artyfartymanchesterman

Enough With The Love Songs Already

2008-12-20T22:22:00.001Z

I

Don’t want to

Hear

Your

Love songs

Or cries

Of

Woe is me

All

Undone

And

Whimpering

The

Sniveling

And

Teary wet

Pathetic

Simpering

Why

Can’t they

Just

Let it be

So what

If he screws

Another chick

Or

Beats you

Black and blue

Or

You fancy another

Prick

It’s really up to you

That isn’t

What

I

Would

Call a

Sin

Listen

I don’t care

If you’re

Confused

Or made the

Move

And

Been refused

Deciding

That you’re

Coming out

Or

If you’re happy

Staying in

So please

No more sulking

Or

Girlie pout

Oh!

Fuck me

Pink

Leave it out

It’s all

I

Ever hear

This constant grey

Of

Hetro drear

Or

Hip hip hooray!

We are gay

We’re

Not

Queer

It’s all

Hanky panky

Wanky

Shite

And

I

For one

Don’t care what’s

Left

All

Right

Go on

Rush upstairs

Pack your bag

Stamp your feet

Do

Your rag

Slam the door

And

What is more

Keep your

Gone wrong

Songs

In some

Secret place

Where you can

Sob

And

Hide your

Face

And

Bitter

Aye

Here’s another

Pill

To swallow

Whilst

You have the time

To wallow

Think on this

Who do you think

Really

Gives a fuck

That once again

You’re

Out of luck

Up shit creek

Without a paddle

For spouting

Unrequited

Love song

Twaddle

Who

Upon Gods

Good earth

Gives a shit

Now

Fuck off

Home

I want

To hear no

More of

It

If I Were To Marry You

2008-12-20T21:56:00.002Z

If

I were

To

Marry you

And

There’s

Every chance

I might

I would expect

Devotion

No

Headache

Late at night

And

Just in case

You

Are

Unaware

Let me

Make it

Clear

I would

Demand

Civility

No

Back word

Glare

Or

Sneer

I would require

Domesticity

A home

Needs

A woman’s touch

Don’t fuss

Or

Bother me,

I

Wouldn’t like that

Very much

And

In the evening

Please be dressed

I simply

Abhor a slob

After all

I have a

Reputation

To uphold

You

Must see

My dear

Its

Very clear

Mine’s

An important

Sort of job

Oh…

And

At weekends

After golf

When I stand

Before the

Fire

Don’t

Tire me

With your prattle

With

What might

Have filled your

Day

Instead

Lay down

Your

Sweet

Sweet

Head

Soft

Upon our marriage

Bed

And wait

Wait

Until

You hear

Your lord and master

Drawing near

My tread fall

Light

Upon the stair

And

Then

And only then

Let me have

The best of you

Naked

Rampant

The zest of you

And

We will splay

All

Inhibition bare

You will

Suck me

Fuck me

I

Don’t care

Then

Let me have

My rest

And

I will take you

First thing

In the morning

For that’s

When I’m

At

My best

So then…

My goodly wife to be

If

You play

The wanton whore

Set

My heart

Beating like a drum

Then

I can

Safely say

‘Pon your birthday

Once

A year

I

Might

Let you cum

Blood Red Wine (A Love STory)

2008-12-20T21:40:00.002Z

From the first moment I was completely captivated by her; she was exquisite, perfect and beautiful. Beautiful woman have a quiet serenity, a floating, graceful confidence. I watched spellbound, drinking in her every move and gesture.

As I drank deeply of her, myriad rainbows flashed, scattering light over her long auburn hair, stars swirled in rolls of curls like a wild mane of fiery light dancing across buttermilk shoulders. I had become so enchanted by her that it became impossible for me to look anywhere in that vast gallery without finding myself constantly meeting her assured gaze.

We had met and fallen in love forever in that first exchange, in an instant, in the blinking of our eyes, without one word needing to be spoken. She filled my mind with only thoughts of her, she became my art, she became the music and the colour within every word I would write, every stroke upon every canvas.

Love, or more truthfully this love, became a new palette of hitherto unimagined colours. She wrote me as words in her story; she spoke of love, breathed life into my life. Her words lost to me as I swam in pools of darkest blue only midnight away. Floating in that darkness through the night of dancing dreams came the dawn that would toss us anew upon a golden shining shore. Breathing kisses wave over wave.

She poured wine, from a tall silver pitcher.

Sweet red

Blood red

Red

Red red wine

ZEBRA The Story Of a Ferral Cat

2008-10-11T10:52:00.004+01:00

You may well ask
Yes
Zebra that’s right
That me
Funny name
Strange game
Especially when you stop to consider
I was born one of five brothers and two sisters
Fighting like fury for a milky teat
When I wasn’t
Filling my belly
I was pressed hard up
Against my mothers furry arse
In the back of a shed in Rochdale
In street forgotten by time
Life was tough
Rough
Even
But Zanzibar
Was never far
A banana box lid
Was where we crept
In the darkness
A banana box lid
Was where we slept
A banana box lid
Was where mother would
Schlep
All manner of squeaking detritus
To home sweet home
Safe as houses
Warm as toast
No Hobgoblins
In our shed
It wouldn’t happen
They’d be dead
No more to be said
My Father
He would sorted that
No one fucked with Mulligan
He was no scaredy cat
Yes ours was a
An exotic
Chaotic
Pied A Terre
Then came the day
That fateful day
That stopped
The good life
No more eating
No more bleating
For a teat
No more playing
With my sister
I couldn’t resist her
No
Not today
There was no more
Play
The time had come
For us to walk
And talk
For in the doorways light
Stood my father
His eyes were blazing
Green and bright
His hiss a roar
A fearsome sight
Suddenly Mulligan
Shouted OUT
And suddenly
There we all were
Out
Out and about
Knee deep in dead mattress
Crambling
Scrambling
Over rambling
Roses
Roses that died long before the old King
Picking and sticking
We foraged forward
Over shards of glass
And flattened grass
Where over lay
Rusted
Crusted
Supermarket trolleys
Bent and broken
Open
Like the bleached corpses
Of the Kalahari
There we all were
Shivering and afraid
‘Neth wild and windswept skies
And fouling stingle mist
Mist
That stung and clung
To your fur like
A thief

Keep walking
Ordered Mulligan
Don’t look at me
And don’t look back
And to each of you
I’ll give a name
Remember it
It’s the only thing that’s
Yours
This is no shitty
Kitty game
Springheart, Lester
Pudding and Punch
Sallied forth into that morn
Mulligan growled
Then hissed again
Then led way that lonely train
Brigham
And then the sweetest
Daisy May
Now
All but me were gone
Mulligan gerned up his face
And snarling said
Off with you
Be on your way
And on your way
Mind you don’t stop
To sleep beneath a tree
Or chase a mouse
Or scratch a louse
Or even think of me
Don’t stop
Until that day
You find a friend
And only you will know
A friend
Who smiling stoops
To ask your name
My name is Zebra
You will say
And I am here
I am here
To stay
Oh yes
I am here
I am here
I am here for
Ever
And a day
Your friend won’t know
That he is your friend
But you will Zebra
You will

The Lordly King Of Tut

2008-04-08T23:54:00.006+01:00

The lordly King of Tut
Was disturbed by his growing gut
He fasted by both day and night
To try to put the matter right
But all the while, it just got bigger
Adding daily to his figure
He’d watched his girth grow wide and white
For ‘twas, a year since he’d had a shite
He would burp and he would fart,
But he could not get his arse to start
His knees would tremble and his eyes would pop
It would often move, but never drop
Soon it became the Nation’s issue
To discuss the monarch’s growing tissue
A magic laxative must be found
To loose our king, who’s truly bound

Now the Queen was ugly and seeing red
Well, there was no longer room in the Royal bed,
Oft she’d take his head upin her lap
And dream of ways to make him crap
She took to shagging with Dukes and Earls
Fucked all the Page boys and the girls
She unfrocked Bishops upon the throne
And she wouldn’t leave the Knights alone
Soon it were proclaimed throughout the land
That sex with Queen were fucking’ banned
The King was in a consternation
Made worse of course, by his constipation

Then it happened something started
Rumour was that the King had farted
Soft at first, it were just a flutter
A whining sound, then a cough and splutter
Then a blinding flash and a clap of thunder
Ripped the poor King’s arse asunder
At twenty thousand feet his bowel imploded
Then a mega fart exploded
His royal balls were blown to pieces
As the good king sank beneath his feases
And in that bright white blinding flash
His once proud kingdom was reduced to ash

The moral of this story is very clear
Especially to those that you hold dear
You may have breeding you may have class
But never become a right royal pain in the ass

Biggy R I P

2008-03-25T12:21:00.001Z

My Cat Biggy died today aged 15 years

God bless Biggy

The Long Boat

2008-03-23T09:59:00.001Z

Olaf
The skinny Viking
Started each day
With a thrust
This
Was not at all
To his liking
Because he felt
It so unjust
But nevertheless
And
To be matey
He’d pull hard
Upon his oar
And oh
How he wished
He had brought a cushion
To stop his arse
From getting
Thor

When was the last time?

2008-03-13T00:11:00.001Z

He looked at the old man
And thought
When was that day
The day
You stopped
Old man
Legs one day
Stick the next
Evidently
It was about the time
The stairs
Were hard to climb
And then to
To the bedroom door
Where upon the floor
His dear wife
Had passed away
Sort of
Took the legs
From under him

Platontic Friendship

2008-03-10T12:52:00.007Z

In a spinning breathless
A wonderful joy
A moment of madness
I was swept along
So
Where did it go wrong?
Intoxicated
Indoctrinated
By my own lusty dogma
The giddy energy of attraction
She
As greedy as I
Hanging on
Every word
Watching every gesture
Committing to memory every detail
Liken to some delicate pressed flower
A kiss
A hesitant breath against perfumed cheek
Shining
Radiant
A white fire
A searing heat of shivering expectancy

Then why
Oh Why!
Oh!
Bugger and round things
The subject has been raised
Like a creaking drawbridge
Shit
There’s that word again
HONESTY
Let’s talk about it
Let’s be adult
Let’s be realistic
Don’t let’s tantalise
And the sooner we realise

That neither of us
Want the inevitable pain
The jealously
The guilt
The black silt
Of lies
Which leap up
Creep up
Heap up
Like debt
To meet
And greet
Every stolen magic moment
So what to do
We sit and stare
It’s hard to bear
It’s hardly fair
Well
I am paying
At last
A brave declaration
Of honourable intentions
A promise midst forking sushi
A promise midst sipping wine
We can be friends
Through the day
In the park
Not late at night
In the dark
A kiss on her mouth
She says
just wouldn't be right

How can I say this without causing hurt
She lowers her lashes
She dashes
All hope
Out her words blurt
Friends do not
Under any circumstances
Exchange bodily fluids
A Friend is stoic and strong
A friend can never be wrong
A friend
Is a friend to the end

Bollocks!

