PILLS

My brother John frequently forgets to take his pills for his various ailments so I sent him a poster sized verse he can stick on his kitchen wall to remind him as follows;

`Tis good, Old Man, while living life to reject your ills

I’m not a Doc but it helps a lot if you take your ruddy pills

He replied;

"I read your note about my ills

Remember now to take my pills

But I found on sad reflection

I forgot to take my injection

I can’t help it if my memory’s gone

But thanks a lot - your sister John."

WHAT SUMMER THIS?

What summer this if all the rain

Does not fall on Spanish Plain?

But drops on England’s fertile land

Weeds and grass grow hand in hand.

The roads are wet in dim daylight

Stars obscured by cloud at night.

Children’s play and fêtes are off

Colds abound with nasty cough.

One day perhaps, I hops it’s soon

We’ll feel the sun and see the moon.

What summer this without the fun

Of ice-cream, shorts and England’s sun?

Weston-Super-Mare seafront when the tide`s in!

WESTON - SUPER - MARE

O`h to go into town again where the fish and chips are fried,

Stroll along the Weston front and look out for the tide,

I’d talk a while to the donkeys and feed them bits of bread,

Until they bolt all frightened, by the `copters overhead.

O`h to listen to music while strolling down the strand,

I’ve been there so many times and not yet heard a band,

I’d like to sit in a deck-chair in case my feet get swollen,

It’s a hell of a job to find one - as most of them are stolen.

O`h to breathe the ozone, and mud polluted air,

Blown along by a gale force wind and salt sticks to the hair,

It’s nice to see the kids at play except they get upset,

Hearing screams throughout day from early past sunset.

O`h to see the wildlife crapping on the beach,

Mostly dogs and seagulls, with their piercing screech,

There’s the usual ` toot head` he probably is a Brummy,

Kicking dents in a slot machine trying to get some money.

O`h to dodge the yellow lines so I may park the car,

And the thousand pensioners that’s mostly gone gaga,

Call in the Tropicana - find there is no pool,

All dressed up in a swimsuit looking like a fool.

O`h to amble along the pier and watch a bit of fishing,

Not much chance of a bite though, `cus the waters usually missing,

So I’d wander along the side of the road, in and out the rain,

Or maybe take the sidewalk and get hit by the pavement train.

O`h to drive to Weston along the wide M5,

But it’s mostly jammed with traffic, it’s late when I arrive,

`An there’s always fights at night clubs - I really do despair,

Of having a great day out - at Weston-Super-Mare.

O`h bugger it, I’ve changed my mind - I’ll go to the North instead,

Besides, the beer is cheaper - in nearby Portishead.

I AM NO SAILOR

The crew are just fine on their ship of the line,

Rolling and pitching in seas,

While making headway in salty blown spray,

I’m retching on hands and my knees.

She’s sheering and shaking as homeward she’s making,

Taking it all in her stride,

While I’m in the bog as sick as a dog,

Regretting this nautical ride.

I’m the colour of green in a bouncing latrine,

My eyes all streaming and red,

There is a long way to go - I’d rather not know,

As I puke and wish I was dead.

THE MOLE

I work hard in my garden, to keep well manicured turf,

Weeding and trimming all over, slaving a bit like a serf,

Now there’s a mole in my haven, it tunnels right under the lawn,

I reckon he favours the night shift - leaving big mounds there at dawn.

It started off in the corner, then followed the patio’s edge,

Zigzagging a bit to the middle, keeping away from the hedge,

I scratched my head and got angry, at the wreck of my grass displayed,

Guessed the spot he was digging - then rendered him dead with a spade.

Harry’s Medals

Harry needs some medals - he was told off by the Duke,

Also from the Princess he earned a slight rebuke,

But Harry still ain`t got `em - he hasn`t made a claim,

How and where to get them - to help him is my aim.

He could make them out of bottle tops they would look quite snazzy,

Or cut a bit of cardboard box and turn them out quite jazzy,

He could drill a hole in a two bob bit, or perhaps a half a crown,

Or else a copper penny if he likes that shade of brown.

He could use the plug, from out the kitchen sink,

But if it’s made of rubber it wouldn’t really clink,

So perhaps a crafty one like a Yankee dollar,

Failing that, the battered disc from off the old dog’s collar.

He could use some silver paper just to make `em shine,

Or a bit of coloured plastic, that would look quite fine,

It’s possible to find some wood and whittle it around,

And chisel at the edges to make a nice surround.

Then find a strip of ribbon that has a bit of stripe,

Especially if it’s vertical - I think you know the type,

Fasten it securely by a length of wire,

Pin them on his blazer stand back and admire.

Then when the Bristol public asks "what’s all they for?"

Tongue in cheek our Harry sez " I won `em in the war"

Course there is another method, the one I like the most,

Just fill the bloody forms in and have `em sent by post!

Mal De Mer

Mal de mer they call it (seasick to you and me),

Many times I’ve seen it, in my career at sea,

It`s quite debilitating as you watch the colours rise,

Victims of this ailment, stare from bloodshot eyes.

There’s many names for spewing - a Technicolor yawn,

Or on your knees in toilets - blowing down the horn,

They haven’t found the sea legs to stand the corkscrew motion,

And wishing they were somewhere else instead of on the ocean.

The retching`s pretty awful, as the vessel leaps and races,

Pomposity is left behind as one loses airs and graces,

Just mention greasy bacon, with eggs all soft and runny,

And suspect a lack of humour - they don’t think it`s funny.

Hanging on like grim death while heaving overside,

Contending with the nausea from Neptune’s rolling ride.

