quite like yo before
He stood there mesmerized on the floor
He started stompin and clappin when he heard my yodeling cry
(chorus)
And I said
*yo this yodeling songs for you
No matter where you go
No matter what you do
Remember that time spent yodelings time well spent
Ive never had myself a fan club before
But yo dont you know that one things for sure
If I do Ill make you my fan club president
And I said
*(yodel)
Well when I got through
I said there you go yo
And he was still smiling but his eyes were still closed
And I thought I was going to get away from him
But then he opened them wide and said
I-ii want to hear some more

[...] Read more

song performed by Jewel
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A Ballad of Baseball Burdens

The burden of hard hitting. Slug away
Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb.
Else fandom shouteth: "Who said you could play?
Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!"
Swat, hit, connect, line out, goet on the job.
Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom's ire
Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob -
This is the end of every fan's desire.

The burden of good pitching. Curved or straight.
Or in or out, or haply up or down,
To puzzle him that standeth by the plate,
To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown:
Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown,
So pitch that every man can but admire
And offer you the freedom of the town -
This is the end of every fan's desire.

The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds!
The tumult and the shouting from the throats
Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds
Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and coats.
A mighty cheer that possibly denotes
That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire;
Or, as H. James would say, We've got their goats -
This is the end of every fan's desire.

The burden of a pennant. O the hope,
The tenuous hope, the hope that's half a fear,
The lengthy season and the boundless dope,
And the bromidic, "Wait until next year."
O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear,
O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher
That next October it shall flutter here:
This is the end of every fan's desire.

ENVOY

Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase
Be that to which most fondly we aspire!
For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but Race -

THIS is the end of every fan's desire.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The Fan : A Poem. Book I.

I sing that graceful toy, whose waving play,
With gentle gales relieves the sultry day.
Not the wide fan by Persian dames display'd,
Which o'er their beauty casts a grateful shade;
Nor that long known in China's artful land,
Which, while it cools the face, fatigues the hand;
Nor shall the muse in Asian climates rove,
To seek in Indostan some spicy grove,
Where stretch'd at ease the panting lady lies,
To shun the fervour of meridian skies,
While sweating slaves catch every breeze of air,
And with wide-spreading fans refresh the fair;
No busy gnats her pleasing dreams molest,
Inflame her cheek, or ravage o'er her breast,
But artificial zephyrs round her fly,
And mitigate the fever of the sky.

Nor shall Bermudas long the muse detain,
Whose fragrant forests bloom in Waller's strain,
Where breathing sweets from every field ascend,
And the wild woods with golden apples bend;
Yet let me in some odorous shade repose,
Whilst in my verse the fair Palmetto grows:
Like the tall pine it shoots its stately head,
From the broad top depending branches spread;
No knotty limbs the taper body bears,
Hung on each bough a single leaf appears,
Which shrivell'd in its infancy remains,
Like a clos'd fan, nor stretches wide its veins,
But as the seasons in their circle run,
Opes its ribb'd surface to the nearer sun;
Beneath this shade the weary peasant lies,
Plucks the broad leaf, and bids the breezes rise.
Stay, wandering muse, nor rove in foreign climes,
To thy own native shore confine thy rhymes.
Assist, ye Nine, your loftiest notes employ,
Say what celestial skill contriv'd the toy;
Say how this instrument of love began,
And in immortal strains display the fan.

Strephon had long confest his amorous pain,
Which gay Corinna rally'd with disdain;
Sometimes in broken words he sigh'd his care,
Look'd pale, and trembled when he view'd the fair;
With bolder freedoms now the youth advanc'd,
He dress'd, he laugh'd, he sung, he rhym'd, he danc'd:
Now call'd more powerful presents to his aid,
And, to seduce the mistress, brib'd the maid;
Smooth flattery in her softer hours apply'd,
The surest charm to bind the force of pride.

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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The Fan : A Poem. Book II.

Olympus' gates unfold: in heaven's high towers
Appear in council all the immortal powers;
Great Jove above the rest exalted sate,
And in his mind revolv'd succeeding fate,
His awful eye with ray superior shone,
The thunder-grasping eagle guards his throne
On silver clouds the great assembly laid,
The whole creation at one view survey'd.

But see, fair Venus comes in all her state;
The wanton Loves and Graces round her wait;
With her loose robe officious Zephyrs play,
And strow with odoriferous flowers the way.
In her right hand she waves the fluttering fan,
And thus in melting sounds her speech began.