A friend round the bend
An Everlasting
Colonic friendship
Friends!
Tell that to my
Groaning moaning loins
A fucking platonic friendship!
You must be joking!
What haggard breath
Gave utterance
To the honesty of that lie
Pucker up
One last…
Oh yes that’s right
There was never a first
Just a thirst
For honesty
Honesty
Honesty
Honesty
One plea for honesty after another
Pissed down
That night
Upon my passion
Like a dog splash
Against a tree

Where Do We Go From Here

2008-01-11T19:49:00.000Z

Where do we go from here?
Not an uncommon question
I hear you say
Gone tomorrow
Here today
Where to go
When to stay
Here one minute
Gone the next
For one who has got there
The question 'Why' is the catalyst?
Was he pushed?
Was he pissed?
Or for that matter
Nothing's offered on a platter
So who gives a monkey's uncle?

The question nonetheless remains
Where do we go from here?
Dear
Even, as it invariably is, singular
Where do I go from here?
Having got here
From there
With little or no time to spare
Is neither here
Or there
A mere bagatelle
Can't you tell
And I for one
Don't care
I don't care
A flippity gibbet
A fuckity Duck

Still
Where do we go from here?
Despite all the fuss
Time and tide waits for no man
Ebbing and flowing
At our comings and going
Next thing you know
You will have missed your go
No second chance
No backward glance
The bus of life will pass you by
All because you stopped to stare
Three will come along
At the same time
And guess
Who won't be able to afford the fare
Fair?
I don’t think so
Do you?
So where do we go from here?
A glass of crack and a smile of beer
Well once again
We stand alone
Seen it
Done it
Worn the vest
Tread the well worn path
My friend
Lay back and think of England
Mendacity at its best
Drown your sorrows
In whiskey
Drown you sorrows
in beer
Where do we go?
I really don't know

Where do we go from here?

THE QUEEN

2007-11-22T22:41:00.000Z

I turned up the collar of my corduroy jerkin against the early chill as I sat knee to chin, a ten year old boy watching and waiting patiently for the 'Ferry Bridge' which was taking forever to load up on the west side of the river. It wasn’t unusual for there to be a few waiting cars, lorries and passengers, but on this occasion I could only make out one car together with a few early morning passengers waiting to cross the Isle of Wight's narrow River Medina that divides West Cowes from East Cowes on that bright cold August morning in 1954.
Next to me sat a large green canvas holdall, into which my mother had packed my grandmother's washing together with a packet of arrowroot biscuits, a small tin of snuff, and a couple of thin paper romances. My weekly errand of mercy was made to Gran's usually on a Saturday but as the town was in the midst of the annual international yachting extravaganza known as 'Cowes Week' it was deemed that my poor old Gran's pink and pretties were needed several days earlier, mine was not to reason why.

From across the river I heard the loud metallic clank of the bridge's prow gate, followed by the grinding of massive iron chains as they took up the strain. The early still river air chilled into my face, as I watched the floating bridge finally begin its journey, rattling across the river towards me. Less than a minute later the ‘Bridge’ had pulled it's self across the river crunching and clanging loudly up against the slipway slowly lowering the bridge's prow up onto the steeply sloping slipway which rose out of the river. To my amazement the Ferry Master known to all as Skipper Elliot opened the creaking bridge gate with one hand whilst standing stiffly to attention smartly quivering in salute with the other. Moments later a large, black, shining Rolls Royce with bright coloured fluttering pennant standards silently descended the prow ramp and now ascending the slipway purred softly towards me. With crested pennants whipping like flames, the shining, black limousine continued its regal ascent whilst the few passengers still waiting to disembark clapped and cheered loudly.
The growing number of awaiting passengers behind me suddenly moved forward and rose up around me and they too began clapping and cheering loudly. As I quickly moved forward to get a better view of what was clearly something very rare and special I was suddenly, and without warning aware of being caught up and pitching headlong in front of the oncoming stately motorcar. Due to my eagerness to see the object of the crowds adulation my foot had caught through the dangling straps of the canvas bag which now had opened wide spilling forth the contents casting my grandmother's clean and carefully folded green and pink bloomers like bunting up into the squalling breeze and finally with a silken flourish across the windscreen of the limousine another pair hanging limply adorning both the gleaming radiator and the ever graceful 'Spirit of Ecstasy'. The vehicle lurched to standstill, falling hard and heavy against the bulbous wing of the large black car I instinctively reached out to save myself grabbing and clutching at anything that I could in a hopeless attempt to stop myself from falling. Lightly dusted brown by a descending cloud of fine snuff powder my dazed senses slowly were able to focus as I lay prone beside the massive shining wheels and broken Arrowroot biscuits, breathless and dazed, I began to make out a distant, insistent but gentle voice.
'Hello...?
‘Young man...? Hello... Tell me, are you alright?'
Sitting up on my elbows, I opened my mouth and sneezed loudly
'Oh thank… goodness... bless you….you are absolutely sure that you are not injured?'
I sneezed again.
A gravely voice from somewhere within the dark interior of the car, whispered huskily, 'Stupid young bugger… no damn patience, could have been bloody killed…the husky drone was suddenly cut off by a series of loud wet sneezes.
The gentle face was now leaning out from the car window, the same beautiful face that belonged to the same beautiful woman who stood every inch a Queen, the same Queen that smiled and stood beside the Duke of Edinburgh on my Mothers round cake tin.
'Well, that's jolly good, she continued sweetly alas the moment was interrupted by a loud repetition of sneezes that exploded uncontrollably from within the car a moments silence only to be followed by muffled angry exclamations and yet another guttural sneeze. Without one moments hesitation she cut across her escorts demise with confident equipoise, 'You really must be more careful in future, do you promise?'
‘Goodbye'
I smiled and sneezing once again bid her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth 11 a loud and wet farewell. With that the car drove serenely away whilst my Grandmother's knickers gently curling and unfurling took to skies carried upon the strong river breeze like dancing silken rainbows high into the tangle of the dock yard cranes.

Sitting up, my eyes and nose running still stinging from the cloud of snuff I became aware of what I was still gripping tightly in my hand and was amazed to find that I was clutching to my breast the royal standard that had once proudly adorned the wing of the Royal car, Holding aloft the twisted metal oblivious to all who had witnessed the event I continued to wave the silken, tattered pennant furiously until the car was long out of sight.
Why me?
I had never been this lucky before; fancy me of all people, run over…
And not just by any car!
I hardly dared to believe what had just taken place, it was like a secret dream, but held in my shaking hand was the evidence, a Royal Pennant.
It couldn't have been anyone else but the Queen,
The realisation of this rare royal moment swept over me but unlike a dream this was real. Joy of joys, I had been run over and then comforted by no less a person than the Queen of England herself! Of course no one would believe me, but who cared about that. I was shaking with excitement. Who had been the man in the car, sitting beside her?
His voice had not sounded as I imagined the Duke of Edinburgh's, the smiling husband in the Wedding picture on Mum's cake tin to have sounded. Besides, I knew that the Duke would be out sailing because today was the 'Flying Fifteens' class heats. Both Prince Philip and Uffa Fox, his native Island sailing companion, would be racing for the line for most of the day. As the old Floating Bridge rattled and clanked back across the River Medina, many of the passengers began staring, pointing me out, and mouthing amazement some even tut tutting to one another. It unsettled me for a moment but then for the first time in my life I began to feel important, I enjoyed being important, I enjoyed it very much.

The stinging graze on my leg, received as a result of my accident with the Royal limousine, had stained my grey socks with blood and was smarting in the keen salt air. For the most part my admiring audience still threw knowing smiles and acknowledging nods of approval in my direction, I stiffened my leg and began limping like Long John Silver.
'See she didn't invite you up to Osborne House for your tea then,' laughed Skipper Elliot, as I struggled with my dragging leg to be first through the prow gate.
'You don't ‘alf choose your bloody moment’s nipper,' said the Skipper, taking my ticket. 'Ere, I hope you never buggered up the paintwork on her old Roller, ‘else you could end up in the 'Tower.'
'Get yer bloody head chopped off next'. ‘Wait 'til I see your dad ' he laughed, his old brown face beaming. He was still laughing as he began to open the gates.

Once off the Bridge, I ‘waddle walked’ as fast as the enormous canvas holdall would allow me, up the green slippery slipway to Medina Road, passing the silver edifice of the cocooned Princess Flying Boat. This beautiful flying ship held down tightly by metal hawsers lest it took flight toward the moon like a giant moth. Past shipyards that smelt of tar and rope I headed down into the narrow, twisting High Street which was bedecked and criss crossed every which way with Cowes Week carnival flags and bunting.
Stopping for a moment to rest, I caught sight of myself reflected in a shop window. No longer just a ten year old boy and a bag, for hanging above my reflection for all to see, emblazoned in gold, blue and scarlet, hung the shop's royal gift, the honour bestowed of the splendid heraldic coat of arms depicting the seal of royal approval.

Although there was no reason to continue with my exaggerated limp I still required to stop every five minutes or so to rest my arm and change sides. nonetheless on this occasion I was still heady from the sheer delight of being run down and addressed by a reigning monarch and wasted little time reflecting upon the facts that whilst most other boys of my age were either still in bed or enjoying a comfortable family breakfast, why was it that every weekend I always ended up carrying something heavy.