They turn a deathly green - sometimes a pallid grey,

It`s wise to stand to windward - keeping out the way.

If falling for this malady and feeling rather ill,

Perhaps a little queasy, with no help from a pill,

Worry not, you`ll cheer up, when arriving in a lee,

The remedy for Mal De Mer - is sit beneath a tree !

ODE TO A MOTHER-IN-LAW

A face with a thousand wrinkles - she’d come to do her hair,

In the kitchen near the pickles she was sitting there,

Wearing an old red towel, her tresses not so fine,

The wife stuck all the rollers in, resembling porcupine.

She added then the chemicals, the smell was quite atrocious,

Sending out an awful stink - a bit like halitosis,

Next she put the dryer on - won`t hear what I say,

I cannot make the coffee, guess who’s in the way?

Checking in the mirror looking for the roots,

All her bracelets jangling - the ones she bought in Boots,

Gossiping with slander and slurping mugs of tea,

Wolfing down the biscuits like a refugee.

Spouting off on politics and stinking of Old Spice

Her diet's shot out the window but she's giving me advice

Then came the tearful bit, amongst the diatribe,

The picture of adversity because her cat had died.

Continuing the treatment and all that it entails,

Gets the scarlet varnish out to paint her fingernails,

Soon she's gazing happy with the powder and the paint,

Gathering up her normal face - of a persecuted saint.

She ups and lights a ciggy - doesn’t really care,

Leaving piles of fag-ash underneath the chair,

Thinks she’s looking sexy, gives me a dirty leer,

Then she goes and helps herself - to my favourite beer.

She tells me that the daughters turn out just like mothers

Reminding me quite starkly while hitching up her udders

Now she feels quite beautiful, she smiles and looks at me,

I have a sudden feeling I should be miles away at sea.

BILL THE GUNNER

The soldier fought hostilities with bayonet and the gun,

To take a life was always thus since modern wars begun,

The airman dropped his bombs, knew not the number killed,

Sent aloft in aeroplanes where `ere his bosses willed.

The sailor fired from battleships, sending men to doom,

Or delivered death by depth charge with underwater boom,

All the fighting services were trained in what they do,

Stood for King and country and all that’s right and true.

Alas the Merchant Seaman aboard his sitting duck,

Steamed about defenceless unless he had the luck.

To have an anti-aircraft gun mounted on the deck,

Perchance to hole a bomber `afore it made a wreck.

Officials issued Orelikans, a Vickers or a Bren,

Usually pretty ancient, unfamiliar to our men,

They were taught the `hose-pipe` method - in a sort of sermon,

And it wasn’t very easy to shoot a flying German.

But I knew a certain Captain - the Skipper of a trawler,

Patrolling down the East coast, he shot `em down to order,

As his score just mounted, the Navy mused how high,

For when the foe approached him, he shot `em out the sky.

He was pressed to give a lecture before the convoy started off,

To a bunch of gunner ratings and a Royal Navy toff,

The Skipper wasn’t quite prepared as he rolled in through the door,

So said he’d answer questions from that lot on the floor.

It was the ribboned Admiral who spoke and said like this;

“Skipper, pray please tell us, of how you rarely miss,”

’Tis easy said the Master, we don’t fret at all,

I send to get my Mate out - he’s a man whot likes a brawl.

“There’s another coming Bill,” I sez, “go shoot the bugger down,

”So he ups and mans `is orelikan with conceytrated frown....

`Cus he tends to wait a bit `till he sees the pilot guys,

Then `e sprays`em in the cockpit - an` right between the eyes.

That’s the one that gets `em , `an puts `em off their stroke,

They nose dive to the water in a cloud of spray and smoke,

I winks at Bill and throws the chalk - so `e can keep a tally,

And mark the ones we’ve blown up, `an sunk there in Bomb Ally.

Tombo Mary’s.

Apapa was the venue for our lads run ashore,

On the coast of Africa where tourists never tour,

The bar was Tombo Mary’s where she ruled the roost all day,

Customers were seafarers - keen to spend their pay.

In this one-roomed shanty, with hard mud for a floor,

(Palm fronds on the thatched roof and canvas for a door),

Our black mama Mary - a wondrous female sight,

Would choose a handy sailor for her carnal joys at night.

Raised up on a dias just behind the bar,

(The centre of attention from here to Calabar),

Was a huge four poster bed with linen and fine lace,

Imported from some far off land and taking pride of place.

It`s where Mary held her lover-boy for a torrid night of fun.

Piccaninnies and the bar staff - at the setting of the sun -

Would sleep below this raft of love,with tassels hanging red,

While the sailor did his duty - in Tombo Mary’s bed.

MOLLY MOG`S DRAG SHOW

It’s the greatest show for sailors when they roll in from sea,

With Trannies and the Queens imparting repartee,

Singing songs from music halls down old memory lanes

Playing with their posies or forming daisy chains,

They stick up for each other and over backwards bend,

The proof is in the pudding with the Ackers that they send,

So here’s to Molly Mogs and all gender types within,

For raising funds for heroes and donations in a tin.

THE MOLLY MOGS

In all the pubs in all the world singled out for praise,

It’s the Molly Mogs in Soho for all the funds they raise,

Specially for our mariners and veterans of war,

And the unsung heroes that struggled at the fore.

On the corner of Old Compton Street this pub’s a little gem

Built in seventeen hundred, her pedigree’s from then,

Plenty are the bar stools but not a lot of space,

Hearty entertainment is the highlight of the place.

