I am a hail-fellow-well-met Victorian gent of some renown,
who lost his top hat but was cheered when it was located
at the lost and found.

The topper was handed in by Marvellous Madge,
a contortionist with Freddy Folodop’s Travelling Circus, led by the impresario Michael O’Flaherty,
who thought up such a mouthful after being administered a heavy dose of bicarbonate of soda to combat an emba...

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Percy the parrot flew away
from his pigeon loft eyrie,
where he’d been mistaken for a racing bird.

He bagged a lift from a Jumbo jet, piloted by Bert Smithbottom,
a native of the Lancashire village of Boot-by-the-Floyd.

The plane’s great propulsion blew squirrel feathers in the park,
as a referee vainly tried to blow his frozen whistle.

But the mischievous bird stopped the game by pec...

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A pagan feastess from Donegal flew off in search of adventure,
but, caught by the trade winds off the Azores, found herself on
Spain’s Costa Blanca.

Landing in the surf, she sought out O’Reilly’s Irish pub,
where the patrons eyed this winged visitor. 

Unabashed, she shouted, ‘what a lot of bores,’
narrowly avoiding a fight, but cheered after a refreshing pint,
served by Machaol Maclefak...

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People still talk about the time a
famous climbing Englishman, aided by ex-Russian spies and a
multi-armed sea monster, saved Rocky Rockital,
that much disputed granite rock lying
a giant’s stone throw off Donegal, from the grasp of a superpower.

Indeed, my old Ma, Philomena, would sing,
‘A mountainy man from Albion’s shore, after climbing 
The Poisoned Glen, achieved great fame by climbi...

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Oh Beatrice, why did I love you with such a passion?

A naive kid, I dogged your every step, in our quaint village
of Much-Merrilly.

Possessed of a mean right fist, the lads nicknamed you ‘Bashing’,
and I, a good runner, was called ‘Dashing’ Dan.

I became your willing partner, stealing apples from that old fossil, the 10th Earl of Littlegrace, disappearing to our hidey hole in that huge,...

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A sign above West Pealing Town Farm reads,
‘Established with assistance from the Mayor of London.’

This was the fellow who’d been the target of abuse from a US president,
because he wore a turban. 

Warning of danger from the east, the occupant of the
White House had sparked a witty riposte from the London mayoral office,
‘But I’m a north London lad from Hampstead Heath.’

The sun was b...

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Let me tell the story of the artist Millicent Mallagool,
who fled the city of Adams Mission,
in her South African homeland of Kwa Zulu Natal.

She looked so innocent, tripping through a bed of roses,
as an ice cream van rang its musical bell,
on a hill overlooking the English seaside town of Poole.

But in her youth, cursed with a sharp temper and a vocabulary of
swear words to shock the ...

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Art lovers rejoiced when a renowned artist arrived in the
London borough of West Pealing, hotfoot from a riotous Capetown.

But she was quite oblivious to this welcome, after meeting a young man called Jamie Kins in Hyde Park, who’d invited her for a boat ride on Serpentine lake.

She couldn’t stop laughing as he rowed into a duck, receiving a mouthful of beak – nearly uttering, but managing ...

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I used to be a fast runner.

Now look at me, the slowest guy in Hampshire, otherwise known as Hants.
I’m so slow, I meet myself coming back.

A few years ago I made a disparaging remark,
at the Saturday morning 
run round the park.

You see, I regarded myself as a ‘proper’ athlete,
so was scornful of this ‘fun-running’ phenomenon,
which to me was an excuse for avoiding ‘manly’ competiti...

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Miss Beatitude, an artist newly arrived from South Africa,
painted a black man, christened by his Boer masters with
the Biblical name Abel.

A green bird watched, and wondered what had
happened to his feline pal, Mastophio, nicknamed by Sister Miles-Morton,
of Ealing Abbey, who was a fan of that old
pop star Tom Jones, a patron of her order of Immaculate Mary.

The old nun, after a series...

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(This is a silly story, inspired by my pal, Jovial Jamie)

Jamie the Singing Comic strode along, on his way to a gig,
of which he’d had many.

He was never regarded as talented at school, but a teacher,
Miss Fallowfrock, loved his funny smile and habit of
pursing his lips, a right silly boy.

But it annoyed headmaster Billinbrig, who called him a ‘big fool’.

For alas, the old sour puss...

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I once regarded myself as bohemian, sat at the back of a cosy,
silly little bar, with my personalised tankard, a finger in my ear.

Oh, that’s folk music – a similar genre, but you get my drift.

This musical haven was hidden in the forgotten
village West Pealings, a favourite place to ply his trade,
of Bob the Bluesman.

Blues, like folk, is the expression of the oppressed.
But what wou...