I didn't mind so much today, after all it wasn’t everyday that you get run over by the Queen. After many more rests for my aching arms, and squeezes to my grazed leg to ensure I still looked bloody and heroic, I arrived, panting outside of my Grandmother's small neat house which was situated at top of Moorgreen Road. My cousin Judith was playing at being 'Joan of Arc' as she sat astride the small wall at the front of the house, her long pale legs touching the ground on each side as she leaned forward on her wild mount, imaginary sword in hand, leading the charge on 'Orleans'. Judith who was a year or so younger than me was my constant companion when ever I stayed over 'West' at Grans.
‘Queen Lizzie' is due any minute, she said excitedly, hurry up and dump that bag, or you'll miss her.'
Opening the front door I slid the heavy canvas bag of washing down the highly polished linoleum hallway, delighting at the terror written upon the face of 'Thomas', hissing he headed for the nearest open window.
'I'm here Gran I called out. I'm just going out the front with Jude to watch 'Lizzie' coming through'
There was no reply. I turned on my heel, joining Judith and a small group of neighbours, which had gathered in the road to watch the huge ocean going liner pass.
My grandmother's house was elevated high above the town of Cowes close to an area known as 'The Walls' and was advantaged by a magnificent view of the Solent clear across to the mainland. Judith had joined Mary and Margaret Day who were about our age and lived next door to my grandmother. There was little love lost between Judith and Mary, but because Mary was clutching her dad's prized binoculars Judith had greeted her like a long lost sister. The sweetness lasted just as long as it took Mary to explain that she was under strict orders not to let any one use her father's binoculars. Judith immediately pulled a face and ran back to join me astride the wall.

Whenever I recall those magnificent ships of the line, those beautiful, beautiful Queens of the sea the memory of their beauty and grace never fails to take my breath away. Nor do I know of anyone who ever grew tired of watching those elegant leviathans as they glided serenely passed the Island by way of Southampton Water and the Solent.
The very next moment the ground shook under us, as three long deafening blasts of salute rattled every window casement in the road. Her vast trumpeting still echoing across the Solent as she sounded yet another series of greetings this time in Royal salute to her namesake as sighted the 'Royal Yacht Britannia', which lay at anchor off Spithead during Cowes Week.
For one long moment the view remained the same nothing but the wide expanse of the blue Solent but slowly inch by inch, by inch, her massive bows painted in the darkest of blue appeared, then towers of gleaming white tiered superstructures on top of which were two massive red funnels gently smoking. 'Queen Elizabeth' had stopped me in my tracks for the second time in a morning.
'Oh! I do think 'Lizzie’s' so beautiful,' said a gentle voice from above, breaking the silence of the watchers.
Looking up, I saw Gran leaning out of the front bedroom window, her small white hands gripped tightly around a pair of battered opera glasses.
'She's beautiful, just like our own dear Queen, beautiful," she continued wistfully.
'Gran! Shrieked Judith, where did you get those?
Let me borrow them, quickly before she's out of view.'
Judith ran into the house reappearing at the window with Gran and before taking up the opera glasses she grimaced for moment poking her tongue out at Mary.
'She told me to be more careful,’ I shouted up to my Grandmother.
'Who dear? 'Who told you to be more careful? She said, peering out to sea, one hand shading her eyes.
‘The Queen,' I answered.
‘Oh that's nice dear.'
'Yeah, it was, and she asked me if I was alright...
'Alright, dear? Who did? Who asked you?’
She continued to look in the direction of the fluttering red and white ensigns astern the great ship as she slowly began to slip from our view.
'The Queen! I shouted loudly. I bumped into her this morning down at the ‘Bridge’.
'Stop lying! Shouted down, Judith.
Mary, who had overheard my boasts, caught the panic in Judith's voice and wasted no time interjecting.
'Yeah, well I reckon that’s right, said Mary in her broad Islander accent, our dad was saying this morning that she was supposed to be on the Island today goin' up Osborne or Whippingham and she’d be with her Uncle or some 'tother'.
'Oh...that'll be Earl Mountbatten, Oh how lovely dear,' drooled Gran.

Mary smiled broadly up at Judith and then just as quickly poked out her tongue, Judith responded likewise.
'Gran!… sceamed Judith, he's always lying!
'I'm not lying, she run me over, so there.' Protesting, I proffered my leg, showing them both my grazed and bloodied knee.
'Liar, you would be worse than that if you had been run over. Judith continued to shrill.
'I saved myself from being killed by hanging onto her flag thingy on the front of her car…
'Lair Lair…
Carefully extracting the bent and twisted metal pennant holder out from the inside folds of my jerkin I waved the frayed Royal Pennant defiantly at Gran and Judith as they stared down at me, agog.

MARIA

2007-11-07T16:59:00.000Z

MARIA

No one knows where Maria lived
Because Maria wouldn't say
And if you found out
There'd be no doubt
She'd upsticks and move away
And
When ever she was able
On Ebay or a boot sale table
If she could
She'd wear a hood
Just in case
They saw her face
Whereupon she'd turn the brightest red
Run off and hide beneath the bed
Change her password and ID
So as the likes of you and me
Not for all the tea or all the gold
Could ever discover what she sold

Danny Buckaroo

2007-10-28T23:38:00.000Z

Danny Buckaroo my lads
I’ve sailed the seven seas
Adding inches to me yard arm
Very nicely if you please
Come hearty and heave ho! me lads
Come pull your tither’s tight
Hold hard ‘pon that rigging gear
Least you die of fright

Tis a frightful thing a boilin’ tide
In the middle of a squall
Casting yer sheets to windward
Gun powder round yer ball
Gert walls of roarin’sea me lads
Pound across your aft
All but stoppin’ her tiller screw
By a’ twisting up your shaft.

Down she goes me hearty O
Open the orlap’s crack
The cabin boy is on his knees
As I pull old Bessie back
Aye, round she goes me hearty O
Now let yer gunnels flow me lads
Now let yer cannon blow me lads
A full broadside to the rear
I’ll make a sailor of ye yet
Cos’ I’m a
Fuckin’ Buckin’ Neer

Finding The Right words

2007-10-26T23:36:00.001+01:00

Finding the Right Words

A very old friend of mine
Rang me today
He told me that his sister had just passed away
I didn’t know what to say
I faltered and stuttered
But finally sputtered
I’m sorry so very sorry to hear
Dear God
What a sod
Died you say
Yes
Today
Ok
Now don’t remind me
I really should know
‘Was she the ginger one from Egham?
‘Or the tubby one from Bow?’
… …‘Egham’s nice’.
Why is it always so bloody difficult
To find the right words
It’s far better to say nothing
Nothing at all
Silence is golden
As a rule
I’m usually lost for words
But suddenly
I saw the light
A star burning bright
I had thought of
Something right to say
And in that same moment
I began to spout
All manner of kind words came tumbling out
Thank you
He said
Now in all fairness
He didn’t have to say that
‘Cheer up things could be worse’
Was perhaps
Given the circumstance
inappropriate
I can see that now
Word and the moment as ever
my curse
and then
As though to make it worse
I ventured
‘Of course I’m not surprised
Not one little bit
She had lost so much weight’
When she stopped doing…. … …
‘Shit’
‘‘She drank like a fish and loved staying out late’
‘Still, who are we to judge?
They say life is for living’
‘So live
Let your cup runneth over
Live your life to the full’
Because ‘you never know the …
My words hung in the air
For almost a full
Minute
‘Hello?
Hello?
‘Is the line dead?
No
My friend said
Just my sister Debbie.

Morning Light

2006-12-09T00:04:00.000Z

Early pearly morning light
Came the sleepers to the street
In great numbers, from their slumbers
Snow about their wooden feet
Came the workers past the gates
Chilly chatter, black boots clatter
Nightshift waiting for their mates
Came the children dogs and cats
Tired mothers and baby brothers
In their prams and woolen hats

Hustle bustle morning light
Came the cycle tram and train
It's not pretty, Salford City
It rains again and again
Came the artist and his eye
No summer skies, no butterflies
Just plain folk like you and I
Came the lonely and the sad
Spiraling gloom, impending doom
So much good from so much bad.

Growing Growing Gone

2006-09-20T00:05:00.000+01:00

Growing Growing Gone: "The Amazon River Dries Up (Does Anyone Care?) "

A stroll around my studio..... they are for sale????

2006-09-14T20:00:00.000+01:00

A Trois Femme then Piss Off or Wise Up or We men can be such Dicks

2006-08-23T23:10:00.000+01:00

Hey! Listen my love

Every Woman is beautiful
Secret tucks and bits
Cascading hair, clothes to wear
Cleavage, throat and tits
Pearly teeth and bright wide eyes
Sweet lips swollen red
In pretty knickers underneath
Above smooth and milky thighs
Give me a Jane a Jill or Wendy
To stop my prick from growing bendy
Wet warm mouths that will eat me up
Then comes splashing, the final fit
So please no more talk of inadequacy
I’ll hear no more of it!

Oh! Piss off or wise up you prick!

So my beauty ‘s all in tucks and bits
Lips knickers, thighs and tits
Any old fart could tell me that
Is that really where you’re at?

Where’s a man who’ll give me
Poems written just for me,
A big bear hug a smoochy dance
Sensuous kisses, sweet romance?
Maybe I’ve hidden myself too well
A crab needs shelter beneath its shell
But dig a bit deeper,
I’m not good sleeper
As I’m sure you’ll discover
I’m sexy,
I’m responsivei
I’m a
passionate lover

CHRISTMAS AND OUR FIRST TELEVISION 1956

2006-08-02T23:57:00.000+01:00

The onset of a heavy nose bleed early on Christmas Eve saw me packed off to bed with my nose plugged, under strict instructions from the doctor that I was not to be allowed to watch the new television lest I enjoyed myself.
Under no circumstances was I to laugh or become over excited, thus pre-empting the onset of another nosebleed. As it turned out, there really was very little for the good doctor to be concerned about.
Christmas morn, gifts exchanged, mother was happy and sang
‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’
Singing with gusto, whilst she brushed and and cleaned finally disinfecting the lavatory.

For the greater part my Christmas Day was spent plumped up upon pillows and proudly insisting on wearing my new sheepskin gloves whilst reading ‘Two Years Before the Mast’. Beside me, in the green whicker chair, sucking noisily on small wooden forkfuls of sweet sticky date, sat my Grandmother surrounded by curling tangerine peel and nutshells. Beneath the bedroom door the flickering blue light played as the electronic glee eminating from the distant TV filtered through to my bedside just as a trickle of warm blood from my nose ran down onto my new sheepskin gloves. In an effort to staunch the flow of blood from my nose my Grandmother dropped cold keys down my back whilst pushing squares of turkish delight into her mouth leaving the top of my head covered in a layer of white icing sugar.

