He was the man, showbiz and cool,
There was nothing he couldn't do,
He drove flash cars; he liked a drink,
A hit with the ladies he liked to think,

In Bernard's career he hit the highs,
A football master and king of pies,
Bernado the adopted son of Spain,
Riding Madrid's gravy train,

A fucked up knee, then too many pies,
Brought an end to all those highs,
So he limped off home to Bradford reserves,
After turning down a move to Spurs,

And there it ended in the Texaco Final,
A goal at the death from the corner triangle,
Belly and in, Bradshaw was pleased,
He got a commentary job, his worries eased,

Meanwhile Terry, playboy of the football league,
At Swansea, West Ham and Cork I believe,
The left sided dynamo, king of the field,
With a witty persona that sort of appealed,

He hit the headlines for both good and bad,
He took cocaine; he was a lad,
Banned from the game, then injury came,
And took away the money and fame,

Now fifty-four and forty-two,
They haven't really got a clue,
On cable TV, presenting lower league games,
They struggle to even remember their names,

But they are happy, think they're on the up,
But also I suppose, they don't give a fuck,
Living on their pasts, their glory days,
And drinking every drop that their salaries pay.