Some clientele enthrall with witty quips so gay,

Bonding all together in their camp and funny way,

They recognize the value of duty to the end,

Selfless with their time and energy they lend.

Famous for its drag shows and fabulous inside,

Historic and important for old London’s pride,

Performers are just marvelous, open and sincere,

Collecting for our heroes when punters come for cheer.

Raising cash for brave folk is humble and sublime,

Patrons of the Molly Mogs do it all the time,

This cultured bar is friendly to all of us out there,

Best of all a grand spot for those that really care.

Joe Earl Nov. 2009

WIMBORDOM

I don’t understand that Wimbledon game - one that’s played by a couple in pain;

They won’t ask a person and say “game it’s agreed” they find `em from somewhere and call `em a `seed`.

The balls are swiped at a metre high net - backwards and forwards, causing a crick in the neck.

They grunt and they groan - throw hands in the air - run the wrong way and seem to despair.

They don’t play with one ball to build up a score, there’s dozens of `em - all over the floor;

Then a few more, they stick in their drawers, while watchers must clap and show their applause.

The tally is kept - not just one two three, but love and deuce and advantage to me.

Then they go swatting with bat thing in hand, while holding their hair back with a large `lastic band.

A ball hits the line with a slight puff of dust, then one of the players goes mad in disgust.

The chap named the umpire sits on a high stool, he sticks up a finger when there’s a break in the rule.

Then he shouts something like “game match and set“, so they sit down with towels and stare at the net.

Ladies that play go flashing their knickers, and that brings a blush to broad-minded vicars.

There’s strawberries galore at ten pounds a punnet - it’s blatant extortion by the gangsters that run it.

I wouldn’t watch this game for minutes on end, the antics would send me right round the bend.

So you school kids and housewives and Royal Box toff, don’t bother going - I’ve heard it’s rained off.

A LITTLE FART

Lying in my bed last night I think I may have farted,

For suddenly, me and sleep were very rudely parted,

Upon my life it was my wife, who thumped me in the back,

Mentioning quite loudly that I’d fluffed there in the sack.

You could not really blame her, so I took the flack and brunt,

Since we were kind of `spooning` and I was at the front,

“It was not very funny” she snarled with angry sigh,

While I’m nodding in agreement knowing that’s a lie.

Biting on my knuckles, my eyes were squeezed up tight,

Duvet hiding tremors and convulsions in the night,

For I’m trying not to giggle - suppressing such a laugh,

In case a death pursues me - and a fart my epitaph.

NO KHAZI ON THE COACH!

We took a trip to Weymouth seventy miles away,

To march along and celebrate the annual Veteran’s Day,

Our be-medalled passengers and ladies didn’t fuss,

No stopping on the way boys - sans toilet on the bus.

A lengthy time to celebrate and sample of the grog,

A mug of tea partaken - perhaps the hair of dog,

Water, water, everywhere until the sun came out,

Then a pint of ale or two squirted from the spout.

You may be understanding the essence of my drift

If I mention ancient bladders and p--- pots for a gift

Steaming home non-stop, cross-legged on approach

“What?” You say amazed?    “no khazi on the coach!”

Joe Earl  Bristol MNA

Voyage to Weymouth & Back 24^th. June 2012

Wooky

WOOKY

Wooky is our pussy cat, his fur is smoky grey,

And when we’re in the kitchen, he’s always in the way,

He generally has some food down, in a saucer on the floor,

But then he’s nosing in the fridge, trying to find some more,

Well, we give in and feed him - what a ruddy nerve,

Because he will not eat it - he’s saving in reserve.

He likes to catch a bird or mouse, and then pull off it’s head,

Then he’ll go and have a snooze, on top of someone’s bed.

Wooky`s four feet long in sunshine, when stretched out on the path,

Then he’s curled up in a ball - in a basket by the bath.

He is a fussy eater, and he isn’t very fat

I threaten that “I’ll have him shot” if he chucks up on the mat,

He jumps up on the table and slides across the polish,

Knocking half the pictures off, to earn a sharp admonish.

He can be very naughty, and when no one is looking,

He climbs upon our work top - to see what’s just been cooking.

A gentle shove with a size ten boot is all he understands,

Then he has four left feet - you can hear him when he lands,

He falls asleep so quickly - you’d think he’s in a coma,

But you just watch him come alive, when he smells a food aroma.

He doesn’t like the cream or milk, it really is so sad,

But when he’s offered brandy, he laps it up like mad.

He rubs himself all over you - right up to your knees,

And then he jumps upon your lap and spreads his ruddy fleas.

Sept.98

WALLPAPERING

If you decide to wallpaper - get a man who knows,

For if you’re hanging with the mistress, it may just come to blows,

Let the lady pick the pattern and the colour of the paint,

A man must wait and guide `em - with the patience of a saint.

And when you come to measure up - to get it straight and true,

Try and keep the door shut, in case the air turns blue,

`An it’s men that do the hard graft, like stripping off the ceiling,

While the lady leans against the wall slurping her Darjeeling.

Because they are perfectionists and do things by the book,

It makes a chap impatient just to stand there forced to look,

So while you are observing, keep a bottle standing by,

I’m very sure you’ll need a drink - when the paper starts to fly.

They cannot reach the top bits - we have to hold them steady,

Then you get a telling off `cus the next drop ain`t quite ready,

When they wield the scissors, the lady’s mostly right,

But when it comes to organising - you could be there all night.

A bloke can slop the paste stuff on, it doesn’t take him long,

But there’s a half hour procrastinating when the female comes along,

It’s us that do the carrying - the ladder and the tools,

Then were told “don’t make a fuss” and made to feel like fools.