A DRY SPELL

2006-07-18T22:15:00.000+01:00

You'll know I’m crying, if it rains today
All my tears falling, washing away
Washing away those memories
Memories of how it used to be
Why you laughed then walked away
Why there was nothing left for you to say
Have you been waiting?
Anticipating
Contemplating
The day
That I would wash away?

The light through the window shone it's cold eleven o'clock shaft. the unaccustomed brightness splintering my thin, insipid, dreamless sleep. The radio alarm plays a song as morbid as the wallpaper, the bedroom smells damp, not a particularly unpleasant smell, just a cold Christmas with no money smell. I hobble and scratch my way to the lavatory, why do people, when they have used the luxury quilted Labrador friendly paper to excess, object to putting new paper rolls into the posy little Portuguese tile holder especially designed for the job and brought back from Real San Antonio with tender loving bloody care. The past week had been worsening; .nothing wrong but nothing right sort of week ... Just a dry spell. Everyone, and in particular myself, was on edge, scratchy, and in deep dark melancholy. You say to yourself each morning there will be no maudlin ways not today you will walk smartly put a spring in your step a bush up my tail. Let’s start the day with a will, run a bath, shave, and change your clothes. Wear some thing smartest, the sort of thing which will bring the response, oh aye? And where you going? All dressed up. The fact is you’re not 'all dressed up' you have just changed from chronically casual to standard dated, thus giving the unaccustomed and inexperienced the illusion of sartorial elegance. Right then, you’re out of the bath you dress in shirt trousers, have you ever given a thought to why you are fatter when you eat less, anyway you struggle into your trousers. After dressing you go down stairs to meet the morning.

Dear God... It’s the smell that gets me, it’s the acrid smell of stale tobacco, food and sleeping Alsatian. It never ever smells like that at night when you’re watching golf, imbibing, and relaxing with a occasional cigarette. Cleanup, open windows feed the dog, get down now go and lay in your bed that’s a good girl

Get down dog...,
Get down you bitch...
Enough,now piss off.

The dog's cowering, the cat is nervously watching us through the glazed doors. Boil the water, let’s have a coffee that's a sound idea ...And toast, that’s right start as you mean to go on. No milk, oh! I don’t believe this, neither does the cat, god I hate black coffee... So does the cat.

If you are starting the day off on a proper footing then its important to begin with a breakfast, it sets you up. The toaster refuses to engage, the plastic slide long since disappeared, however easily overcome by sticking the edge of a small pointed
knife down into the slide slot. Alas, it had given up the ghost, small green and blue sparks sparked angrily. Well you don’t deserve a good home attempt to bite the hand that feeds you would you , I open the window throwing the ancient contraption into the garden narrowly missing a hunched garden gnome.
Soon I 'm joined for breakfast by others all clammering, would you believe it, for toast. Yes! I bloody well do know where it is, I finally admitted after an onslaught of questioning. It's in the garden rockery, beside the short bearded fellow, under the damp stone.

Stanley Augustus 1923 - 2005

2006-07-06T23:48:00.000+01:00

My Father died a year ago today .

God bless you Stan

Rest in Peace

Gurnard 1958 Isle of Wight

2006-06-21T23:57:00.000+01:00

GURNARD 1958

The walk from Cowes Esplanade to Gurnard Bay by the shore road had taken me well over an hour. Passing the flags and the row of small starting cannons, polished and shining, hiding behind grey stone buttresses that front the Royal Yacht Squadron.

From the Squadron onward to the Public Green, where sloping verdant banks bordered the shoreline. And where, on breezy summer Sunday afternoons, families would spread blankets, open flasks of hot steaming tea and wave sandwiches at relentless wasps. Father's, stripped down to their vests, would hire faded deck chairs and wind breaks, and determined to enjoy the fair weather August afternoon. While tousled, squealing children picked and danced their way over the narrow stony beach to paddle in dark rock pools and swim in the cold green sea.

Soon the long lawned banks are left behind, the sharp shingle shoreline changing to a wild rocky high-water as Egypt Point Beacon looms into view.
From the Point, a long mile, where tangled sea grass borders the yellow graveled shore road that leads to the Woodvale Hotel in Gurnard Bay.

A scattering of ancient holiday chalets and timber shingled bungalows hang like coloured beads, peeping out from the wooded, crumbling undercliff.

Wild winter seas often demanded sacrifice of land and dwelling, pulverizing everything to sand and matchwood in swirling black eddies and boiling foam.

It had been the same tantrumus seas that had claimed the steep stepped path that wound down from the 'High Road', which had cut the Bay off from the few shops and buses, like the spiteful act of a jealous lover.

Norma's bungalow had been built astride a cliff gully that bubbled and splashed streams of water down to the shore far below. Standing like the Trojan Horse on a intricate framework of timber stilts 'Woodside' hung precariously over a valley of fern and wild purple bramble, awaiting the inevitable call from the sea.

Since first meeting Norma, she had always gone out of her way, to make me feel special. I’d met her a couple of weeks earlier on the beach offering me five bob provided I was able to find her a rock crab large enough for her tea.

It was not the rock crab’s lucky day.

"Grief! He’s a beauty, probably couldn’t manage him all on my own".

"Not much on 'em when you get the shell off", I said.

"Well, I expect you're right!.....What's your name sweetheart?

"Paul, I said. "What’s yours?"

My name's Norma, she had taken a cigarette from her packet, suppose you would like one of these darlin', she winked.

I nodded. Then lighting it, she held the cigarette towards me in her outstretched hand.
Traces of her perfume and the moisture from her lips lingered as I sucked on that red stained cigarette. The smoke made my head light an giddy as I sat coughing upon the sand.

She looked up, "think we've had the best of the sun today ".

"I only live over there, she said pointing over her shoulder, come on lets see what I can do with this crab of yours... bet you would fancy a nice cold drink...or... how about sausages and chips!

Norma threw loud kisses through the air and hugged me on the door step in the full view of no one. Her poodle, which smelt like the sea, scurried and yapped excitedly around my feet, leaving a profusion of small puddles in his wake.

Nothing was too much trouble; everything seemed so easy for her.

Since our first meeting on the beach she had invited me to visit her when ever I wished. She even showed me where she kept the front door key, should she ever be out. Besides she was quick to add she would never be that long and I was to wait. She would always cook for me, eggs and chips or sausages and bacon always followed by lashings of blackberry pie and finally an American Coca Cola, the bottle, ice cold and frosted from a huge trembling refrigerator which she kept outside on the verandah.

The late afternoon sun warmed the small front room.

Brass ornaments and pretty china flowers twinkled and shone down from delft rack, their reflections glinting on Norma's pride and joy. Prince and Warrior were two large porcelain shire horses, ever straining, as they heaved a copper dray stacked high with barrels across Norma's dining table.

"Don't you just love my boys", she would say, throwing another couple of kisses, this time in the direction of Prince and Warrior.

"Ain't they beautiful, just beautiful', she'd mooned.

I loved the way that Norma spoke; it wasn’t just what she said, more, it was how she said it.
Years spent in Australia during her first marriage had put sunshine in her voice, given it a golden treacle sweetness, a girlish musical note.

Norma was a very attractive woman, compared by many, in her heyday, to the Hollywood film star Jayne Russell. Her long dark hair was pulled back tight by a large yellow bow held by a small tortoiseshell comb, she wore beaded bangles and gold ear rings, like budgerigar perches.

Norma's brown eyes twinkled like a fairground gypsy,

"Come and sit down here... she patted the small space beside her, on the small settee ...and tell me everything that's been happening".

We would chat for awhile and then she'd place her arm around me, pulling closer to her fragrant softness. She would kiss me, softly at first and then harder, lingering, again and again. I could taste her lipstick and feel the tip of her tongue, warm and wet probing my open my lips. And before closing my eyes I was aware of a golden star that shone out from the pearls in her pretty red mouth.

Mad Cow

2006-05-29T22:53:00.000+01:00

'Never put your trust in a man, whatever he might he might say, do you promise dear?'
'Oh Lor, whatever next Mother,' I giggled.
Mother's words of warning were still echoing, as I watched her ample pink teats gently squeezed by big Doris Butter's dextrous fingers.
Did I listen?
Did I heck as like.
Do any of us at that age?
I was young, headstrong, finding my way. I dread to think of the worry that my sister and I had caused our poor mother, during the three weeks or so we had known her.
It's never easy for a single parent. It probably accounted for her just 'upping sticks' one day. 'Just popping to market,’ she called out. We never saw her again. Honestly, it's just been one thing after the other. Then one day last week as I was going through some of mother's old things, you know... how you do, there was a knock at the door.

In the light, stood a man, blocking the doorway of our cosy byre.
'Let's be havin' you then, isn't it,' he shouted, bringing down a thick cane hard across my buttocks. At that same moment our eyes met, I had fallen in love with Bleddyn Morgan, the village butcher.
Love or not, I didn't care for the way he kept me waiting, we cows spend our lives on the edge of incontinence. Relenting, Bleddyn using his cane to good effect, pushed me into his cosy little 'Ab Twa'.

Bleddyn had swept me off my feet, well, swept me off the floor actually. Due entirely to the effect of the electric stun gun he had so lovingly pressed against my temple. I fell for him, hook, line and conveyor belt. My world had been turned upside down by Bleddyn's drop dead patter.

Mother was right. From the moment I had given myself, so easily, to Bleddyn I had never laid eyes on him, I had ceased to exist. Life was rapidly coming apart at the seams.
One afternoon, just before tea, it happened. Oh joy, my sweet, sweet love... Bleddyn had returned.

My heart leapt, or it might have done, had it not long since been stuffed in aubergines at Lorenzo's restaurant. Bleddyn lifted me gently in his arms, drawing me close. I felt him shaking, what I mean is, it was me he was shaking, into a sack marked 'Offal.' Slinging me across his shoulder he headed for the door, as I fainted away into darkness.

