My first and only, indirect encounter with Margaret Thatcher was in 1971, at a demo outside a private girls’ school in Leamington. The “milk snatcher, union basher” – the then-education secretary had introduced some legislation about student unions, but I can’t remember the significance of it now - was handing out the prizes at speech day. Protesters gathered outside...

Monday 15th April 2013 8:43 am

Tags: Margaret Thatcher

Jones the Voice

by Greg Freeman

Once his nose was fixed
a sex bomb was launched
from the valleys all the way
to Vegas. Gospel truth.
Blazened out cheesey ballads,
brazen hips met with
rapid fire of knickers.

With age came self-mockery.
Always more to Jones the voice;
not quite ready to be put out to grass.
Rediscovered soul, became
hip with old and young.
Now he roared about sex bombs
and rocked with laughter....

Friday 12th April 2013 11:24 pm

Tags: Tom Jones

The Winter Gardens

by Greg Freeman

Always blew like hell beside the Winter Gardens,
playing havoc with the wives’ hairdos.
Sunny Jim Callaghan and his silly song,
fishermen's tales about catches and the EU.

A little arm-twisting, word in the right ear;
the workers, united, will never be defeated.
Late-night curries and composite motions.
Flying pickets, tactics; that wasn’t my department.

Papers scream...

Friday 12th April 2013 12:00 am

The cat, the damselflies, and the deer

by Greg Freeman

That Google thrill;
seeing your name overtake
drain clearers, garage owners,
estate agents, even playwrights.
Habit had to be fed,
became second nature.
Alarmingly easy. Just change
a location, you’re on to a winner.

Imitation built a growing
reputation; flattery,
offers to publish
a first collection. That
MA in creative writing.
Creative wasn’t the half of it.
And rais...