For Andy
There’s only one Andy Beck,
One Andy Beck,
And that’s the Andy Beck I met in the Wheatsheaf,
Who’d just got back from Newport,
When Andy Rowland went in goal,
And the Town were victorious,
Despite having a centre forward between the posts,
And you spoke so compellingly,
And with such descriptive power,
That I was captivated;
And then you segued from football to archaeology,
From 4-2-4 to stone circles and long barrows,
And it was like meeting a soul-mate.
And in the years that followed,
We walked and cycled the shire,
Both having a paranormal experience
At some old closed-down pub in the Wiltshire wilds,
When I pressed my face to a broken window,
Before going to phone Trish from a call box opposite,
When we both heard the raucous roar of a public bar,
As though it were around about 1935;
Inexplicable to this day.
Or cycling to Liddington,
Walking the churchyard,
Listening to you as though you were some
Victorian antiquarian,
Your memory and knowledge and loquacity,
All pitch-perfect.
And taking of pitch-perfect,
Playing football or cricket,
Or remembering past matches and heroes,
Your knowledge and memory,
Again immaculate;
Or getting stuck in a pub
And drinking too much before an away game,
And ending up getting a taxi rather than walking
To the ground,
And missing the first few minutes;
But you never needed long in a quiz,
Your phenomenal memory
Enabling you always to beat the clock;
Then there would be beating the bounds
Not just of topography,
But also, of epistemology,
Discussions about the philosophy of history,
Going on into the wee small hours.
And in recent years,
Walking at Selsley church, near Stroud,
Showing you pre-Raphaelite stained-glass windows,
Watching you buy your souvenir postcards;
And back in Swindon,
Going on a Coate Water Richard Jefferies pilgrimage,
You on top form,
Educating, informing, entertaining;
My Radical Stroud chums taking photos of you,
Your long beard now making you resemble
Richard Jefferies himself, or Charles Darwin;
But after a gap of thirty years,
We were going to the match again,
Talking Harold Fleming and Donald,
As we made our way through the back streets,
And alley ways,
Until we reached the second home,
Sitting together,
Jumping up together and hugging,
You kissing your Swindon badge,
When the Town scored a goal;
Then talking trains and railways,
The GWR and the railway works,
And getting the bus down to Upavon way,
When again we had a paranormal experience,
The bus bell ringing on its own, unaided,
When we passed the lane leading to Henry Hunt’s birthplace,
As we journeyed to work out a route
For a memorial walk for Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt,
He of Peterloo fame, but Wiltshire born;
You selflessly marking out a route for me,
Talking history and politics,
But only you would muse that Swindon next season,
Could line up with a goalkeeper by name of Henry,
And a full back by the name of Hunt,
So, the line-up would commence
Henry Hunt …
And that’s why there’s only one Andy Beck,
A polymath who could bewitch and enchant,
With a width of knowledge
And an ability to make connections
That would blow your mind,
And all with a charm and modesty,
Together with a twinkle in the eye,
And a disarming smile.
And that’s why,
There’s only one Andy Beck,
One Andy Beck,
Andy, Andy, Andy, Andy, Andy Beck.
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