Assembled powers, who fickle mortals guide,
Who o'er the sea, the skies and earth preside,
Ye fountains whence all human blessings flow,
Who pour your bounties on the world below;
Bacchus first rais'd and prun'd the climbing vine,
And taught the grape to stream with generous wine;
Industrious Ceres tam'd the savage ground,
And pregnant fields with golden harvest crown'd;
Flora with bloomy sweets enrich'd the year,
And fruitful autumn in Pomona's care.
I first taught woman to subdue mankind,
And all her native charms with dress refin'd,
Celestian synod, this machine survey,
That shades the face, or bids cool zephyrs play;
If conscious blushes on her cheek arise,
With this she veils them from her lover's eyes;
No levell'd glance betrays her amorous heart,
From the fan's ambush she directs the dart.
The royal sceptre shines in Juno's hand,
And twisted thunder speaks great Jove's command;
On Pallas' arm the Gorgon shield appears,
And Neptune's mighty grasp the trident bears;
Ceres is with the bending suckle seen,
And the strong bow points out the Cynthian queen;
Henceforth the waving fan my hand shall grace,
The waving fan supply the sceptre's place.
Who shall, ye powers, the forming pencil hold?
What story shall the wide machine unfold?
Let Loves and Graces lead the dance around,
With myrtle wreaths and flowery chaplet's crown'd,
Let Cupid's arrows strow the smiling plains
With unresisting nymphs, and amorous swains:
May glowing picture o'er the surface shine,
To melt slow virgins with the warm design.

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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Fan The Fire

**Ohh it's a shame
I'ts a shame it's a shame
The flame of love is about to die
Somebody fan the fire
The flame of love is about to die
Somebody fan the fire
Love is dyin' today
Somebody fan the fire
The flame of love is dyin' I say
We gonna fan the fire

song performed by Earth Wind & Fire
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Fanmail

Dear Sirs,
To whom is may concern
theres facts id like to learn
so many things i wanna know
especially trivial info paraphernalia
badges and regalia please send me everything
Cuz I
am interested in you
and everything you do
i find myself at all your shows
could you tell me were you buy your clothes
could you sign my little sisters face
put your signature any place and please send me a bio
Cuz we've got fan mail
we really really read it
Fan Mail
we really really read it
I sent you my letter now i want a reply
you dont know any better than you wont take your time
with my Fan Mail
So i would like to know just if and when
you'll be in town again
so that i could meet with you
and brag at my freinds at school
have you been all around the world
have you seen every kinda of girl
or are you from the other side
Cuz you
you cant believe everything that you read
with the hypocrisy and the greed
the papers all the things that they say
they dont tell me anything anyway
thats why ive gotta get it straight from you
without an obligation
My Fan Mail (oohs and ahhs)
Whats this i find to my suprise
those fans that i idolized
no longer seem to exist

song performed by NOFX
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A Fan

this is a fan
in the manipulation of my hands
her hands hold another fan
making the signals of
our tryst
this is another fan of hers
for my manipulation
this will give the signals too
what time
where and when
and then we fan ourselves together
much to the dismay of
those who still think that this world
spins
because of love alone
no
there are other reasons which lust knows
apart from the reasons
of the propriety of an intimacy

there is this emptiness that must be filled
at least temporarily with the desires of the body
the curiosity of he mind
the button-less reality
of holes and bones and quivers
of the flesh

i am into this and you call me
quits.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I can EMIT TIME

'I Can! ' EMIT TIME
Kindly Refer to Notes

.

.

This retourne shows how Time bright glows,
Inspiring plan Life offers man,
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’

TIME’s sum’s not dumb, repeating drum
Inspiring plan Life offers man,
May link ‘become’ through rule of thumb
EMIT true scan light once began.

The heart that sows is star that glows
In tune reel ran fed through rhyme’s fan,
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
Ends in well ran, begins “I can! ”

Time’s reel ebbs, flows, all comes and goes,
In caravan reversing scan
Much magic flows, touch insight knows,
Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’

.

Egg, chicken, span, - ensure ‘I can! ’
Much magic flows, touch insight knows,
In caravan reversing scan, -
Time’s reel ebbs, flows, all comes and goes.

Ends in well ran, begins “I can! ”
Maintains red rose, sustains verse, prose,
In tune reel ran fed through rhyme’s fan, -
The heart that sows is star that glows.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Fish And Rice

Daniel phoned me today
with his usual two year old exuberance
which comes naturally when you are two
and comes naturally when you're fifty two
until you extinguish it with old damp habits,
and he said
'Fish! Fish! I like fish very much!
Daddy, fan fan, fan fan', (Chinese for rice)
and yes Daniel has already mastered
three languages, English, Mandarin and enthusiasm
the last of which he is most adept at.
Well I thought he was enjoying his fish supper
but not so, and I should have known,
this exuberance could not be the result of food
unless perhaps a rare taste
of smooth creamy chocolate.
No he was feeding fish,
fish with an appetite for rice?
No, but no one had told him the ingredients of fish food
or me for that matter
and of course he was right,
as far as the fish are concerned
this was indeed the rice of life.
And he was now suddenly very upset
standing in the corner, arms folded, despondent
what happened? I asked
I am told by my reporting wife
that there had been a message I had missed,
and should have known.
Feeding fish is more essential for happiness
than eating fish,
and on his return home, freely swimming happy fish
should be waiting for his love and bliss.