There are stubborn bits that will not stick, unless it’s to your feet,

Then you find the wall is bent and the paper doesn’t meet,

The plumb line is a handy tool, but it will not always work,

For when I come to mark it, my eyesight seems to jerk.

Standing there with hands on hips, the girls commence to huff,

Looking at our handiwork - they don’t think it’s good enough,

We try to put their minds at rest, while standing out the way,

Assuring them the bubbles go, before the break of day.

Perhaps we may replace a bit, to cease the lady’s screams,

But in the end we get it done - when we have filled the seams,

There is a way to harmony, as I have said before,

Hire a man who knows - and haul him through the door.

Jan. 1999

THE LADY GARDENERS

The ladies love their gardens - work hard to get it right,

And even graft by moonlight `till late into the night,

They weed and dig and sow and labour all the day,

Wearing bright red wellies to keep the mud at bay.

There’s watering cans and hose pipes and a lethal garden rake,

And a huge great pile of rubbish - left by the garden gate,

Donning faded blue jeans and a very ancient coat,

They start a` cultivating while humming a cheerful note.

Attacking bits offending where dreaded weeds abound,

Emptying sacks of this and that, spreading contents on the ground,

They are so very careful tending flowers and the posies,

And fit a glove before they prune - bushes and the roses.

They go into the garden shed and heave with all their might ,

Emerging with a squirty thing for spraying on the blight,

Then they find some pellets for killing all the slugs,

Plus loads and loads of powdered stuff for fighting off the bugs.

Now in this little haven the ants they build their nest,

But a well aimed kick from a size six boot sends it flying west,

The cat - he gives a wide berth `cus he’s seen the action,

For if the mistress catches him he’ll probably end in traction.

For a few weeks in the summer the lady looks for rain,

But it’s the ancient god of Horus that I pray to once again,

I like to watch the gardening -I often give advice,

But some of the replies I get - well they’re not always very nice.

So much time is taken up - no time to cook the dinners,

I’m forced to wander down the pub to join the other sinners,

But later in our greenery where eating apples grow,

We lounge and view the scenery from the patio,

I reckon they are marvellous - I’d like to wish them well,

For toiling at the hard tasks and making life so swell,

They say all this horticultural stuff is good for you and me,

So while you’re working on the lawn - I’ll sit beneath the tree!

TREVOR

I’ll tell you a story of Trevor, who drinks in Mon`s like me,

He lives on his own in Clevedon - a little bit in from the sea,

So he went and had a brain fart, about transport home one day,

He wouldn’t be driving a car, and Clevedon`s a fair step away.

The result of his brilliant thinking, was to go and buy a trike,

To keep his money from taxis and save his legs on a hike,

He’s seventy two next birthday `an he’s built like a racing snake,

Half pissed and quite a bit doddery - leaves mayhem in his wake.

My oath, you should have seen him aboard his three wheeled bike,

Electric battery in reserve but still could not ride it right,

He struck all the cars in the car park and dented the brewers dray,

Bouncing off a lamp post and everything else in the way.

Scrunching over the handle bars, like a demented elf,

We tried to prise him off it, before he killed himself,

Soon there was an audience with plenty of advice,

One or two of the replies we got weren’t so very nice.

Well we couldn’t persuade him, `cus none of us had any clout,

He waved his stick in anger and threatened to knock us about,

Would not listen to reason `till a man came wandering round,

To suggest he take his trike back and retrieve his three hundred pound.

Course he ran into trouble, with the man in the bicycle shop,

He was a bit unreasonable ( well he used to be a cop),

Called old Trevor just everything, including a `pain in the neck`,

`Cus he’d done his paperwork and already paid in the cheque.

All’s well that ends well, when a lady entered the fray,

Made sure the money was paid back, during a working day,

So what shall we do with Trevor when he gets in a sherry-made plight?

I think the probable answer, is to lock him up for the night!

Although dressed smart and natty, with a trilby stuck on his head,

His politics certainly vary, from blue to the deepest of red,

We honestly don’t like his antics - in fact we really care,

But all of us are happy - when he leaves to drink elsewhere!!!

Joe. July 2001

WHAT FLOWERS ?

I can spot a wheelbarrow - I’ve often seen a spade

Were talking about a garden now, and I wonder how they’re made

There’s things called hardy annuals and shrubs - or is it bush

I may tell a vegetable from a seedling at a push.

There are blades of grass and leaves on trees that lead a merry dance

And variegated evergreens and other kinds of plants

But as for naming flowers I’m well and truly lost

I just purchase colours and don`t count up the cost.

Clueless how to grow `em, I just stick `em in and see

The problem`s when there’re growing - they look like weeds to me

Except my favourites roses - you can tell them from the start

But the other kind of flower I can`t tell them apart.

Even with the climbers I’m not much good at those

But I spray on the water with can and rubber hose

There are pathways here with cracks in, where things go poking through

I pull `em up but they return no matter what I do.

I`ve shifted tons of topsoil prior to laying grass

Thought I`d better do it - the greenery was sparse

Levelled all the ground out just to lay the turf

Now its gone all wavy like an ocean surf .

I love the little fishes, of them I’m very fond

So up I went and bought some and put them in the pond

Then I bummed some lilies off my old mate Vince

What of my Shebunkins? I haven’t seen them since.

It really is a miracle that my place looks so nice

Because I like to persevere and carry out my vice-

Of sitting in my garden thinking or just snoozing

Surveying all the work that’s done and perhaps a little boozing.