Finally, coming to, I discovered to my horror, that I had been prepared as a row of Beefburgers. As I descended the heated conveyor one behind the other, something very
strange happened.
From within a polystyrene box next to me, I heard a familiar voice.
'I warned you not to trust men, I told you not to believe a word they said.'
I couldn't believe it.'MOTHER!'

Arthur The Brave Pig (BraveHam)

2006-05-16T11:07:00.000+01:00

Arthur is quite the bravest pig
The bravest there has ever been
He drives racing cars
And flies to mars
In a special time machine
He’ climbed virtually every mountain
And sailed across every sea
Just now he’s in the Arctic
He’s teaching Eskimo’s to ski
When he’s reached the North Pole
Explored, and taken stock
He’s swimming back to Bridlington
Before he cycles to Bangkok
It’s there his seed he’ll sell
For a pound a sperm
So I’ve heard tell

Engagement Ring

2006-04-25T23:26:00.000+01:00

If I were to marry thee
God knows I only think it right
That tho’ buys that ring
Tho’ knows, diamond thing
Before I stay the night

If I were to let thee
Tho’ knows, sex wi'out a fight
I need that ring
Tho’ knows, that diamond thing
Before I stay the night

If I were to kiss thee
God knows there’s a chance I might
Tongue thy mouth
North to south
Before I stay the night

If I were to show thee
A sunrise shining bright
Then gie us a ring
Tho’ knows, that diamond thing
Before I stay the night

Tho’ could stay till Christmas morn
On past till the Swallows flight
Oh yes, tho’ll rue the day
If tho’ don’t pay
Before I stay the night

A Glimpse of black Lace

2006-04-25T09:36:00.000+01:00

A fourteen-year-old boy with summer on his face. The thin Sunday morning sunlight brightening a shock of fair tousled hair, his watery blue eyes widened as though he was seeing the world for the first time. A boy in National Health issue spectacles, black round thin frames that cut through thin ears like wire through cheese. Worse, thick brown paper had been fitted across one lens, in an effort to correct a lazy eye.

Before crossing into the cool green copse I stood and watched a mother with her two young daughters as they waited at the bus stop bench.
Clean, starched white and ready for church.
Late August chased racing white clouds across ‘Warner's Farm’ in warm flurries. It would be a good day for the sailing.
The boisterous summer breezes fluttered about the three of them, the mother's skirts ballooned, billowing up around her like a floral spinnaker.
A glimpse of black lace...Her eyes momentarily met my gaze as her large red mouth pouted disapproval at her passive voyeur.
White ribbons danced out from beneath pretty dark curls as the little girls, laughing, swung dancing around the bus stop pole like queens of the May. Giggling, their skirts flying. As the pretty group made ready to board a bus, which slowly approached up the steep avenue. I continued watching, until the old tub of a bus rounded the corner at the top of the avenue, leaving me alone once again with Sunday morning.

Brenda Hazel Augustus Died2006 10th April (1927 - 2006)

2006-04-11T22:52:00.000+01:00

The last bombs of World War Two were still falling, and by a small way of celebration my pretty mother was fired headlong into her sixteenth birthday exploding into womanhood like a bright shining morning. Nervous and naïve she sat smiling behind layered veils of ‘Craven A’, pale ale and the strong odour of church hall lavender. Sweet velvet rose, bursting to bloom, dark and hidden within a bouquet of giggling wallflowers at their first Services dance. She was so sure that she would only dance with heroes, she’d know what to say, and she’d know what to do.

My father wasn’t a hero but he had made her laugh when he accompanied her home and asked if he could see again.
She had made love with my father just the once, seduced giddy after a night of nicotine kisses and ‘Casablanca at the Kings Cinema’. She had acquiesced upon the cold sandy shingle as had they listened to the sea while they awaited the chain ferry’s tired rattle somewhere beyond the breakwater as it echoed across from the river estuary.
She would never dance with heroes now.

I Feel Pretty

2006-04-02T12:50:00.000+01:00

I feel pretty

Oh so pretty

I feel pretty and witty and gay

And I pity,

Any boy who isn’t me today

I’m wearing panties

Mon petite scanties

It's alarming how charming they feel

And so pretty that I hardly believe they’re real

I wear blue ones

See Right through ones

They are racy and lacy and gay

And I pity Any boy who isn’t in them today

(Instrumental and dance routine)

I’m wearing panties,

G string Diamantes

It's alarming how charming they feeL

And so pretty that I hardly believe they’re real

(Dance to the full length Mirror)

See that battery driven thing in that mirror there (what mirror where)

What can that big black thing be?

What a pretty Lump (Hum)

What a pretty Bump (Humm)

What a pretty Grunt (Hummm)

What a pretty meeee!!! (Hummmm)

It feels stunning (feels stunning)

And entrancing (and entrancing)

Both: I feel like running and dancing for joy

For I’m in love with a pretty wonderful toy!

Ladies of the North

2006-03-30T18:41:00.000+01:00

Beware the lady from Darlington
It would count as almost a sin
If you knocked soft upon her door
She would be bound to let you in
Aye,
Then she will please you
Kiss you
Tease you
Next she’ll bid you stay
To slip on the noose
That will cook your goose
Before she plays away

Beware the lady from Hartlepool
Now there’s a nasty thought
Don’t stray close or hold her hand
Or a lesson you’ll be taught.
Aye,
Then she’ll inspire you
Love you
Tire you
Next she’ll break the news
It is very sad
Now you’re a dad
Your freedom you must lose

Beware the lady from Sunderland
Watch out, she’s hot as hell
Tread lightly with this darkly maid
Or your soul you’ll sell
Aye,
Then she’ll lay you
Lust you
Pay you
Next she will bare your heart
It won’t be funny
When she spends your money
The nasty little tart

Beware the lady from Middlesbrough
A horrid smokey town
She’ll drag you to the floor
In her floral dressing gown
Aye,
Then she’ll rock you
Cock you
Clock you
Next she’ll steal your car
You’ll feel a right tit
Now that nasty shit
Won’t let you stray too far

Burger Off

2006-03-28T23:35:00.000+01:00

Hamburger, hamburger in the sky
Hamburger, hamburger way up high
A velvet sky and blue cheese moon
Oh! How I miss your Yankee tune
Doodle Dandy in the dark
Harmonies for the dogs to bark
Oh! Blessed be the morning light
Where’s the mustard
Where’s the cream
Passing seawards
Down the stream
Onward flowing to the river
Forgive the plastic
Praise the giver
Meat to meat
Bread to bread
I’m feeling
So much better
Now I’m fed.

The Rollover

2006-03-22T19:13:00.000Z

I often talk to God you know, oh yes all the time in fact,
He gives me the confidence to meet the day, aye; we're talking all the time. Well, when I say talking,
I mean... me. I'm the one who's doing the talking.
Well he does. But it's my voice, you know, in my head.

To be honest, I've never heard him actually say anything that didn’t sound like me anyway.
See...how can you be sure.

Take the other day for instance, down the shop putting on the lottery, I asked him ...you know, what the chances were. No, I didn’t mean I wanted him to fix it or anything, I know it's not right that you should be asking God for such as money.

It’s easier to piss through the eye of a needle than to enter the kingdom of heaven, if you're a rich bastard, I know that. I want it to help I don't want a big win. You wouldn’t know what to do with it would you. No, you see, I'm not a greedy man, a couple of million or something I'd be in fucking clover.

Well, not that I want it all for myself you understand, I'd be happy with a just a couple of hundred, grand, if it was just for me. Jesus it's all you would need. It's like I tell him, look I say there’s people out there in need, do you want me to list all the people I'd help. But it's the same every time I speak to him... not a word. Mind you, I think he's pleased, after all wasn’t himself that made a Christian out of me. Dear Lord I say, I know why you didn’t let me win this week. I forgot to include someone didn’t I?

God forgive me, It not even as though I begrudge paying out the thirty quid a week or so that it costs me, isn’t it a good job the old lady's working. I say to him, look if I win at least you would know where the money was going, wouldn’t it be to help the needy and every thing. I'm only human I tell him, doesn’t it stand to reason that your going to help your own first what sort of fucking family man would let his own run short, just a few bob, then I'd divvy out between to all the good causes. You see he's right isn’t he, that’s why in his infinite wisdom he makes sure that if you going give to the poor you're in the frame to win at least twenty million on the fucking rollover.

There I'd be , happy as fucking Larry with just a couple of million having to take the whole bloody family away on a holiday of a life time, buying our Michael a pub, and a car for our Felula. What am I saying a car...I mean two cars, three cars four cars, more is what I'm saying and a new house, a big bastard at that ...with a big bastard swimming pool? You see by the time you've done the basics there's bugger all left for the poor and needy that why God is telling me that I have really have to swallow my pride and

Go after the big one.

Robin Hood and The Seven Dwarfs ‘La Spectacular’

2006-03-12T18:48:00.000Z

Robin Hood and The Seven Dwarfs ‘La Spectacular’

It's not often you're invited to a glittering 'First Night' at the theatre, met at the foyer by the theatre management and accompanied to the best seat in the house. Followed by canapés and ice cold gin and tonic at the interval in the Green Room which was served to me ‘En metal Tray’ by a rather over bosomed school girl suitably mini skirted wearing stiletto white shoes and attached to hissing ear phones. At the bell I was ushered back to my box to enjoy a wondrous finale. Well, last nights showing of
Robin Hood and The Seven Dwarfs ‘La Spectacular’
was no exception!
The plot, and I use the term advisedly, preformed by the
'Widnes and District Ladies Rugby League Club,
better known as the 'Knicker Kickers', bore no resemblance whatsoever to the stories of the gallant ‘Sir Robin of Loxley’ only insofar as ‘Robin’ sported a very natty 'Lincoln Green' leotard together with a very apparent 48" D cup tabard in day glow orange, the words ‘Motorway Maintenance’ on the back did little, I feel, to remind us of our latter day hero.
Doris Cockermouth who, when not playing scrum half for the seconds, is unbelievable as she tackles the leading role of Robin Hood. In fact it would be honest to say that Doris's portrayal of the good Robin of Sherwood was totally unbelievable throughout the whole evening.

