I saw it on the telly and I thought it looked like fun

Our Gert, though, wasn’t sure – she’s got the sex drive of a nun;

“Oh no! this really isn’t me” she said with coy reserve

But “Bugger that!” I thought “This is a treat that I deserve”.

I took her swinging

Our first time swinging

Which started with us innocently mingling;

But it wasn’t long before

She had got beyond the ...

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Before my dad shook a six the month before his 90th birthday, he told us about his encounter with The Nob Nurse.  (Obviously, he didn’t tell us after!).

In his final years he was moved a fair few times from one nursing home to the next.  In part this was to get him closer to the family support of myself and (primarily) my sister; but in part also because he was a cantankerous old bastard and th...

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(And now for some literary high-brow.  Do try to keep up)

I bought my friend a tortoise

The best the shop could sell

He wondered what to name her

And settled on Michelle.

I have a Spanish girlfriend

For looks no one could beat her

She’s only got one front tooth

I call her my Juanita.

Oh,my! What a rotten song

What a rotten song

What a rotten song

Oh,my...

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If it takes longer

To cook than to eat, then it’s

Not worth the bother.

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(I was inspired by Trevor Alexander's excellent villanelle explaining the form to write in this song why I dislike it so much)

 I swore I’d never write a villanelle

A complex form which fails to satisfy

But mostly awkward on the ears as well.

The 2nd line deceitfully foretells

A further line to rhyme along with “I”

But bugger me! Not in a villanelle.

Yet still t...

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(In response to Greg Freeman's call-out for villanelles, I re-post this effort of mine from 2014.  It tells of the cardinal sin a raw recruit would only ever make once when he entered a hand-filled coal face for the first time)

“There’s no bigger, silly bastard undergroun’

A disgrace to thee, ‘is mam an’ ‘is class

‘E took ‘is fuckin’ shovel wrong road roun’.

We’d walked back ...

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(There's a bit of skipping on the audio towards the end; not enough to detract from my dark brown tones)

Castleford’s Alfie is one of a kind

A more affable Alf it’d be hard to find

But Alfie won’t hold back from speaking his mind

That “kennel life is such a drag, mate”

Says Alfie the Property Magnate.

Of course he’s the owner of his detached home

Which didn’t need Al...

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(A re-post from when I wrote this about old people.  These days it could be me)

There’s a lady out there

And she can’t climb the stairs

At her bedtime which is

Half past seven;

She was lured was Aunt Hannah

By the junkmail from Stanner

Into buying their Stairlift

To Heaven.

But she found it so slow

When she needed to go -

Half an hour on the Stairlift

...

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I read now and then in the papers

In articles, posts and reports

Concerning the claims of trans people

Accessing elite womens’ sports.

Now don’t get me wrong at the outset

As I’m sure that my worldwide fans

Will vouch for my liberal credentials

I’ve nothing against someone trans.

Though I can’t claim to be any expert

As I’m sure that none of you can

But you don’t ofte...

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(Actually, fellas, get yersens tested!)

Got to bed around half past 10

Tossed and turned for an hour and then

Lord, lord, it can’t have been the booze;

I’d not had a drink since half past three

Nonetheless I still needed a pee

Lord, lord, I got Enlarged Prostate Blues.

Back to bed till a quarter to 2

Then, bugger me! I’m gonna need the loo

Lord, lord, I got Enl...

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It won’t have escaped the notice of those of you predisposed to commemorate such things that on March 8th it was International Women’s Day.  What you may not be aware of is that according to the website “National Day Calendar” IWD is one of 47 (yes, 47!) other World/International Days in March.

If you are so inclined you can participate in and celebrate (among others) :-

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Some 20-odd years ago I was having my eyes tested when the optician asked me,

“Do you have any trouble reading newsprint with your glasses on?”

“None at all” I told her.

She gave me a card with tiny writing on and I rattled through it quicksticks.

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“Because you will do soon.  I can see some deterioration in the muscles controlling…..” blah–di-blah-di-blah… (...