It does not happen on it`s own - that you surely know

I’m often found just poking round with the underrated hoe

Then there are some casualties in the war against the weeds

When I accidentally chop the recent growing seeds.

I wouldn’t be without this little piece of heaven

Handy too - quite near the pub that opens at eleven

Rain or shine I don’t mind what the weather does

When I stroll into the garden and get a little buzz.

THE WAITING IS OVER

(On my Marriage to Chris Aug. 20^th `05

The waiting is over our day’s here at last,

Though stretching through summer it’s come very fast,

Chris helped me along - put wind in my sails,

No nasty hic-ups like the poor Prince of Wales.

Nice to see Norman with banner unfurled,

The girls are so gorgeous - the best in the world,

Champagne’s not real but tastes just the same -

I could get used to this marrying game.

Finally spliced I’ll get on with life,

With loving and caring and beautiful wife,

Just living and joking to bring a nice smile,

Then flying away to flop for a while.

We are not doubters we’re perfectly sure,

We have all we need - and a lot more,

Togetherness now - no longer apart,

`An I’m popping the pills to feed my old heart.

Bless both our families and Heaven above,

For the life that we have - so filled with love,

We’ll steam full ahead - make best of our times,

Betting on horses and writing some rhymes.

So thank you from us with tears in our eyes,

Enjoy yourselves now - `till we say our goodbye`s.

THE RECIPE FOR LIFE

There are many things a man may learn to lead a happy life,

To help him through those troubled times or evicted by his wife,

The first thing to ascertain - apart from not to worry,

Keeping fit, and going strong, is how to make a curry.

`An if your on your own, and think it`s awful tough,

Relax and get the pot on - I think you`ve moped enough,

Have a go at Madras, it`s fever, spice and fun,

It`ll teach you independence - will do you good my son,

First you need a big pan and sit it on to stew,

A few cans of tomatoes - no salt that’s bad for you,

Add a pack of Chinese veg. and a few pounds of minced beef,

That will be the basis of a curry `yond belief.

You may also add some mushrooms and onions when beginning,

It helps to fight the battle of life - especially if your winning,

A wondrous dish all through the day or perhaps a little later,

Another way to top it up - chuck in a few potater.

If a lady friend comes home with you - serve repast with pride,

Better then with Korma - gentler there inside,

After one or two days when the pan is getting low,

Add a couple of hard boiled eggs and keep it on the go.

Never clean the pan out - you must keep it’s spicy flavour,

Just add what you started with - a meal that’s one to savour,

I have tasted curries from Walsall to Bombay,

But I’ve rarely eaten better than the one at home today.

In single life contentment I’m never going back,

I’m happier scoffing curry with pints of applejack,

It tightens up your sinews and that can be quite handy,

Also keeps you virile - and it makes me so damn randy.

Ain`t life a bitch.

Sand Bay

BLOODY SAND BAY

All bloody clouds not bloody funny, all bloody rain and never sunny,

No bloody flowers no bloody grass, all bloody sand up to your arse, in Sand Bay.

The bloody wind the bloody gales, bloody washing blown out like sails,

No bloody buses no bloody shops, that bloody pong its on the crops, in Sand Bay.

Bloody dustmen they’re bloody late, bloody rubbish left by the gate,

Bloody postman `snot bloody right, don’t get the bloody mail till night, in Sand Bay.

Bloody tourists bloody Brummies, bloody kids without their mummies,

Bloody noisy and in the way, never bloody understand a word they say, in Sand Bay.

Bloody pub too bloody near, and bloody booze is bloody dear,

Bloody open `till very late, bloody rolling home in drunken state, in Sand Bay.

Bloody smoking costs me dearly, but like Sand Bay I like it really,

The bloody weed I’m bloody trying, to give it up, my nerves are crying, in Sand Bay.

That’s why my hamlet ..is taking stick, `cos of the habit I’m trying to kick,

Bloody moaning is my way, so take no notice of what I say, in Sand Bay

But I’m telling you the gauntlets thrown.....I`M EXISTING IN A SMOKELESS ZONE

It’s bloody Hell in Sand Bay .

The Long John Silver

THE PUB

O’h woe is me the powers that be have closed my local boozer,

Such a shame – the brewers gain but I’m the poor sad loser,

No more at will a swift half pint when I’m feeling dry,

Or a dirty joke an’ a bit of wit with a fellow minded guy.

For many years I’ve propped the bar with only yards to stumble,

The nearest now is miles away – no wonder that I grumble,

I’m full of tears, I have my fears aboard a tipsy bike,

It’s such a way, and I must say, the walking in dislike.

Our crib team and the darts, lifeless, dead, defunct,

The village heart and soul is gone, an’ the skittle ally junked,

I feel so sat it’s just too bad at the way it has to be,

For I miss my pub (and it’s grub) – it was just like home to me.

Filthy and full of strangers!!!

Summer 2002

FORTIFICATION

Some women in the Bistros, sip wine by the glass

It surely keeps `em happy `an it helps the time to pass

Gentlemen of course - since good old Aristotle

Quietly quaff their booze - drinking from the bottle

But if an old Sea-Dog, in Italy or Spain

You down it by the demijohn just to take the strain,

A spout or two of sangria before the evening meal

Followed by some brandy - to stay on even keel

A little stroll around the town, a laugh or cosy banter

Back home for a night-cap, from a great big glass decanter

Next day there’s a problem - when arising from the bed

It must have been the water - the teeth have turned bright red!.