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I went to pick up his ancient musket,
but Mustapha the guard shouted,
‘Watch it western tourist, that’s the only armament I possess, 
apart from my faith!’

After clicking my camera, I strolled away from this
old soldier guarding a mosque, keen for another
Facebook snap, for I’m an inveterate show off.

Paddling in the cool sea, I was intrigued to see an American
woman receive curious lo...

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‘Devilish’ Dennis peered at a column of ants, as, carrying twigs and leaves,
the many-legged creatures made their way through Middlecamp Wood.

Tired, they stopped in the shade of his shadow, thankful for a rest.
Inspired, Dennis built a forest retreat which was soon entered by a fox.

A pack of hounds sniffed without but, confused by the aroma of his socks,
slinked away, as the Darkley Hun...

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Whistling a merry tune, Mr McShingle rode his bike into Blackpool,
but was dismayed to see a man draping the Union Jack around
the Cenotaph.

‘Where’s all the other flags,’ he asked, ‘representing countries of the Commonwealth?

‘Not to mention the Irish, who used to be in it?’

‘Bugger off,’ the fellow responded, ‘you need a bath.’

‘I do,’ he agreed, ‘for I’m drenched with sweat,
afte...

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As a kid I fancied myself as a comic, a budding Ben Elton,
that shoutily left-wing fellow the BBC gave a platform to,
but I was too posh to be political.

School pals laughed their socks off,
but only because I was generous with my dad’s cigars.

The old man was a big noise in the Foreign Office,
often returning from overseas with Cuban Cohibas,
the favourite smoke of Cuban leader, Fide...

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I used to wear a bra to cover my emerging ‘moobs’,
the result of a beer-filled diet, then stroll through the gay town of Brighton,
curious to what lay within its environs, sometimes donning a skirt and panties, enthusiastically greeted by camp males, who saw in me a kindred spirit.

Although actually heterosexual – when inviting a female for afternoon tea,
I was so boring; she would often lea...

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Divorced from a wife, who’d moaned about me always running, and when recovering from that, writing, I, fed up of her moaning, joined comics, singers and poets at an ‘open mic’ event in The Bashful Bull, a quaint pub in Much Hoole-in-the-Marrow.

It was run by Brian, who boasted about his degree in The Science of Comedy.
Unfortunately, he remembered me from that elite public school in Harrow.

...

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A downcast little woman from war-torn Sudan,
who'd landed on a raft from across the sea,
beamed an almighty grin, when she was greeted by Kenny,
a kangaroo, saying, ‘Thank you, for welcoming me, a refugee.

‘My name is Miss Bullafleyo Kooazis.

‘But don’t hang about, you lovely animal, for I’m being chased
by an Australia for Us’ posse.’

So Kenny beckoned to his midriff, and she jumped ...

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As a child I dreamed of attending an elite public school,
like Eton, but my parents sent me to Mulchester Marton,
which was much cheaper.

There, my beautiful drama teacher Delphine Duvall,
encouraged me to become an actor.

I listened entranced as she reminisced about her
birthplace in Carcassonne, with its mediaeval streets echoing
to the ghosts of armour-clad knights,
but instead of p...

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A cowboy came calling, John Wayne was his name, 
a famous actor on the movie screen.

He brought with him General Custer, whom he’d played in a film,
about brave deeds in the Old West.

‘Wait a minute, general,’ I said, ‘didn’t you die at
The Battle of Little Big Horn, in 1876?’

But his agent said, ‘That was a conspiracy started by those native Indians,
the Oglala Sioux, represented by ...

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I used to run for Blackpool Athletic Club, which morphed into Seasiders Sizzlers, a change of name felt necessary to appeal a new breed of runner.

Though you wouldn’t believe it now, I was quite fast, before I was called up to serve Her Majesty.
However, I’m ashamed to say I, when drunk, embarrassed myself by describing my new pals as ‘A lot of un-athletic bores,’ at the Saturday post-park run...

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I wanted to be the Bob Dylan of Ealing, and make my mark,
as a disenchanted emigrant of that London borough,
but couldn’t play the mouth organ, and the guitar barely at all.

My old English da, who’d wed a woman from the Irish county of Co Donegal,
hated my singing, preferring the forgotten Lancashire tenor Tom Burke,
son of an Irish coal miner.

He even wrote a book about him called The L...

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I dreamt I was on The Curragh of Kildare, that flat Irish plain,
where equine athletes train, and not far from where, in 1914,
Anglo-Irish officers staged a mutiny,
in protest against a British Parliament trying to establish home rule.

But the Angelus Bells, that daily national radio broadcast reminder of Catholic piety,
disturbed my day dreaming, and I made the sign of the cross,
but fell...