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(If Burns had been around today he might have written this instead)

My luve is lyke a red, red poppie coursing through my veines

It leads me to a better worlde by dullinge my life’s pains.

Your poppie stands for sacrifice, for blude on Flanders fielde

My poppies for oblivionne, from pain from whiche I shield.

It populates grasse verges of my sorrowes twisting laynes

My luve ...

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(It seems to be my lot in life to improve on the works of lesser poets than myself - in this case that loada bollocks by William Webb Ellis. A shameless repost from 2013)

I’m being followed by a wheelbarrow

Wheelbarrow, wheelbarrow.

Pulling my chickens in a wheelbarrow,

Wheelbarrow, wheelbarrow.

And if tha wond’rin’ “Is it red?”

Please thissen. I’ve not said.

And if ...

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(I found this old poem among my "back catalogue".  I don't think I've posted it before)

We slew the aurochs and the bear

The tiger skulking in his lair;

We cooked with fire and red hot stones

And sucked the fat from out the bones;

We worshipped gods of earth and sea

Of moon and sun, of hill and tree;

We made our offerings to each god

Of human heads and hearts and ...

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(I have just been fitted with hearing aids - a double-edged sword if ever there was one!)

Said the audiologist

“Do you hear what I hear?

Which conversations do you miss?

Do you hear what I hear?

Try to use this tiny little bug

And stuff it here in your lug;

Does clear stuff come now through the fug?”

“Whoa” I said “no need to shout,

I can hear what you hear;

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The terrors that mens’ prostates hold

Are troublesome and many fold

Retention, Urgency, Weak Stream

You grey-haired blokes know what these mean

But I shall concentrate upon

From all these aspects just on one

You’ve seen it takes us old blokes longer

To take a wazz than when we’re younger

Which is why to take a piss

We now no longer stand like this

But like the ladies...

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Not gonna raise a fuss, I'm not gonna blow a hoolie

Though other fans would like with a kick in the goolies

We know in our bones we’re gonna give the game away

That’s what it’s like to be a Spur – that’s just the price you pay;

We might be winning 1-0 but we know we’re gonna lose

But there ain’t no cure for the Extra-Time Blues.

For all Spurs supporters this outcome will alw...

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(There is a little skipping on the audio but it does not detract too much from my velvet tones)

For those of you under the age of 50 some explanation might be needed – probably on a number of levels.

First of all, “3d” was thre’pence under “old” money.

Second, the “d” stood for denarii – a valuable legacy of Roman coinage.

Third, and perhaps most important, you’ll need an understa...

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(Played appallingly on my home-made 3-string cigar box guitar)

Don’t donate blood anymore

Did it 50 times before

Now they’ve shown me to the door

Once this cut me to the core

Don’t donate blood anymore.

No more pin-holes in my arm

No more bruising, no more harm

No more causes for alarm

Not a quaver nor a qualm

This has worked out like a charm.

Yes, I...

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(Fellow Old Gits might recall the 60's hit, "Zabadak" by Dave Dee, Dozy, Sleepy, Grumpy, Sneezy and Tich)

Caramac!  (Caramac!)

That’s your lot now you’ve had your whack

Caramac!  (Caramac!)

You’re not coming back.

Caramac!  (Caramac!)

Just remembered by anoraks

Caramac!  (Caramac!)

Iconic as our Union Jack.

In its hey-day Made by Nestle

By the millions ...

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(Inspired by watching a couple of evangelists in Beverley town centre)

He prowls the city’s precincts calling out into the void

His heart is filled with righteous wrath, demeanour underjoyed

Damning passers-by to Hell, his heart and soul employed

By the Church of the Hectoring Zealot.

In Ulster’s Ian Paisley you had thought you’d seen it all

For genuflecting he’d h...

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(Sad to see the old gimmer taken into hospital but a timely opportunity to revisit this post of 2014, when Hodgson’s England were drawn in the same group as tournament favourites Italy and Uruguay.

