An outbreak of poetry has occurred

Oh golly,
It's so jolly,
Bunting far as eye can see
Across closed pubs
Adorning food banks
For the royal jubilee.

Grannies knitting
Postbox cosies
Cry: "God bless her, everyone!"
And there she is, 
God bless her, sitting 
Polite
Through celebration.

"Is that Titchmarsh or Nick Witchell?"
Asks the Queen of Party Hats.
Aunty's airing hardline views on
Media-confected spats.

Grandpa, cold, has put the fire on,
Best suit pawned to pay the bill.
Someone brought a Party Seven,
For each Union Jack and Jill.

Bunter preens amidst the chaos
Drunk on power and disrepair.
Nanny taps the eighteenth century:
"Jacob, are you still in there?"

So here we sit
Forlorn and luckless
Shades of glory hand-me-downs
Hard the bread
And grim the circus:
Too much shit
Too many clowns.

On the twelfth day of Chrimbo…

On the twelfth day of Christmas… Oh why did I ever start this?

Fuck me sideways, it's the Easter Hamster already and we haven't even weaned the vicar off the Warninks yet.

Don't forget to put on the sprouts.

Hope

Happy 2014. Hopefully it won't be as shitty as 2013.

Jubilee

So there we were: silver jubilee year and all stood standing in the pissing rain. One or other dignitary — we never found out which — was going to Pigham town hall and we were being lined up against the railings on the other side of the cricket pitch to provide an audience backdrop. The school had special procedures in the event of a royal visit. Not that we ever had a royal visit. Not so much as a diadem since the place was opened 56 years previously, so they reckoned it must be their turn soon. So we were all stood there in the pissing rain staring at the traffic on Talbot Road. 

The instructions were that we were to shout gladly and wave our flags when the cavalcade rode by. None of us had flags so they gave us each a tin of corned beef. Eventually we caught sight of a big black Daimler. We started waving our tins of corned beef and shouting: "God save the Queen!" The Deputy Headmaster ran over. "Pack it in!" he shouted, "It's a bloody funeral!"

So we waited a bit more then the word came: "Here they come!" We waved our tins and gave patriotic cry. "You wouldn't have thought the Queen would have a white Ford Cortina estate would you?" asked wee Paulie Camcraft. Kenny Fletcher wasn't impressed: "If she's going to have a nodding dog on the back shelf you'd have thought she'd have got a corgi, special like," he said. One of the teachers noticed that Michael Donelly wasn't waving his tin of corned beef. "Have you lobbed it at a passing car?" he asked him. "No sir, I've put it down the front of my trousers to keep warm." "You pillock. What do you want to do that for?" "If the Queen turns shirty and starts kicking everyone in the nuts I'll be safe and laughing, sir," he replied.


The teachers kept an eye on Michael Donelly's trousers because they were objects of subversive rebellion. There was a strict uniform code: we were to wear black flannel trousers and flares were absolutely forbidden. Michael Donelly didn't wear flares. Michael Donelly was a mad fan of Northern Soul. Michael Donelly had a pair of black flannel trousers with seventy-two inch bottoms. The teachers regarded them with impotent fury. They had seventy-two inch bottoms *but they weren't flares*. The legs were dead straight; erupting in their full glory straight from the hip. We discovered that he could hide a full set of the text books off the geography teacher's desk balanced on his foot and completely hidden from view for, oooh, hours. Much to the geography teacher's irritation. A tin of corned beef was child's play in comparison.  

Meanwhile, in the Danube Delta...

Those of us dwelling in the ignorances of the Western World would think that Romanian television consists entirely of repeats of "Beetroot World with Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej."

How wrong could we be?

Making plans for Nigels

It's that time of year again...



(Apologies for C4's advertising)

The flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra la!

I have been taken to task for not having banged on at copious length about Helminthdale's May Day celebrations. Well catkins and bells to the whole sorry mess if you ask me. There's only so many pigs-bladder hats anyone should have to put up with on the bus down the Penkridge Road and if Beltane consists of two drunken farts in the "Duck and Pullett" lurching over their table with cries of: "I'm fair motleyed out, I am!" then the sooner the Druids pack up and start taking up needlework the better.

Probably stuffing his cheek pouches somewhere

Well, that's Easter done and dusted and not a sign of the Easter Hamster, the wretch.

Most years the Easter Hamster can be trusted to trawl across the land bestowing chocolate teapots to all the little boys and girls who have been good throughout the year. A bit like Santa Claus with more disciplined whiskers and a cute button nose. It is a highlight of the magical year.

 But not this year, and I have been colossally good: I haven't killed any library managers; I didn't send the "Fuck off you stupid bastard" email(s); and I didn't throw bricks through any of the windows. That's pretty damned good by anybody's standards. And what do I get for that? Not so much as a sniff of a chocolate teapot, I even checked in the back garden underneath the fence panels I haven't put up yet. Bastard.

I notice he drank the glass of sherry and ate the dish of sunflower seeds, though.

Summertime Seaside Spcial

It's been the typical English August Bank Holiday Monday, so...

Amusement

My favouritest game on the penny arcades was the one where you put 50p in the slot and you get five shiny 10p pieces.

I never won the big jackpot but I always managed to break even.

Bunting is compulsory

Bunting and frolic abounds in the nation as Royal Wedding fever grips one half of the population and a virulent mood of "sod the wedding" grips the other. This is all too evident in Helminthdale Town Hall where many of the offices are ostentatiously undecorated by Union Flags while some mad enclaves are packed to the gunnels with Franklin Mint figurines of West Highland terriers with flags and roses in their mouths.

Street parties are compulsory, especially outside The Monkey's Arms where this is business as usual most nights from eight in the morning when the chemist's shop starts selling meths and Night Nurse. Lubianka Avenue will be hosting the gala parade featuring, inevitably, Year Six of St. Barrabas' Free School And Call-Me-Dave Academy, who will be providing a picturesque tableau float representing "The Rôle of the Cold Sore Through The Ages."

A good time shall be had by all. Especially me 'cos I'll be staying in bed well out of it.

A quick burst of the William Tell Overture

Today is St. Lone Ranger's Day. All over the country there will be cavalcades of wee bairns dressed in white buckskins and masks.

"Heigh, ho, Silver! Away...!"

They will declaim, in between picking the scabs off each other's knees. Two-finger bang-bangs, mind-scrambling richochets and scrabbling round the arid badlands of Salford Docks and all points up to Bacup.

"Aargh! He's shot me, Butch!"

"Miss Worswick, they've shot his butch!"

Rushing round with broomhandle hobby-horses.

"Da diddle-da, da da da da da da da da da da dee diddle dee diddle dee diddle dee diddle dum! Ra-diddle-da-diddle-da-da-da!"

Who was that masked mixed infant?