Crystal Palace bring a traditional Christmas poem to life by hiring Sam Allardyce
’Twas two nights before Christmas, when all through Selhurst Park
Not a creature was stirring, not even a lark
The stockings were hung by Benteke with care
In the hopes that Big Sam soon would be there
The players were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of Chinese transfers danced in their heads
Steve Parrish in his ‘kerchief, and I in my cap
Had settled our brains for a long winter of crap
When out on the pitch there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow
Gave a luster of midday to objects below
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
But a large Mercedes and eight camera crews out for a leer
With a big driver who had a head like a ham
I knew in a moment he must be Big Sam
More rapid than eagles the players they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name
“Now, Sako! Now, Souare! Now, Zaha and Ledley!
On, Remy! On, Tomkins! On, Campbell and Kelly!
To the top of the table! Or at least to the center!
Now don’t let investigators even hope to enter!”
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his shoes
And his reputation was all tarnished with scandals in the news
A bundle of money he had flung on his back
And he looked like a grifter just back from the track
His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks filled with porkchops, his brow rather scary!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And his multiple chins bounced to and fro
The stump of a cigar he held tight in his lips
And his shirt was too tight, exposing his nips
He had a broad face and a sizable gut
That was definitely caused by too much Pizza Hut
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly gaffer
And I laughed when I saw him—oh, the internet banter!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work
And filled all his pockets, then turned with a jerk
And laying his finger inside of his nose
And giving a nod, his ego—it grows!
He sprang to his car, his team gave a whistle
And down the drain they flew, like the last piece of gristle
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, going undercover ain’t right!”