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Percy Plaice was a sage old fish, who loved to admire
Blackpool’s scantily-clad women,
from a rock in The Irish Sea, until a plastic bag obscured his vision.

Alas, it contained several bottles of cider, and I’m afraid to say
he became quite pissed.

Flapping his tail, he sang about his lost love, Mary the Dolphin,
who had left him, tired of his love of alcohol.

He remembered Mary as a ...

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Have you heard of a TV show called Country Constable,
that popular TV crime drama, derided by some?

The villages of Sussex were favourite places,
in which to set the series, and I often watched them catch fictional villains,
from my cottage in Pottle-Picklington.

My hit, Last train to Tangiers, a rare success during my singing career,
had enabled me to buy this bucolic retreat, hoping it...

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She was known as the Cat Lady, or to those
with a wicked tongue, ‘Mad’ Mabel, for everyone knew about
her love of the genus cuddly feline.

She’d christened her pet cat Flunnel, after Viktor,
a Bulgarian ship’s waiter, who had trouble with English pronunciation.

They’d met on a cruise while she was looking for a husband, 
but Mabel, being a bit of a snob, opted for a smooth-talking Morocc...

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Jasus, it’s Christmas time, when the Saviour cometh, the reindeer sparkle, and Prince Harry appears with a photo of our late Queen, who glares at his bride, Miss Markle.

Meanwhile millionaire footballers warm up for their match at Chelsea,
looking down on their near neighbour, Fulham FC, while just along the Thames, a busker sings, ‘Buddy, can you spare a dime?’

Then a football fan walks by...

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Brent was hoping for a personal best in that morning’s park run,
in the beautiful city of Bath.

He was trying to ignore his partner Nimicent’s mindless chatter,
as she held onto Sophie, the all-seeing dog, who looked at them both,
and thought, ‘Every morning she gets me up, to watch him run, or is it jog?

‘Oh what a bore this is, in my day I’d watch my owner,
Niall Neverstops, run cross ...

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Major General Glutus Maximus rode his horse into a circus, to impress his fiancée, Aurelius Gentilitius.

Part of the Roman military elite, he went where his fancy took him,
and being particularly fond of theatrical performances, would often annoy impresarios and their audiences.

But on this occasion, alarmed by clowns and roaring lions, the nervous animal threw him onto the sawdust, where h...

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As a lad, I ran around the hills and fields of my native county,
now when I think about it, I feel sick, ’cos they were full of manure.

It has many beauty spots, does Lancashire.
Rivington Pike, guarding the Lancastrian Plain, Stonyhurst College,
that public school at Hurst Green, which produced Sherlock Holmes’
creator Conan Doyle, and my favourite, the Bowland fells.

But none was more...

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Tenerife is calling, I can see Mount Teide, its mighty peak steeped in volcanic ash.

I wonder, can I land there, astride a balloon, fuelled by my ego’s hot air?

I look down to where I used to parade myself, among my old flames on that volcanic beach, in flip flops and Armani shorts, wondering why I’d consigned myself to the bachelor shelf, trying to look cool, crying ‘Ouch!’ when the sand bu...

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He was the ‘comical’ artiste formerly known as Bill Bottom,
who was politely applauded at the ‘open mic’ night at
Blackpool’s Dirty Blondes bar.

However, the reviews were savage, for crude jokes can only get one so far,
and he had chosen a silly pseudonym.

After critic Eric Leopard-White described Bill's act as ‘puerile,’
he set off for the English Lake District, to revive his creative s...

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I flew to Rome and landed among pints of stout at O'Mahoney's Bar,
along with a posse of British tourists.

Jamie, a Scotsman resplendent in a kilt, beamed with delight
when the band played Whisky in the Jar.

But a stern-faced man of Kent commented, 'The Irish didn't help us in the war,'
and the landlord looked furious.

Then a white-haired Italian stood by a fading photograph,
featurin...

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Montessa the Mighty is out of sorts.

Shame, I was hoping to see her in shorts,
and learn from that little woman how to curse.

Why, her mum said she even swore at the nurse,
after emerging from the womb.

What a bundle of fun is that lady,
who hails from the land of Eternal Cloud.

It is rumoured she once showed that father of psychology,
Sigmund Freud, the sights of her home city of ...

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Micky Most, from Ireland’s county Mayo, became the toast of Kentish Town,
after he kicked a goal in extra time, to win a game of Gaelic football,
a cross between soccer and rugby.

But it was nothing to the roar that greeted Lachlan Lam,
whose right foot kicked the ball over the posts at Wembley,
to give Leigh the Rugby League Challenge Cup.

His old pal Walter had invited him along,
and ...

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He was a little kid from the back streets of the Shankill,
who became Britain’s leading exponent of a playwright called Will.