MEN ARE PRETTY STUPID

Men are pretty stupid, this woman said to me,

Really? Please pray tell me – see if I agree,

“While we are discussing things he leaves and slams the door,

He doesn’t know what housework is and dumps things on the floor,

Then he blames my hormones, if I’m a bit upset,

He can’t remember anything – even where we met.

He doesn’t like my cat and won’t admit he’s wrong,

Snores and farts in bed, just laughs when there’s a pong,

He gives me good advice - feeling rather smug,

When all I really want is a warm and friendly hug.

He sulks and huffs and puffs if he doesn’t get his way,

And he’s always watching football mostly every day,

Will not ask directions even when he’s lost,

Doesn’t note my perm, no matter what it cost.

He often starts some DIY but fails to end the job,

Slaps my poor old backside when I’m cooking on the hob,

Has not a clue what flowers are – just cultivates the weeds,

Mostly turns a deaf ear when explaining of my needs.

He will not understand it when I need a pair of shoes,

And he’s flicking through the channels while I’m trying to watch the news,

His Mother never trained him to lower the toilet seats,

And when he’s had a bit to drink old jokes he then repeats.

He drives me to distraction – sends me quite insane,

Showing no emotion it’s really quite a strain,

Never does the ironing, still I love the man to bits,

That’s why men are stupid – wear the cap it fits ! "

A  PRACTICAL SOLUTION

I knew a man with few addictions

Who suffered with some odd afflictions

One of them - and this is true

Was flaking out while on the loo.

Things got worse with cut on sore

When nose-dived thro` a cupboard door

The Doctor came - patched up his face

Issued pills to fit the case.

They didn’t work, so he went to see

An Arab fakir from Tripoli

He was wise - advice was heeded

’Twas a motor cycle, - crash dome needed.

And like a Yankee football player

Wear protection layer on layer

Then screw the helmet to the wall

Fit it firm with a whistling call.

With his head in firm restraint

No problem now if he wants to faint

And as a bonus to underscore

An extra mattress on the floor

Then each morn in meditation

There’s no need for resuscitation

With knee pads on and shoulder gear

He’s tied safely on his rear.

If perchance he goes to fall

Why - he’ll do no harm at all

He’ll be retained there quite all right

Blowing for tugs on his bosun`s pipe.

That native fakir knew his job

Injuries stopped for a couple of bob

Trouble was it came to pass

Couldn’t bend down to wipe his arse!

THE BED

Chris and me, we shared a bed - it was a comfy double,

But every night it seemed to me - it found me in deep trouble,

For when I rolled over - to get more settled there,

Poor Chris alas was thrown around and bounced up in the air,

So, fed up with me turning, and jumping like a whale,

We thought we'd buy a new one in the January sale.

Eventually we found one, we bought it there and then

If this could solve the problem, we'd sleep all night again.

We tested it and jumped on it while we were in the shop,

Couldn't make our mind up - the six foot one - or not.

But we opted for the big `un - so now it`s plenty wide,

It gives us scope to twist a little and dream there side by side.

Actually it`s two beds - joined by zip and widget,

Ideally made for me and Chris, she don`t feel it when I fidget.

There are two different matresses - the posture sprung is mine,

Chris has got the softer one and the best make of the line.

Now if it really doesn`t work, and I receive another warning,

Well we just get up and split the bed - first thing in the morning.

                   JAN.1999

One of a Pair.

WHERE ARE THEY ?

Chris and I collect budgies - not the flying kind,

But the type that are made of pottery - and very hard to find,

We have a pair upon the mantle - they are so happy there,

Precious collector’s items - and so very rare,

We go searching in the junk-shops for our elusive prey,

But there’s no sign of budgies after looking all the day,

We find all kinds of other birds - standing on a perch,

But never our dear budgies - the object of our search,

Then one day I went away - many miles from home,

And there I found a budgie - sitting on it’s own,

In a Lincolnshire antique shop - begging to be bought,

I knew that Chris would love it - the price - I gave no thought,

So like a drunken sailor on a spending spree

I paid up like a good `un and took it home with glee,

True, I did the right thing and filled Chris with delight,

I earned so many brownie points - I stayed out half the night

Now `George` is perched upon the wall with a first class view

He’s a nineteen fifties model so he’s not entirely new,

But we love our little birdie, a`hanging on the wall,

And if we could find a sister, well he wouldn’t mind at all.

JULY 1998

CHRISTMAS IN SAND BAY

Christmas Day in Sand Bay one of great delight,

Mostly quiet from early morn ‘till kids wake up and fight,

One may see the dog walkers, on our beach so wide,

In amongst the flotsam that came in with the tide.

There is a smell of cooking from houses and some flats,

Leaving scraps for pets and all the feral cats,

No more merry parties in our pub that’s shut up tight,

Now a barren wasteland, like a building site.

Sand is blowing everywhere, the air is really fresh,

Everyone with anoraks to heat the crinkly flesh,

I doubt it will be snowing, but loads of gales and rain,

Hiding in the clouds, the frequent aeroplane.

You may just see a straggler escaping from the camp,

Maybe on the wall – if the wheelchair climbs the ramp,

‘Cus they had their Xmas dinner way back in July,

Pulling all their crackers, ‘neath a summer sky.

You often see a local horse, pass a place like mine,

Blocking off the road and crapping all the time,

Manure is then collected before it’s all squashed flat,

It’s for chucking on the rhubarb and other stuff like that.

There is a festive feeling as I walk along the lane,

The red lights round the doors and twinkling window pane,

Nice artificial holly made of paper, string and felt,

I’ll be wearing mistletoe – I shove it in me belt.

