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Another tribute at the funeral came from Steve's old friend, John Allen:
The last time I saw Steve – in the hospice in Hampstead -- he was laughing. So was Mary.
It’s a nice memory to have of a very difficult time.
The reason they were laughing was poetry. Not the sort of poetry you’ll find in a library or bookshop – in fact, some of it was written by Steve himself.
I’d found it while tidying my desk and thought it might cheer him up. I was thrilled when it clearly brought him so much pleasure.
You need some background:
As well as being a great football fan – his support for Queen’s Park Rangers is a family thing – Steve was also a keen player.
I’ve never forgotten a kickabout on Parliament Hill Fields – Steve deftly dribbling a ball around an oak or an ash while crying: “Can a tree be beaten by skill alone?”
With that sort of approach, it was natural that when he joined the BBC he should offer his talents to the Radio Newsroom football team. It was a scratch outfit with aspirations that were never met.
Unfortunately, Steve’s opinion of his talent was not widely shared. Much to his annoyance he was regularly asked to play in goal.
That was not what he had signed up for at all, and being Steve, he complained – very loudly and very often.
Eventually, the team captain, BOB DORAN, could stand no more and he turned on Steve. But this being the Radio Newsroom, he did not reach for a pickaxe handle but a pen.
Doran was merciless. He used his years of experience as a journalist to lay into an amazed Steve in the northern monologue style popularised by Stanley Holloway.
This is part of his withering attack:
BOB’S FOOTBALL ODE
There’s a team that’s renowned throughout football,
“The Newsroom All-Stars” they are called.
Some are fat, some are old, some are ugly,
And some just a little bit bald.
Some are cads, some are fools, some are rotters,
Some are blind, some are halt, some are lame.
But the one thing they all have in common
Is they’re no bloody good at the game.
Nonetheless they are sensible fellows,
Men like Dew, Matthews, Butt and McHale.
But there was one egregious exception –
And that is the start of my tale.
Steve Rose fancied himself as a winger,
And to dribble the length of the park.
He thought he were like Stanley Matthews,
Though Jessie were nearer the mark.
When the kid heard he had to play goalie,
He cried: “Who do these fools think I am?”
In fact he got so agitated,
He damn near fell out of his pram.
Bob Doran were boss of the outfit,
And played in the back four as well.
He’d the strength of a bear with the palsy,
And the speed of a knock-kneed gazelle.
Doran turned on the arrogant youngster,
And his words were scornful and terse.
“It’s not that you’re good as a goalie –
It’s just out, you’re a bloody sight worse.”
Rose stormed at the boss in a fury:
“You’ll never get me in the goals.
I’m not just a mid-field genius,
But a personal friend of Stan Bowles.”
And it’s thanks to all this ‘ere commotion
That the Newsroom lost 25 – nil ---
Well, that is, if they haven’t already,
Then I bet you they bloody well will.
Now, Steve, as you know – and this may be the only thing he had in common with Peter Mandelson – was a fighter, not a quitter.
Although the medium was alien to him – being a North London boy through and through – he set out to give as good as he got.
This is Steve Rose, Poet, with::THE ANCIENT GOALKEEPER -- He stoppeth one in three
Now you’ve heard of a team called the All-Stars,
The one that’s been feted in rhyme;
Well here’s news for the scribe known as Doran,
His words only covered half-time.
For there’s another side to this story,
And it’s one that’s stranger to tell,
About the row between Rose, the star forward,
And Doran, the bear-like gazelle.
It was all about who should play goalie,
Rose said: “It shouldn’t be me.
I’m much more like Roy of the Rovers –
But with two left feet and one knee.”
But Doran thought Rose was the man for the job,
Which is why he decided to act.
He said: “I’ll nail Rose’s head to the newsdesk”,
Which Rose thought was lacking in tact.
Now this fellow Doran was witty,
He could cope with blank paper with ease,
But he suffered delusions of football,
And there’s no cure for such a disease.
He’d go out to play every Sunday,
The crowds wondered if it was wise,
For though he was big, overweight and quite burly,
He played like a man twice his size.
He thought of himself as a new Billy Wright,
But his footwork caused too many cackles.
The crowds thought him more like that man Wilbur Wright,
The way he went flying from tackles.
And he thought of himself as the old Bobby Moore,
With a heart as strong as a lion,
But his weight and his stance and his hairstyle
Made him more reminiscent of Brian.
His problems with Rose ever worsened,
Until they became quite absurd,
For he spoke with an accent peculiar,
And Rose couldn’t make out a word.
Rose was really put out by ‘egregious’,
With that word, he hadn’t a hope.
He thought it was something religious,
Spoken at Mass by the Pope.
Rose complained to the chairman, Geoff Morley,
“Yon Doran’s as mad as a hatter”,
But Geoff was re-writing his memoirs
And wasn’t concerned in the matter.
“But that man’s a religious fanatic,
He thinks God’s on his side in this row,
But it’s written that God’s chosen my lot.
He’s certain to do the same now.”
“I’ll not intervene with Bob Doran,”
Said Geoff, as he turned to the wall.
“I’m writing my memoirs in detail,
They’re a page and a half all-in-all.”
So Rose went straight to tackle Bob Doran,
He searched Hampstead west, north and south,
Til he found Bob collecting his pension,
And putting his teeth in his mouth.
“We’ll settle this one way or t’other”,
Said Rose standing up like a man.
“We’ll each write a verse, and see whose is worse,
And I’ll make mine scan if I can.”
That was Steve all over. He wanted to be at the centre of things – to be a player not a spectator. He was a player to the end.
Goodbye to my very good friend Steve – the reluctant goalkeeper.
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