poem by David Taylor
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Wednesday's Child (Sheffield Wednesday Soccer Club)

It eats soccer. It breathes soccer. It lives soccer. It fades when it's team fades and it blooms when it's team blooms. It has the letters S.W. permanently etched upon it's brain and it probably even arranges it's Monopoly money in S.W. formations. What is it, you ask? It's a soccer fan. You knew that, didn't you? But it isn't just any soccer fan. It is specifically a Sheffield Wednesday soccer fan. Or addict, for want of a better word.

Yes, of course, even I know about Liverpool, Everton, Arsenal and Man. United fans. They're the normal, run-of-the-mill type but Owls supporters are really Something Else!

I have had the somewhat dubious good fortune of becoming rather well acquainted with one of these strange 'animals' but until today, I'd managed to evade any one-to-one discourse on the merits or demerits of one man's passion for his team. On the face of it, you could say I asked for it. In a weak moment, I queried how his team had fared over the past week or so. It was like asking a hypochondriac the state of his health.

Well, there I was, supposedly having a cup of tea with his wife, my friend Sheila. But Sheila knew the signs and, together with two equally clued-up daughters, had opportunely beaten a hasty retreat into the garden. They had long since paid their dues. Now, it was my turn.

It was a reasonably tentative beginning. It is more than probable that Ken, the addict, suspected I would never stay the course but feeling somewhat emotionally trapped by the knowledge that he had no sons with whom to share his enthrallment of the game, what else could I do but don my interested-looking mask, take a deep breath and settle back to hear him out. By tacit consent, we both knew that I was a victim of sorts. Destiny rides again!

My heart sunk a little when I realised that he was starting from scratch. From the actual day when his team first started playing. His enthusiasm was boundless but somehow I found myself becoming absorbed in what he was saying. His eyes took on a bright, azure sparkle and his mouth was motoring at twice the speed of sound as it travelled back and forth in time. I stared in mute fascination. This was for real! This was the guy's life. Dear Lord, where was I when enthusiasm for anything was dished out? I raised my eyes Heavenwards and found myself looking straight into those of a grey, woolly owl who was peering down at me from a built-in show-case. The Sheffield Wednesday Football Club mascot. I knew I was a gonner when I found myself asking how the Club had come to be so named.

Sheffield Wednesday, as we know it today, Ken told me, came into being in 1867 as the football section of the Wednesday Cricket Club, which had been in existence since 1820. The cricket club had been the creation of a group of Sheffield craftsmen who gave it the name 'Wednesday' for the simple reason that that was the day when they took regular afternoons off to pursue their sporting enthusiasms.

Not surprisingly, perhaps, the meeting at which the football section was formed took place on a Wednesday and this, at a local sporting pub, The Adelphi. Members of the cricket club called the meeting because they wanted a way of keeping everybody together during the winter months but the step was probably partly inspired by the dramatic increase in football's popularity in the town over the previous ten years.

Ken's eyes misted over somewhat as he proudly told me that it had been Sheffield who had led the way in organised football even before the birth of the national FA in 1863. So Wednesday no doubt felt it appropriate to have their own football section. At the very least, it would mean that their players would not be tempted to drift off to other clubs at the end of the summer and forget to return in the following spring.

The founders could not have imagined that the infant football section would become the dominant partner. So strong, in fact, that within sixteen years it would break free and Wednesday Football Club would become one of the most famous names in English football - and a force in the professional game to boot (no pun intended!) Would they also have believed that the Cricket Club would survive only until 1924 and then die through lack of support, so that today, it is all but forgotten.

By now, there was no doubt that Ken knew he had my attention for I was leaning forward in my chair, hanging onto every word. Vortex-like, my concentration was being pulled and drawn into the centre of what could only be described as the secret world of the soccer-addict; a passionate and breathtaking intensity which would encompass anything related thereto, from a humble soccer boot to a moth-eaten ticket to some long-ago and memorable match played.

'Look! ' he said, paging through a well-thumbed book, 'here's a picture of Wednesday's first match at Olive Grove. This site was bought from the Duke of Norfolk. Did you know that? ' As if I would! But no reply was necessary as he pressed on regardless to tell me about how officials at the time were unable to persuade either Preston or Aston Villa to provide the opposition for a match but Blackburn Rovers did decide to accept the invitation to play. Things weren't going too well but I wanted to fall off my chair to show him how thrilled I was too when Wednesday recovered from a three-goal deficit to draw 4-4 but he wouldn't have noticed. He was in another world.