Who Maid Marion?
…well somebody must have, made her that is! I have not seen anything to compare with Widnes’s full back, Cythereia Ballscaut's performance of Robin's fair lady since John Hurt's stomach ulcer ran amok in 'The Alien’

Now we, all of us, love a little mystery, but perhaps someone could enlighten me. Why?, In the middle of such an epic disaster, seven dwarfs, (I counted at least eleven, played by the children of the W.D L R..L C.), as they burst from the Greenwood, which incidentally was kindly supplied by Sylvester Greenfinger Director of the Widnes Parks and Greens dept.

The dwarfs proceeded to fire little arrows with suckers on into the audience, very nearly blinding the front row, whilst at the same time screaming from the tops of their raucous voices the lead song from 'Oliver'.....'Food Glorious Food' ???

The scenery and backdrop however proved most interesting as much of the ‘Greenwood’ seemed to consist of rubber tree plants and a whole array of exotic orchids and tropical ferns, more reminiscent of a scene from ‘Miss Saigon’ than that of medieval Sherwood Forest.

Let me tell you that if I knew that the line " Lets burn the bastards out! " Delivered by a lusty, if not busty Sheriff of Nottingham, played by the tall but never elegant Elvira Pickles, coach and part time masseuse, would end the evening so abruptly after only four and a half hours, thus far I would gladly have supplied the matches myself.
As it was, the stage went up like Dante's Inferno, dwarfs, screaming ran in all directions like short roman candles, dopey buggers!
A finale liken to that of the Dresden Blitz.

As the final curtain came down, together with much of the ornate corrugated roofing, the show was upstaged by the Warrington and Winnock Fire Brigades who had arrived hot foot from close by Winnock village hall. Many of the lads arrived dressed as Japanese school girls where they to had been playing to a full house ( twenty four ), the age old Gilbert and Sullivan favorite 'The Mikardo and the Forty Thieves'.

"Lucky I had my bleeper with me", said leading Fireman ‘Nankie Poo Roberts’ as he continued to extinguish a still smoldering but panting
Hilda Gofaster, aptly (Will Scarlet), upon the back seat of his car.

Alls well that ends well!

End

The Girl in White Sunglasses

2006-03-08T08:03:00.000Z

Ten minutes later I was squatting upon the grey stone steps leading into a noisy street pub in Sandown’s winding high street both my head and leg was throbbing and numb and I was grasping a bottle of ‘Lemonade’ in one hand and a bag of crisps in the other. And looking into the small spotty face of a girl in white plastic sunglasses who was unyielding in her stare whilst sucking loudly on a ice lolly.

‘Where are you staying?’ Said the spotty girl her cheeks drawing into meet one another, as she continued to suck the life from her ice lolly.

Too embarrassed to reply I shook my head and shrugged at the same time..
Intrigued, she lifted her sunglasses with one hand and laughed. ‘Where?’

‘East Cowes’ I mumbled and almost immediately took a long swig from my ‘Lemonade’ which fizzed and exploded in my mouth causing me to splutter and choke loudly.
For a moment there was an incredulous silence between us but as the last of the lemonade was dribbling off my chin her ice lolly slid from it’s stick dropping with a wet kiss onto the pavement at her feet. As though on cue, we both burst into spontaneous laughter as we watched the ice quickly runway in a orange sticky stream into the gutter.

Portuguese Man of War

2006-03-04T15:39:00.000Z

It was then that I saw it, an enormous glistening head bobbing clear of the water. In an instant it had disappeared only to reappear at my side then another immediately behind me. I felt my heart beating loudly and my mouth began to dry out as I slowly turned for the shore I began to breast stroke I knew I couldn’t afford to blindly swim over arm into the trailing tentacles of the highly poisonous Portuguese Man of War.

Unfortunately for me I had swum into the middle of a passing shoal of Portuguese Man of war jelly fish shimmering and blue they appeared one after the other their puffy blue sails pushing up through the bottle green water they pulsed and undulated through the water basking close to the surface in the warmth of the sun.

This particular jelly fish is dangerous; this knowledge was due entirely to my recent membership to the Sea Scouts where I had been informed that due to the recent summer storms these delicate but deadly fish were likely to be in our waters. The poisonous sting was in the long trailing tail or tentacles which swept out under this strange creature as far as twenty or even thirty feet.

They bobbed around me as I endeavoured to keep as flat a profile to the surface as possible, soon I was passed them slowly kicking for the shore heading for the myriads of happy children playing safely in the shallows beside the beach.. The first sting had the affect of pushing me up through the water it was immediately followed by a series of ripping shocks which sent me from icy calm into threshing panic. I began to swallow water as another a wave of paralysis numbed my legs and my arms continued to thrash the water in a hopeless attempt to propel me towards the safety of the clamoured beach.
The sea and sky were now becoming as one there was a roaring rushing noise in my ears I was up and then suddenly down, aware of the patterns of rippled sand and small stones and shells as I was thrown along through and under the surge of the breaking surf.

2006-02-21T23:59:00.000Z

Hello to all of my faithful and attentive readers...

Thank you for your dignity and silent irony ...

and polilite distance.

it's good not be alone ...Hello... hello...

hellooooo...

Got a song for you... no tune ...are you listening?

2006-02-20T23:55:00.000Z

Ding Dong
Pussy’s…
Well…
Streets are empty
Streets are wet
And what’s the bet
When I get home
She’s in bed
…somewhere
I can’t write music
I can’t sing
Can’t hold a note
Although I’ve been told
That I really do hum
Very well
But
It’s not enough
It doesn’t cut the mustard
So
I wrote a song
Folksy and blue
About
A bloke like me
A girl like you
Not exactly breaking
New ground
With sound
Anyway
Even if she is
Very young
I am very old
But
You didn’t know
Until you were told
So
This is her song
what’s Wrong
With that?

Song

Nothing moving
Nothing changing
J’est disapproving
j’est rearranging
Everything’s going to stay the same
and we’ll go on playin’ the same …..
Old game
Nothing blowin’
Nothing shakin’
Can’t help knowing just can’t help takin’
Everything’s going to stay the same
and we’ll go on playin’ the same…..
Old game

Nothing doing
Nothing shaping
Words keep spewin’ reels keep tapin’
We all know it just the same
yeah we all know it’s just the same
yeah we all know it’s just the same
yeah we all know it’s just the same
Cos’ everything’s going to stay the same
and we’ll go on playin’ the same…..Old game

Writer's Block

2006-02-19T00:39:00.000Z

WRITER'S BLOCK

Waiting for wise words to come
Rigor mortis numbs my brain
I'm waiting for that sugarplum
To ease my mind, release the pain
Enrich me with a poets wit
Rewarding this empty page
Send me endless amounts of it
Blow away my tedious rage

Let sun set take this day
Oh! night, spare me, let me sleep
Condemned, in endless night to lay
Killing time with ten thousand sheep.

THE ROOM

2006-02-16T10:52:00.000Z

Books and discoloured prints laid scattered all about the library's floor and furniture. Small dusty feathers web strands and tangled spanned the stacked books like delicate bridges. The air in the room hung motionless thick and musted by time it smelt richly pungent liken to that of winter stored apples.

A glazed light streaming soft diffused shafts of afternoon down into the centre of the library lit the scene. The bound volumes, which lined the walls on every side, formed antique coloured colonnades reaching from floor to ceiling.

John had no idea how he'd come to be at the portal of this room, only fleeting blurred images. He faintly recollected climbing a wide staircase aware of a smooth polished handrail, and deep sumptuous carpeting beneath his feet. Ornate gilt-framed oil paintings hung on dark panelled walls that echoed with distant faraway voices.

John felt unsteady, floating as he entered the room the atmosphere surrounded and smothered him as tiny bells rang and chimed all about him. The next moment he was at a table turning the gilt edged leaves of an opened volume. Vivid illustrations that passed before him were clearly pornographic and yet somehow he approved even admired.

The ancient penned copy which accompanied this prurient splendour detailed in most unusual narrative accounts of himself and others which left him shaking and breathless with desire.

Spellbound the book and others like it opened and fluttered, they began flying through the air spinning and falling heavily against the furniture. He felt a myriad of touches against his skin enveloping his body like warm wet mouths, while cool fingers, and sweet perfumed hair guided sweet caresses and him into oblivion.

2006-02-15T00:45:00.000Z

Missionary Position

Livingstone was a missionary pig
He taught the words of our Lord
Well, he just ‘up sticks’ one day
He jumped a ship, and sailed away
Do you think perhaps he was bored?
He married a black African princess
A lovely delicate bloom
Who was happy indeed
To stay home and crossbreed
As was Livingstone

I presume...

2006-02-08T18:41:00.000Z

Kate is a barmaid

She’s over there
I’m over here
Drinking in wishes
Swimming in beer
She’s
Heard all the stories
Made all the moves
Smokes in banality
Nothing improves

She’s over there
I’m over here
Topping up dreams
Still drinking beer
She’s
Heard all the sad songs
With only one tune
Foul four lettered clockwork
Be over soon

She's over there
I’m over here
Bottling frustration
Drowning in beer
She’s
Heard the drink talking
Articulates each slur
Same again tomorrow
Life’s just a blur

2006-02-07T14:39:00.000Z

Jean is Such a Busy Lady

She spends most days
Doing things
Golden rings
Her undoing things
Yes
Doing things and doing things
Oh!
What joy it brings
Listen how her heart
It sings
Now she’s busy
.Doing things
She spends most days
Doing things
Pulling strings
Her undoing things
Yes
Doing things and doing things
Oh!
What joy it brings
When she’s busy doing things

Blueberry and Bangledown

2006-02-04T15:47:00.000Z

Blue

Blueberry and Bangledown blew into Main Street through thin wisps of dawn.
Whirling colour and light spinning in their wake, yesterday was behind them as they flew through the crisp new morning in the rustiest dustiest automobile you would ever wish to lay eyes upon.

Bright eyed and bushytailed, eager beavers both, they swallowed up each others words, whisky and beer with an all consuming passion as they drove through the small town.

“Do you think you killed him Blue?” shrilled Bangledown. “Mind and hope I just know you did”.
“Ooh yes", answered old Blue, blowing out his cheeks.”
“For sure, did you catch the expression he was wearing? he excelled in that moment", oh yeah, I watched him, looked right down into his face as he went dancing into the white light.”