Hoping for our games in Rio so that we won’t have to fly

Hoping for a group of minnows so that we might qualify

Greece, Algeria

We needn’t fear ya

Anyone else and it’s “Goodbye”;

...

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(I have just had a heart pacemaker fitted.  Invited in, operated on and discharged inside 24 hours)

It marked walkers passing for seventy years

But been a bit stiff as of late;

For once it swung free

And closed easily

But now it’s an old creaking gate.

But Time can regenerate Glory again

By dint of the old craftsman’s care;

With tools of his trade

His miracles ...

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It’s an increasing sign of my decrepitudity that on occasions recently, one before Christmas and one after, I have fainted after having ridden my bike into Wakefield.  On both occasions someone sent for an ambulance and on the second I was carted off to Pinderfields Hospital for tests.

The experience demonstrated to me, as if any proof were needed, the value of our NHS.  Had this been in Ameri...

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(A re-post of some years ago to co-incide with the screening of The Winter King on TV.  The narrative in the poem is closer to Bernard Cornwell's novel than to the TV version.)

As Briton fights Briton the Saxon awaits

And readies himself at Lloegyr’s gates,

Gorfyddyd of Powys consults with the Fates,

Siluria’s Gundleus too.

Outnumbered we hurried round hill and through dale

...

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We have a standard bay tree now

That’s in our garden where it grows;

Our Gert puts leaves into her soups

But what it tastes like no-one knows.

In every book of recipes

For every dish in it goes

In curries, stews or Bolognese

But what it tastes like no-one knows.

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(A plaintive moan from the time when my wife decided the perfectly good kitchen needed re-fitting and the bleeding of my income into the bank balances of the electricians)

A recent experience made my mouth foam

When battalions of tradesmen invaded my home.

Brickies and plumbers and plasterers too

I dutifully paid up to each one his due.

But the hardest to take and worst to evad...

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(I wrote this before Christmas but thought I'd wait to post it until the next mass shooting.  I haven't had to wait long.  Though this time in Joliet it was not 8 schoolchildren)

I was 5 and she was 6

He shot the two of us for kicks

Who knows what went on in his head

But 24 of us are dead.

Bang Bang  He shot us down

Bang Bang We hit the ground

Bang Bang That awful so...

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There’s people so famous you’d only need say

Their initials to know them, such as "JFK"

All boomers will know "Hey! Hey! LBJ!"

As older folks will "FDR";

But passed now's another great star.

The role of the full back was always the same

To catch, kick for touch and restart the game

That was up until John Williams came

Though the world knew him better by far

As the l...

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One of the many unwelcome facets of my enlarged prostate, along with what the medical profession euphemistically calls “weak stream”, “retention”, “urgency” and “hesitancy”, is the embarrassing feature that I can’t piss straight.

Obviously, I piss broadly forwards but “forwards” ranges mathematically from 10 to 170 deg, or geographically from ENE to WNW.  Consequently when I am at home or at ot...

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Worldwide fans of mine will be aware of the low regard I have for gender self-identification.  It strikes me that in 5 year’s time or so we’ll all be saying, “What the hell were we thinking?” and those who chose to identify themselves as “he” or “she” or “they” as opposed to their birth sex will own a hidden guilt normally reserved for fans of Donny Osmond.

But lately I have come to temper my v...

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In ze Blue Angel on a barstool sat

I recognise your voice; it’s always flat

Viz fishnet stockings astride zat stool

Vorks vonders for my Teutonic tool

Give me a peek, mein leibchen

Of yours, Lili Marlene.

Sauerkraut und Einstein, Fokker, Messerschmidtt

Angela Merkel, I fancy her a bit

Ost vas once crap, vhile vest was best

Viz Bierkellars, Oktoberfest

Let’s drink...

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They pamper to our idleness and do what we once did

But you’d not get your sponge out now to earn their seven quid;

Through summer, winter, snow and rain they pocket what they can

The car wash boys with red-raw hands that come from Kurdistan.

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