His name was Kenneth, and despite his fame,
he'll often revisit his home city of Belfast and
relive childhood days, with his old pal Malachi,
over a pint of plain.

But Ken can still recall the insults and hurled stones, 
the streets he was forbidden to enter by a...

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‘Mad’ Mabel lived with her brother, ‘Red’ Mostravin,
the heir to a grand estate, which had seen better days.

He’d left the Army under a cloud – some say he refused to
attack striking workers in a time of industrial unrest,
and was a devotee of Karl Marx.

His old housekeeper, Mavis, watched him grow up,
under the stern rod of his father, General Sir Herbert Halfbreast.

He loved his sis...

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In my youth when the whims of women got me down, 
I would seek the company of ex-sergeant Eamonn McSwilly.

He’d fought at Rorke’s Drift against the Zulus, and would often do one of their war dances,
while drinking a pint of stout, then sob into his glass, recalling the horror of that misguided military campaign.

I would listen in awe, but it was myself, a wet-behind-be-the ears young man,
...

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Do you see the man with the ridiculous 'tache,
behind women in corsets and flowery hats?

Some say he's a rake and a cad, and not very nice.

So take my advice, and avoid him at all costs.

He's not a gent at all, but a fantasist with no sense of smell,
who never washes his socks, as you'll learn
if you ever stay at Vose Hall.

The surroundings are splendid indeed,
and if he's feeling ...

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You will no doubt accuse me of being a charlatan,
when I tell you I joined a self-help group for troubled men,
in pursuit of material for a would-be novel,
having won Best Essay Prize at Harrow public school.

I sat entranced as tormented souls unburdened themselves,
realising they are not alone, and reluctantly admitted to being a misogynist 
(well, I had to confess to something).

I nod...

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All pop stars have their stalkers – while most
are merely a nuisance, others can be rather irksome.

Take the case of Rory Rocking Rogers,
my stage name, who became the victim of a
fame-obsessed denizen of the ocean.

While making a pop video in Ilfracombe,
that famed resort in the English county of Devonshire,
to promote new single, I’m Ravaged By Your Devotion,
the make-up lady told m...

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There’s a guy, festooned with headphones, acting strange in the library.

He babbles in tune to whatever he’s tuned into, at the computer terminal.
Outside, a dog wags his tail while Billy no-mates watches the short skirts pass by.

He’s outside a club called Funny Girls, and is confused,
’cos the skirts are filled with hairy legs, making him wonder,
‘Am I hetro, homo, metro or bi?’

‘Wel...

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Oh, mysterious Miss Coffee Cutie,
what do you think of when sipping your daily brew,
in the morning after the doctor has done his rounds?

You sit entranced like a cute mouse, ears a-twitching to the many accents,
from Geordie, in the north east with its castle that’s always new,
and that shrill sound emanating from our most musical city – you’ve
guessed it, the dialect known as Scouse.

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Why do all the Serbian football players in the Euros tournament have an itch?

Abrofomitch, Saskovitch… do you get my drift?

Sorry for the repetitive rhymes, but we live in an uncertain,
dangerous world (you see I avoided that obvious one).

But according to BBC Radio Five Live,
discussing the Euros football campaign goes before Brexit and its pitfalls,
in order of priority on its mornin...

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I sat in the library wondering why my fellow readers never seem to fall,
considering they do so much drinking, of alcohol.

Their hearts are failing under broken dreams,
but how many of those have they left sitting on late-departing trains?

Meanwhile the kids mock, alerted by a smoker’s cough,
whose dog barks at the weed, blowing off the Irish Sea.

Then Mickey O’Reilly waves, as he walk...

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I'll tell you a far-fetched tale of Franny Frieloch,
that little Aussie bundle of fun from the
Australian city of Melbourne.

Her father, a German immigrant and inventor,
achieved fame for his self-inflating pillow,
used by gold prospectors in the Australian
bush, not to mention self-raising grass
fed with ant urine, to feed sheep in times of drought.

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I tried to look confident as I approached
Miss Veritable at the park cafe,
but stopped as I realised she was crying into her tea.

I called, only to be almost drowned out by the
band Massive Mouthful - tuning up for that afternoon’s concert, 
featuring a muscly rocker
with a voice like crunching gravel, 
who, according to the Acton Gazette,
well deserved his stage name of Mighty Marvel.

...

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‘Meet me in Londinium, before the legions arrive’,
I told a mysterious woman, whom I knew only as the Mystical Montessa.

We were both caught up in the nightmare of war,
as my countrymen fought the invading Roman army. 
Trapped between marching columns, I held her in my arms.

Persuaded we were both of like minds, lovers of the land and its lore,
she told me of a journey with a minstrel tr...

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