“Shoot Diddly Pick… the white light?”. Gushed Bangledown.

Despite the outward appearance of the ancient Plymouth Pontiac sedan the powerful engine purred sweetly on through the early morning and on out of town after a couple of miles they hung a left and bumped down a dusty side track.
“Do you think she’ll be out of her bed yet?” said Bangledown.
“Well if she’s still in her pit, you can be sure she ain’t sleeping”, replied Blueberry with a knowing wink. Both men exploded with laughter and were still laughing when they parked up outside the small, shaky flakey painted cabin that was the home of Miss Chocaloulou Valdere.

Kingsley - The Friendly Gourmet

2006-02-01T12:52:00.000Z

Kingsley was a fairy cake
A cherry sugar pie
And when he saw a pig go past
One that took his eye
He’d invite that pig to lunch
And when ever he was able
He’d be sure to choose a table
By a window where they’d munch
On Weetabix and acorn soup
And all kinds of fancy stuff
Then Stilton cheese
If you please
And as if that were not enough
They’d partake of fine French wines
And black coffee from Brazil
They’d finish with a lager
It’s small wonder they weren’t ill
They’d lunch and crunch
Until the day was gone
Replaced by a thousand stars
C'est la vie pour un porc
As they puffed on long cigars
Kingsley invites his friend
Pour une boisson
And once back at his flat
They dispensed with the chat
They snorted and cavorted
And sold them selves short
Kingsley begged him to stay
To spend the night grunting and shunting
And practicing safe sex
You know

In the old fashioned
Piggy way!

2006-02-01T11:38:00.000Z

Three stones

When the sea, silver and shining
Gently kissed the long shore
Running quickly back shy from straying too long,
Scattering warm breezes that tousled my hair.

I thought of you.

Crooked driftwood covered in seaweed
Scribed out your name in the shell bound sand
It brought you closer until all too fleeting the sea.
I called out your name upon the tide changed wind
Your voice was soft and light
Locked in a tiny silver shell
The beach was lonely and growing cold
Salt lashed, my eyes smart and sting
Starlight came

Fire dancing to blue liquid music
I could taste the sea on my tongue
Ancient as time

I stooped to pick up three small stones.

2006-01-31T15:13:00.000Z

AUSTIN HERPES

Austin Herpes
Was
A fly by night pig
A glad
Gay
Hey…
What’s it matter
Gad about town pig
Just as long as someone else was paying
He’d be staying
In their company
Austin Herpes was the long in cool
Skinny and mean
But every inch a pig
He was the street in ‘Cred’
Snort snort
snuffle
Bombed on ‘Charlie’
Had nose for it
Had a rosé for it
'Laurent Perrier'
I’ll be bound
Another sucker’s round
Hubble
Bubble
That’s the trouble
With fizzy
Busy Pigs
Little friends
Squealing their shallow delight
On gala night
Never there
When you want them
Never there
When I want to dance
What’ya mean romance?
Haven’t you heard
Anything I’ve been saying
He’s always with others
If they’re paying
Oh yes
Austin Herpes will be staying
All right
Playing
All night
Making a pig of himself

2006-01-23T16:46:00.000Z

Don't know why ...

There's no sun up in the sky ...

Just green tomatoes...

2006-01-22T13:51:00.000Z

Is a man ever too old too wear pink underwear....I think not

However there are somethings that
men of a certain age do that really pisses me off...

Men Of A Certain Age

I hate brown leather blousons
And faded blue jeans that cry out for an arse
Tired white trainers
Way past their best
And baseball caps
Dull gold earrings and large sovereign rings
Black dirty fingernails
Bitten to the quick
And football shirts worn on Mondays
That hang limp as charity shop flags
And gaps between yellow teeth
Black spaces filled by repetition
That leach banality and quiet obscenities.

DVD and Sky TV
Blockbuster video boys
Costa fortune on the yearly Spain plane
Undressed to kill in the sun
Sangria and skittles
Chips off the block
Old enough to know better
Than their middle age children
They dance the night away
In a red sweat haze
Until the morning smeared mirror
Screams out its honesty
To red blind eyes and flaccid obesity dreaming

2006-01-20T18:08:00.000Z

Jack came Dancing

A hundred or so,
Years ago,
Dark came chancing with a ripper's knife,
Came he dancing taking life,
Deaftly in that midnight hour.
Came the stripping,
Then the ripping,
Then just as lightly he was flitting,
Into the darkness after slitting,
Snow white breasts,
Plump pleasuring flesh.
Dr Death waits concealing,
A heart, a womb congealing,
Watching bloody, 'neth the hissing lamp
Streaming,
Steaming in the sulphurous light
Murdered,
Screaming, in the dead of night.

2006-01-19T22:53:00.000Z

Windrush

A long tail wind was rushing tin brush zoom and dust, that I’m not going any where fast rush, a rush that streaks and blurs. Moments later Stood as still as crows teeth but still shaking with that ‘wanna go', trembling like new summer, stayin' ready at the first breath of go.

The town was tinsel brushed and pretty, she slippery as silk whispered through gypsy red upon my mouth her petal sweet lips, a pearl carried on her breath.

‘Take me dancing ’danciing dancing…dancing’ and lets fly away.
Oh yes, please, and double sweet, go right back and buy me a pair of blood red shoes.
.
First stop is always ‘Paradise’ stardust powder, sweet smellin’ air, fine as France, all to the tune of down there where the green grass grows… in rows.

Tearin’ my heart out, steppin’ out from ‘Paradise'. It’s like bowling bottles down a quiet street, Paradise' … it’s so warm and touchy feel down here in the wet warm brush me down of where I need to be… and it’s so cold outside.

Later talk…

By and by with moon shine crawlln’, I'm callin’ at the ‘Lazy Jo’. don’t you know, Yeah the 'Lazy Jo' where there’s truth in a glass as they're pourin' dreams from a bottle.
Hangin' on nail is a bar room towel to wipe away the tears.

2006-01-18T13:33:00.000Z

Jennifer

The first girl in my life was called Jennifer
She had auburn hair and spots
She wrote me searing letters
And loved me lots and lots
We would walk through the tangle down
And passed the rushy pool
Holding hands on Sundays
And each Wednesday after school
To bore you with the others in my life
Would spoil the love that’s past
No one sends me letters now
Adoration fails fast
Ahh, to walk through the tangle down
And past the rushy pool
Where we held hands on Sundays
And each Wednesday after school
When all of my life’s years have kissed me
And in a flower garden I’m laid to rest
Dreaming of that fiery maid
The one I loved the best
Again we’ll walk through tangle down
Then past the rushy pool
Holding hands on Sundays
And each Wednesday after school

2006-01-10T12:27:00.000Z

The Cowboysuit

Christmas 1952
Cowes
Isle Of Wight England

After the sumptuous Christmas lunch the old Uncles returned to the 'Front' room and whilst I played quietly they dozed in front of the cheery little coal fire. The ladies took up their respective positions in the small scullery to begin the task of washing up and preparing the high tea which would be provided before 5' o clock .

My Uncles snuffled from their dozing and rose up out of their chairs checked their gold pocket watches, then a little unsteadily followed each other through the doorway. Their polished black boots squeaking loudly upon the long polished hallway passage floor as they made their way puffing and wheezing to the 'Back' room where the radio crackled the trumpeting strains of the National Anthem.

As the Queen's speech droned I was left alone in the 'Front' room to delight in dressing up, magic layer on magic layer as a cowboy. Finally, the cold silver shining star was buffed and the leather cartridge belt was clipped into place its swinging holsters heavy with six shooters. The transformation from boy to Texas Ranger was complete. For the next hour I shot baddies and rode the prairies and was wounded and killed by many a Redskin's arrow causing me to tumble dramatically from my horse and lie writhing on the sofa, only to miraculously burst into life and kill at least a dozen men midst a burst of gunshots and acrid caps smoke.

My faithful horse was the plump, wide velveteen arm of the sofa, the fat soft cushions served as rocks of the red desert over which I galloped. Wincing with pain and with the zip of bullets whining all about me I made it to my bedroom returning with no more than a flesh wound and my dressing gown cord. The next ten minutes were fraught, although most of the baddies lay where my bullets had dropped them I was unable to deal with the dozen or so that were left and had, although not without a fight, been captured and was to be shot or hanged at day break if I didn't tell them where the gold was hidden. As was customary, to stop me escaping, I was tied tightly, to accomplish this I tied my own feet together tightly with the dressing gown cord and then placing my hands behind my back I wound the neck kerchief tightly around my wrist and fingers. Tied tightly by the bandits I slumped across my trusty horse only to be pushed helplessly from my horse down into the dust of Main Street.

Suddenly, as I was about to make my escape, which would have resulted in a visit to Boot Hill for my captors, I was interrupted by Aunt Min's insistent voice calling me from the 'Back' room for tea. My first attempt to roll off the sofa resulted in my colliding with a small table in front of the fire causing me considerable pain my second was even more painful as I rolled past the table this time striking my head against the corner of the brass fender which bordered the hearth.

My Aunt's voice was growing increasingly urgent, I began hopping, even though I was tied hand and foot, down the polished passageway making my escape from the Jesse Jame's gang as I leapt toward the yellow light of the 'Back' room. Just one more leap and I would make it, and what an entry I would make, what an amusing episode for all of my family as they sat patiently around the tea table.

There were not many mats in my Grandmother's house but there was one laid outside of the 'Back' room door, just a small one made from rag clippings.
For the briefest of moments I was aware of eager faces lit by the soft light as my family waited at table. I stole a fleeting glance of trifles and large coloured jellies even gleaned the briefest whiff of hot mince pies as I glided passed the open doorway of the 'Back' room. The gleaming polished floor was to be my downfall in more ways than one, somewhere in the distance I heard the Jesse James gang whooping and firing six shooters in the air. The small mat had shot away from under my feet and was flying behind me, as I, tied hand and foot, pitched forward toward the small scullery.

The gang mounted and had circled to look down at me, Jesse broke ranks and trotted forward leaning down he drawled 'That this town wasn't big enough for the both of us'. I watched as lazy fingers twitched and danced over his holstered guns as a lash of wind blew scrambling sage bush down Main street and in that same moment my head was filled by a loud cracking and a shower of dazzling lights and then total oblivion.