WHAT FLOWERS?

I can spot a wheelbarrow - I’ve often seen a spade

Were talking about a garden now, and I wonder how they’re made

There’s things called hardy annuals and shrubs - or is it bush

I may tell a vegetable from a seedling at a push.

There are blades of grass and leaves on trees that lead a merry dance

And variegated evergreens and other kinds of plants

But as for naming flowers I’m well and truly lost

I just purchase colours and don’t count up the cost.

Clueless how to grow `em, I just stick `em in and see

The problem’s when there’re growing - they look like weeds to me

Except my favourites roses - you can tell them from the start

But the other kind of flower I can’t tell them apart.

Even with the climbers I’m not much good at those

But I spray on the water with can and rubber hose

There are pathways here with cracks in, where things go poking through

I pull `em up but they return no matter what I do.

I’ve shifted tons of topsoil prior to laying grass

Thought I’d better do it - the greenery was sparse

Levelled all the ground out just to lay the turf

Now its gone all wavy like an ocean surf .

I love the little fishes, of them I’m very fond

So up I went and bought some and put them in the pond

Then I bummed some lilies off my old mate Vince

What of my Shebunkins? I haven’t seen them since.

It really is a miracle that my place looks so nice

Because I like to persevere and carry out my vice-

Of sitting in my garden thinking or just snoozing

Surveying all the work that’s done and perhaps a little boozing.

It does not happen on it’s own - that you surely know

I’m often found just poking round with the underrated hoe

Then there are some casualties in the war against the weeds

When I accidentally chop the recent growing seeds.

I wouldn’t be without this little piece of heaven

Handy too - quite near the pub that opens at eleven

Rain or shine I don’t mind what the weather does

When I stroll into the garden and get a little buzz.

June 2001

ADAM

ADAM`S ANTICS

Adam rides a mountain bike, he’s a very agile lad,

He also has a racing bike, and pedals them like mad,

He’s always falling off `em, and breaking all his bones,

And he breaks some other things, like pricey mobile phones.

He cycles hard all up the hills and free-wheels down the Dales ,

He even rides in forests - in a country called South Wales.

Both the bikes are shiny - he cleans them like he ought,

They cost him loads of money, so they keep him rather short.

They’re fitted out with disc brakes, and they get very hot,

Pull the front ones up too quickly - and he’s flying o`er the top,

He has the scars to prove it - there is no room for more,

A`n if he doesn’t wear a helmet, his head gets mighty sore.

Adam`s fast and just a blur - when the wheels are turning,

If you spot the smoke, it’s a tyre that’s burning,

So if you see him coming, best keep out of sight,

Cos` he may do a flyer - like a comet seen at night.

Joe - August `98

MY COOKING

Now and then I have some fun while a`cooking of a meal,

(Since the oven door’s been fixed and has a better seal)

Its quite sophisticated, this oven with a fan,

It has all kinds of knobs on it to help me cook my scran,

I’ve still not worked it all out yet - of where to put the things,

Shove `em in the stove or stick them on the rings.

There is a kind of flap on top, it can be raised or down,

At least when food is placed above I see it going brown,

Sometimes though I miss it, then commence to cough,

Or alerted by the smoke alarm when the bloody thing goes off,

I leave the back door open now when stuff begins to simmer,

Its best to have a smokeless zone when I chew my dinner.

I thought I had it conquered, last time I fried an egg,

But I was sure mistaken when it turned out boiled instead,

I cracked it after sausages of frozen beef and pork.…

Were launched into a frying pan - couldn’t prick`em with a fork,

Then the melting ice - turned water there to boil,

So when I dropped my egg in, it couldn’t find the oil.

There’s problems with the stews as I twiddle with the gas,

They tend to overdo a bit so I stick in some madras,

Add some bits and stir it well until it turns to slurry,

Leave it then for a day or two - that’s what I call curry,

When I carefully sieve the rice it mainly blocks the drains,

Amid the other drops that fall, leaving brilliant stains.

There are a hundred ways they say, to cook a rainbow trout,

But you’d never guess the awful mess when I fry a brussel sprout,

And there is a `gentle pastry` bit that cooks the top all nice,

But the meat that’s underneath it - well I have to do that twice,

Eventually I have a meal among saucepans all a`clatter,

But not so appetising when scooped upon the platter.

I haven’t worked it out just yet - perhaps I am a fool,

What does it need a fan for ? to keep it bloody cool?

Why don’t you use a microwave ? - I knew that you would ask

Its not that I like a challenge to set about a task

Its because I’ve damaged it when something overflowed

Then baked a big potato and burnt it till it glowed

“Sod it all” I sez to me, “ I’ll wander down the pub,

To sample just a pint or two then order up some grub”.

 Aug.2001

THE BIG BANG

Christine’s quite an athlete, and fitter - more than most,

Until the day she didn’t see - and walked into a post,

She has a nasty bruise and a cut upon her head,

Couldn’t really drive home, so took a walk instead,

Whereupon she called us - gave me quite a shock,

Trying to mop the blood up - and keep it off her frock,

So we whisked her down the clinic, to see the duty nurse,

In case my Captain’s training made it bloody worse,

She had a boost of tetanus - and a pack of ice,

Then we bought some brandy - that made her feel quite nice,

The moral of this story, is not to make Chris frown,

But to keep a special lookout, when you go to town,

For all the blooming lamp posts, will not stay in place,

They’ll jump out to hit you - and smack you in the face.

