He’s back. And this time he’s bearded.
Seeing as Monsieur Henry is back at the Arsenal and back in the headlines, I thought it was about time I brought my poem about the legendary Renault-Flogger-and-Handball-Cheat out of mothballs, for the attention of a wider audience.
It was written in 2004 (hence the title) when he was arguably at his zenith: in terms of popularity and celebrity anyway.
Nice to see him back, but I still don’t like him.
Enjoy. Or otherwise….
Thierry Henry: Bore of 2004
I won’t be applauding Thierry Henry
On his PFA Player of the Year victory.
He’s an elegant graceful goal-scoring machine,
He’s quicker and better than ever he’s been.
Each goal is a masterpiece, never a tap in:
Instinctively spotting the tiniest gap in
The other team’s back line
He strides through majestic
And perfectly balanced he pulls off balletic
Defence-throwing shimmies and finds the top corner:
Turns every opposing fan into a mourner.
But the bloke’s just too good, and what’s more he is French:
He even looks stylish just sat on the bench
And wearing a tracksuit. It just isn’t fair,
Thierry just oozes more than his fair share
Of talent, athleticism, sex appeal:
Let’s face it, he even looks cool at the wheel
Of a Renault. With va va blinkin’ voom
When the advert comes on any girl in the room
Is soon drooling. And that’s just the last straw
Adding insult to all of the injuries before.
He can’t stop scoring goals, and I’m glad that’s the case,
But I’m sick of that grin on his good-looking face
Every time one goes in. He began as a winger!
Redressing the balance he should be a minger
Like Merson or Beardsley, Chadwick or Keown:
A player who celebrates goals on his own,
And never gets kisses or even a hug
On account of his ‘only a mum could love’ mug.
But instead he’s Adonis. He’s hip and he’s cool,
He’s probably even a champion at Boules.
So I can’t help resenting him, feeling so green
As he struts in slow-motion, all moody and mean.
I’m hoping at Euro 2004, the headlines are full of his failure to score
Against England, Croatia or even at all:
This high-flying Frog’s overdue for a fall.
It isn’t sour grapes, I’m not that kind of man:
I just can’t stand Henry, and ‘je ne regrette rien’!