2006-01-04T17:55:00.000Z

A little reminiscence of my boyhood

SANDOWN Isle of Wight 1953

It was a usual Saturday the sun had come early turned to rain and returned bright and shining by the evening. Mid summer extending the long bright evenings into a sultry nights and on one particular Saturday my father had promised that if we were up early enough the next morning we could catch the bus to Sandown and spend the day on the golden beaches beside the sea.

The resort town of Sandown lying in the southern lee of Culver Cliff is no more than fifteen miles from East Cowes but to me it was an unbelievable distance and I had the same feeling then as I do now when I venture to the Mediterranean.

I prayed for the sun to keep shining and was happy that the voices agreed that the day would be a family day. I began dab dab dabbing to appease the voices in order that the day would be bright and sunny and that my parents wouldn't row before the morning.

Mother had wrapped thick ragged sandwiches filled with egg that smelt like burnt matches into yards of greaseproof paper in readiness, before they had gone out for the evening. Although they had promised to return home early from the Victoria Tavern the midnight rattles at the front door and tearful entrance held little hope of a forthcoming day at Sandown and had accepted the likelihood that this Sunday I would be filling sacks of shingle for my Grandfather as usual.

I hated Sundays!

Bright sunlight rippled through the thin curtain in my bedroom and good humour moved about the small flat, I could them both laughing.

The voices had relented!

This Sunday was going to be different.
I was awoken at six, washed, feed and sent outside to await my parents. They soon appeared spreading confusion and panic before them like confetti my father swinging a brown paper carrier bag by its string handles whilst my mother carried a large gondola shaped wicker basket full of rolled towels over her arm.

As expected the single decker green 'Vectis' bus was almost full but nonetheless we clambered aboard with no alternative but to stand for the whole journey. The single decker bus chugged past winding hedges and then once over Arreton Downs took us spiralling down into Sandown.

The first impression of Sandown was the noise the hustle bustle of Homes Counties. Children lots of children with strange accents, I particularly recall the way they pronounced water as wolt- ahh as their skinny pale arms hung each side of orange rubber rings around their pale bodies. An intoxicating sickly sweetness hung in the air from the high street where we had alighted from the bus to the beach, rock sticks and ices and candy floss but disappeared as you rounded the corner and descended to the beach. Salty and clean, the sea seemed distant and shimmering, the hot sand sank about you whilst hopping in circles removing shoes which were then carried tied by their laces around your neck. Happy suntanned men wearing shorts and faded marine caps reeled off coloured tickets for the hire of deckchairs, windbreaks and the hire of pedaloes.

A position furthest most from the sea under the promenade wall was sought as my mother stood with her basket and the carrier bag held high to her chest whilst my father struggled cursing with the deckchairs and windbreak.

With exception of swimwear there was very little custom made beachwear in evidence men and woman were dressed in exactly the same way as they might for a picnic or an afternoonÂs shopping. At best jackets were removed shirts necks unbuttoned and opened heavy trousers with their turn ups full of sand were rolled up,
bunions and corns crawled beneath the warm sand as exposed legs, whiter than candles quickly turned pink.

Children were always sans deckchair and were expected to take up a sitting position in the burning gritty sand at best upon a reed mat or towel. Meanwhile a hundred children like me were stripping under less than inadequate towels into woollen swimwear and then released scuttling over the hot sand like turtles towards the crashing and sucking foam. Rows of screaming children timorously inched into the icy water their shaking hands cupped beneath shivering chins whilst others already in the chilly brine took great delight in splashing and ducking their younger siblings.

The ritual was as unpleasant and intrusive as the first day at school and although I was an Islander I moved among them like a clumsy stranger stark and awkward. I ducked into the water and swam over arm splashing out furiously not stopping until the salty burn of seawater grasping and beating in my chest stopped me making another stroke.. The water beneath me grew deeper it was stinging as my hands chilled and aching pushed in circles. Treading water I looked back at the full expanse of the beach which was jammed line after line with people I could hear the shrill cries of excited children clearly but had no way of seeing my parents who were fighting sand and sandwich over a breeze blown News of the World beneath the grey concrete of the promenade wall.

2005-12-18T22:05:00.000Z

Well... Here I am again hardy seems like I've been gone....same faces at the bar ...

ashtrays not emptied....poo!

I don't even smoke.....

Christmas again so soon so soon!

Been busy packing..... anybody seen my Sellotape...

I'm going to the north of England for Christmas....My poor old Mother...she's a Wee bitty lonely and we'll have a ding dong until the Goose runs out ...Then ...

Well who knows.......

News....I won an ipod....Grief what a wonderful little thing.... for those who don't know .....it's the size of a large credit card....pencil thin....and already I have stowed 500 songs and 1500 photos.....well impressed...

Anybody know just how much eating is there on a goose?

Have yourselves a very merry Christmas.

Good Morning World

2005-12-09T01:01:00.000Z

Hello to you all....

Echo echo echo......

Its late here in Manchester UK I've just added 1500 words today to my book

...oh whats the use who's listening......
I'm must be doing something wrong ...I'm new to this sort of communication....But why isn't there a mechanism to enable you all to know I'm here

....Robinson Crusoe must have felt the same ....Who will be my first footprint in the sand?

Fat Elvis

2005-12-06T20:57:00.000Z

FAT ELVIS

Beatle
Mop tops
Two a Penny Lane
Rolling Stones
Not satisfied not fade away
When fat Elvis was the king

Fashion passion
Ray really got me going
In the summer time
So it's down that road again

With the Nashville Teens
Where Jimmy Hendrix through thick blue smoke
Was the guitar wizard of the joint
And Jim Morrison,
Dangerouse awaiting as the lizard king

LSD
Purple hearts
Two a penny lane
Flower power
Make peace not war
When fat Elvis was the king

No stoppin 'poppin'
for sad blues queen Janis
Who couldn't stop running
So it's down that road again
With Spencer Davis
Vietnam the killing fields flow with children
The answer is blowing in the wind
But will you still love me tomorrow?

Still Life with Copper Kettle

2005-12-06T20:38:00.000Z

This large canvas is just fabulous....

Now that might sound a tad immodest

....But grief...

Life's too short to wait for deserving praise...well if Vincent had felt that way he'd kept both his ears.

By the way this painting is for sale.

The Attic...an extract of my boyhood

2005-12-06T15:01:00.000Z

The Attic

Many of the dusty cold rooms were empty, although some, containing boxes of spilled and pillaged storage were still reasonably clean but most were damp and sordid with peeling yellow walls. The smell of musk and dampening mildewed paper invaded every audible heartbeat as I crept stepping in time with all of my wildest nightmares and worst imaginings. The blue black light beyond was my goal as I tremulously inched toward the small garret window that would open and lead me out and up on to the roof where sweet dark sky and icey stars awaited accompanied by the glistening rain. How I longed to be once more into that fresh tingle that joyous midnight air to see and hear the clatter of the shipyard night shift at the river and the distant factory flame lit like Christmas reminders of the real world, a safe world, where no bogey man could exist and boys would live to fight another day.

A Little touch of wind

2005-12-05T20:36:00.000Z

A fine and distinctive taste in fine food is all very well but Blue Marlin in Chili often repeats.

2005-12-05T19:47:00.000Z

20 Minute Cook

2005-12-05T18:32:00.000Z

Blue Marlin steak in sweet chili sauce

Advocado and tomato vingerette with white wine potato salad,

Manderin and stilton cheese mayonnaise.

Wine -Chablis.

2005-12-03T23:29:00.000Z

First Night Blog Blues

2005-12-03T23:15:00.000Z

First Night Blues Portait

First night blog blues.....
The first day at school was like this.... I was lost and shy , feeling ugly and useless,
The moment was white hot and overwhelming and I wet myself, so did everyone else!
Anyway.... welcome to my studio.

George Best and Black Dog Day

2005-12-03T22:35:00.000Z

George Best and Black Dog Day
Saturday....
Grief it's raining...again ....
Poor old George, the worlds greatest football player, buried by the tabloid press this morning....nothing new there then......whilst the nation watched listening to endless platitudes and more journalistic requiem....I know what he would have said.....
Do you know...do you even care there are only 22 days to Christmas.............
During the past week my mood had been worsening; in these few days before Christmas day. I am contantly on edge, scratchy, and in a deep dark depression. Each morning I say to myself,
, ‘There will be no mauldling ways today, you will walk smartly put a spring in your step, bush up my tail
I will endeavour to start the day with a will, run a bath, shave,
and dress.
Something smartish, the sort of thing which will guarantee a response,
Oh aye? And where are you going? All dressed up.
The fact is, you're not ‘all dressed up’ you have just changed from chronically dated casual, thus giving the unaccustomed and inexperienced, the illusion of elegance
Once out of the bath you dress in a clean white, 'A, might have done with an iron', shirt
Have you ever given thought to why men of a certain age grow fatter when it’s a known fact that they eat far less than they used to.
Anyway, you continue to struggle into trousers,
ensuring that the top, comfort only, loosed button is well covered by the belt buckle.
After dressing you go down stairs to meet the morning.
Dear God, the acrid smell of stale tobacco, next door's black dog and 5 sleeping cats. It never ever smells like that during the evening when you’re watching Football, imbibing, relaxing with a paris goblet filled to the brim with Amarone.
Cleanup, open windows feed the cats
What's with this fucking dog!...
Get down!Now! that’s a good girl.
Down you crazy bastard!!
Down!
Down you bitch!
The dog cowers, whilst the cats nervously watch their noses pushed up against the glazed doors from the dining room.
I fill the kettle, boil the water,
‘Lets make coffee that’s a sound idea ...and toast, that’s right start as you mean to go on’.
No milk!
Oh! I don’t believe this.
Neither do the cats.
God, I hate black coffee,
so do the cats!
Starting the day off on a proper footing,
its important to do it with breakfast,
it sets you up.
The toaster refuses to engage,
the slide mechanism having long since disappeared, it was easily overcome, by inserting the blade of a small pointed kitchen knife down into the slide slot.
Alas, it had given up the ghost,
green and blue sparks flashed angrily, black acrid smoke curls.
As the cheery postman, waving, passed by the window, leaving my recent life's meaning lying scattered across the mat.
Bills and spills
and this and that.