Joe 3.7.98

A HUMOROUS BREAK

I s`pose they call it `humorous` cus it’s part of the funny bone,

Me - I hit the other end on a Sunday night at home,

A lovely day in every way `till I fell and struck my shoulder

On a very low coffee table, as hard as any boulder.

The morning was great, my girl was down, until she waved goodbye,

Then up to the Inn to view the sport - plus a pint with mates nearby,

Wandered home to cook my tea - made a lovely job of that,

My knee just went - sending me down with an awful sickening crack.

I’ve never broken a bone before - except the one in my nose,

Now there’s a chunk out of my shoulder bone I regret now to disclose,

I don’t mind the pain - it hurts when I laugh - or the fool that I made of myself,

But people assume that I tripped in my room - being pissed or drunk as an elf.

Not so of course but I’ll stay condemned - though I never fell over before,

Between me and you I’ve reached sixty two - not once did I drop to the floor,

The reason I’m telling you this my friend - writing by hand is hard,

My arm’s in a sling - can’t move the damn thing - so I’m having a drink in the yard.

Dec. `03

WENDY`S REPLY

It isn't really funny,
When your mess-mates take the Mick,
Laughing and a-sniggering
It's enough to make you sick!

For a change, you're totally guiltless,
You never did the crime
You only had a couple of pints
You didn't step out of line!

So slowly, from the New Inn,
You made your careful way,
You barely had a drop all night,
No matter what they say.

Accidents can happen,
As I'm sure you will agree,
Even to a sailor,
Who's intent on cooking tea.

It's rotten luck it happened
When no-one else could see,
If you'd done it in the pub
They'd buy your drinks for free!

Our salty-tar has roamed the seas
From shore to shining shore,
The silly devil's knackered now,
He won't do that, no more!

So, cheer up, Joe we're sorry
That you fell, and are in pain
Please take it easy, just relax,
You'll soon be well again!

Best Wishes - Wendy

FRED AND FREDA

We have a little casa out in sunny Spain,

Two hounds love to greet us, they live just down the lane,

Their names are Fred and Freda, they roam around the place,

Both are sandy coloured, of undetermined race.

Relaxing quite completely sprawled out every day,

We almost run them over as they natural bar the way,

They are so pleased to see us and wag their tails like mad,

Looking for their titbits with pleading eyes so sad.

Fred seems to be her bosom pal roaming free and large,

Freda is his mistress, smaller but in charge,

They hang around together, chasing cars an` all,

Returning then to pant a lot in shadows of a wall.

Then one night a piercing cry, woke us from our dreams,

Fred had caught a neighbour’s cat accounting for the screams,

We haven’t seen our Fred since then – just Freda on her own,

Wondering if our Fred is tied, remanded there at home.

Later on we heard, our cheeky canine friend,

Had been a naughty boy, and met a sticky end,

He’d chased a couple of sheep and bitten through the fur,

Now condemned, regrettably, as a low down common cur..

Unfortunate our Fred did that, causing such alarm,

To us he was a playful dog that never did us harm,

I reckon that’s just nature's way and Fred we’ll sorely miss,

But we are still fond of Freda, and her big wet soppy kiss.

THE TAURUS GIRL

My girl Chris is a Taurus girl - a Taurus girl is she,

There’s good traits and there’s bad traits, I think you will agree,

She won’t do much that’s sinful, or tell a whopping lie,

But when it came to the gentleman, she went for the Gemini.

I think she madly loves him, I can’t imagine why,

But it doesn't really matter, `cus I’m the lucky guy.

Now a Taurus girl is stubborn, but also pretty smart,

They are known for persevering, and put the horse before the cart

My Taurus girl is sensual, that’s what they’re supposed to be,

But she wont be rushed or hassled, except perhaps by me

They love a nice long cuddle, and have a strong artistic streak,

An argument - forget it, `cus you'd lose it every week,

But the Gemini is twins you see, that's where I have my fun,

Where one twin will assert himself - the other's on the run.

But we adore our Taurus girl, with her non hostile approach,

For she’s my loyal lover- whom no one else dare poach.

May 95

YOU WILL LOOK SEXY AT SIXTY

( To one of my female friends)

Oh you will be sexy at sixty,

Of that I’m perfectly sure,

Like a good tune on a fiddle,

Best when played mature.

A woman will stare in a mirror,

Sees what she wants to see,

I’m not being kind - it’s all in the mind,

You are what you want to be.

Remember the urge of early days,

Before so cosily wed,

Many a touch and plenty of ways,

While sexily sprawling in bed.

A man likes a lady with style,

No matter the age of her rings,

One that has lived for a while,

And knows incredible things.

You don’t need the limited span,

Of an urgent and selfish boy,

Find on old man with a devious plan,

To bring you rapture’s of joy.

You will look sexy at sixty,

I’ll tell you the reason you see,

I am the beholder and quite a bit older,

You’ll always be younger to me.

THE KITCHEN

I have a kitchen small and neat,

Preparing meals an easy feat,

Doings change for this poor man,

When lusted by the female clan.

For it used to be when fit and able,

I’d bend them `cross my kitchen table,

The ladies now have grown I fear,

Each one has a larger rear.

In the kitchen lack of room,

Kicking buckets and the broom,

Heaving belly like a fender,

Working on a fraught knee trembler.

Cups and saucers sent awry,

Spilt the gravy squashed the pie,

In amongst the screams and shouts,

Oops there goes the brussel sprouts.

In my galley self contained,

Passions clumsy unrestrained,

If designing kitchens do be sure,

To add at least a few feet more.