And then he was down in the depths again as he showed me pictures of headlines proclaiming how Dooley had broken his leg at Deepdale way back in 1953. It was to be the end of the big centre-forward's career. Oh, shame, Ken, I said. And I really meant it.

1954-55 proved to be a disastrous season with Wednesday finishing bottom of the table, nine points below relegation companions Leicester City. The Owls won only 8 games, losing 24 and conceding 100 goals. However, Ken assured me, they won the Second Division Championship in 1955-56 with three points to spare and in the following season they finished mid-table. But, oh dear, by 1957-58 they were down again. The Addict's voice faded and I thought he had been called by the angels.

'And then....? ' I encouraged. Momentarily, he seemed to surface.

'Go on, get along with you, ' he said with a half-smile, 'you're not really interested.'

'Oh, I am, I am, ' I protested gamely, whereupon he went on to tell me all about the so-called bribes scandal or betting-coup revelations which broke in the Sunday newspapers of 1964. Not only did Wednesday suffer in terms of its reputation but it also lost two of its best players.

The situation sounded sufficiently grave for me to try my mournful-look but no, it wasn't necessary as The Addict changed course and went on to tell me the good news about how in 1971, that bloke Dooley, (who'd broken his leg 18 years or so earlier and subsequently had to have it amputated) had been made manager of the club. He was still an idol in the city and the folk-hero of Hillsborough. But his magic was limited and he proved that he was as human as anyone else in his lack of anticipated performance.

But Sheila was rattling crockery in the kitchen and the thought of a nice cup of tea was becoming more and more enticing. Escape was out of the question. We still had about twenty years more to work through! There's a limit to a body's endurance and a feminine mind's appreciation of a predominantly masculine interest.

So, a little less stoically now, I went 'up' with the Owls and 'down' with the Owls as we travelled through from one Division to another over a timespan of many years. But much of their pain was to dissolve in relief when in 1985, they reached their highest position for 25 years by coming fifth in the FA Cup semi-Final. Even if they did lose to Everton.

In that same year, Wednesday were to equalise in the dying seconds of the match with Chelsea. They were 3-O up at half-time and I can well imagine how Ken had nearly fallen off his chair when hearing on the BBC World Service later that evening that the game had ended at 4-4. He still hasn't got over the sheer horror of it all.

There was no stopping him now and I just had to give in and hear about how the next time round, Chelsea lost the toss with the Owls' Chairman tossing the coin and the replay going to Stamford Bridge. Wednesday lost 2-1 proving that the Chelsea bogey had struck again. 'We can't even beat a bunch of pensioners, ' the Addict grinned. I was impressed by his ability not to take himself and his beloved team too seriously.

'And last year, you actually visited the Club, didn't you? ' I asked, determined to hastily gobble up the few remaining years so that I could go and have my tea. I knew of course that the highlight of his addicthood had been when Wednesday were promoted to First Division by beating Man. United in the Rumbelows League Cup Final at Wembley and didn't want to go into all that lot again. Like I said, there's a limit........

'Ah yes, ' he replied dreamily. Even he was beginning to tire. But no, not yet. I had a feeling we were about to move into extra time. More like injury-time, one would say.

'Come, ' he said, leading me towards a cupboard filled with everything and anything that could have any association whatsoever with his team. I'd seen it all before and I would see it again, but there's an indisputable thrill of sharing both old-time and current mementoes and memorabilia of a soccer club, some six thousand miles away, right here in the living room of one of its most ardent supporters.

[...] Read more

poem by Margaret Kollmer
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I'm not a great science fiction fan myself. I probably feel that way about Westerns. Like I used to play Cowboys and Indians, they can act out Will and the Robot.

quote by Mark Goddard
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I was a big J. Geils fan, a Steppenwolf fan and a Savoy Brown fan.

quote by George Thorogood
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Det Står En Stuga Någonstans i Skogen

Det står en stuga någonstans i skogen
Vem fan valde att bo där?
Dagarna fördrivs genom att vänta på besök
Och tala med träd
Men ingen någonsin kommer
Och träden svarar inte tillbaka.

Fåglarna skiter på ditt hus, gamle man,
Ingen vill ha dig här
Ingen vill ens se dig
För du är ful som fan

Starksprit, det är din inbillade vän
Men att supa tar dig inte härifrån
Är man dum och bor i den öde skogen
I en depressiv jävla koja…

För fan karl, ta ditt liv!

poem by anonym
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Online Chat

Bored... nothing to do says:
Hello! Hi! How are you? :)
Fan of Peter Pan says:
Fine. I'm getting a tan.: P
MSN is cool! : D says:
I'm doing stuff for school.: (
Bored... nothing to do says:
I'm doing homework too! : o
Fan of Peter Pan says:
I've got to go now, man.: '(
Fan of Peter Pan has left the conversation.
Bored... nothing to do has left the conversation.

poem by Cheryl Cheng
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