Avanti West Coast

As I was travelling on the Avanti West Coast train,

I noticed a young woman

With dark hair

Tied up in a French Plait.

On the shoulder of her jacket was a spider.

Knowing that many women suffer a fear of these creatures,

(I believe it to be arachnophobia)

I wondered if the best thing to do would be to gently and surreptitiously remove it.

However,

How would I go about it

Without appearing to be some kind of sex pest?

As I pondered,

The spider walked towards her neck.

Should I draw her attention to it,

I thought?

She might scream.

But then she was more likely to do so if the spider reached her skin,

And she might,

Accidently or otherwise,

Kill the spider.

I don't mind spiders,

In fact,

I welcome them as guests to our home,

Although my wife disagrees vehemently.

My mind made up,

I gave a small cough and she looked up quizzically.

I pointed.

As I was about to speak, the train lurched and I was thrust forward by the momentum.

In that instant

My finger got lodged in her

Nostril.

In Praise Of English Rugby

Beefy Beefy

Lovely Beefy

Lovely Lovely

Beefy Beefy

Lovely Beefy

Beefy Lovely

Beefy Beefy

Lovely Lovely

Beefy Beefy

Lovely Beefy

Beefy Lovely

Beefy Beefy

This Fine July

The end is nigh

You wonder why

Yet we can only try

To do or to die

My love kisses me goodbye

A flea or a fly

The moon and sun in the sky

Pastrami and mustard on rye

Whiskey and rum and we cry

So desperate by the by

Hair gel and hair dye

Oh me oh my

Crazy name, crazy guy

All those in favour say "Aye"

As easy as pi

Lardy cake with a sigh

Rendered fat and lye

My throat is dry

A bottle do I spy

I'm a little shy

Yet imbibe will I

My head down to lie

My gaze cast high

This fine July.

A Scream In The Night

A piercing scream rings out!

A shriek, a keening,

That would wake the dead,

Or warn of oncoming horror.

It cuts like a knife

Through the air.

A call like that could only mean a terror most awful.

A murder, perhaps,

Or the most terrible torture.

Maybe Cthulhu has risen from the depths,

The sleeper beneath the ocean

To prey on us all.

The dreadful scream happens again,

Calling all to rise up

And defend the smitten,

The tortured,

Or the slain.

As one, we rise.

As one, we take up arms.

As one, we march.

Except we don't.

The neighbourhood remains nonplussed

Because such screams are commonplace.

It's just a little girl

Overcome with emotion

Because her big brother has tormented her so.

When I was a boy

My parents would have chastised me

And her

For over-reacting to what was obviously a benign piece of childish tomfoolery.

These days,

Parents obviously don't give a shit

To what their over-entitled offspring do.

This makes them as bad as the little goblins they raise,

If not worse.

Tell your unpleasant little brats

To shut the fuck up.

My Advancing Years

If my spine was not crunchy,

If my knees were not made of jam,

If my shoulder was not twisted and lumpty,

If my guts were not full of lava,

If my fingers were not shaped like hooks,

If my ankle did not crack like a gun,

If my eyes were not fuzzy and vague,

I might be tempted to climb Mount Everest.

But my body is letting me down,

As time passes and wreaks havoc upon me.

But now that I think about it,

The climb does not really appeal to me after all.

I think I would rather spend the day in bed

With a nice cup of tea.

Or perhaps a book,

To occupy my time.

Getting old has few positive factors,

But there is one that I like:

The skin on my hands is rather loose now

Compared to back in my youth.

Now, when I dry my hands

Under a high-speed air dryer

The skin makes amusing farting sounds

Which makes me giggle like the child I once was.

'Pataphysical Sandwiches

 No poem today, just a brief essay.

 I make sandwiches for my wife. And by that, I mean I prepare a packed lunch, not that awful noise by the Detroit Grand Pubahs.

 Often, I will use a pre-prepared sandwich filling, such as cheese and spring onions, or egg mayonnaise. These are generally regarded as acceptable, and raise no particular comment. However, on the times I expend extra effort, such as roasting some chicken or making cheese and pickle sandwiches my wife will always compliment me on the quality. This raises some interesting questions:

1. Does my wife actually think the sandwiches taste better?
2. Is she simply being more appreciative of the effort?
3. If I crafted sandwich fillings every day rather than use supermarket-derived ones would the same level of appreciation be maintained throughout?
4. Why is Sweden?

These are nothing compared to the one that consistently bugs me, though. Generally I use a soft, pre-sliced loaf that professes to be "half white, half brown." There are several brands that make such a thing, and all possess similar qualities such as an ability to resist mould (probably due to the high levels of preservatives in the ingredients) and the tendency for any pressure greater than 0.00001 N to cause the loaf to distort beyond all recognition. This latter property is what gives rise to the following train of thought:

1. When a loaf of bread of this type is placed upright, so that the slices rest horizontally, each slice is under pressure from the slices above. The top slice is subject only to gravity, but lower down the stack the slices apply pressure to those beneath. The slice at the bottom of the stack is under the most pressure, and over time it is compressed to a degree.
2. A longer loaf placed in the same way would exert greater pressure on the bottom slice, which in turn would experience greater compression. Given enough pressure the slice would have all the air that would ordinarily be trapped within the spaces expunged. What would normally be considered bread would become more wafer-like.
3. Bread is made from flour, yeast, salt and water. The yeast digests the sugars in the flour and expels gas, causing the dough to "rise" (it's actually pockets of gas that cause the expansion). Baking the dough not only kills the yeast but it causes the risen dough to set and retain its shape, even if this is only temporary.
4. Toasting bread removes the water from the slice.
5. Under the right conditions, and given Boyle's law, with enough pressure a loaf stacked as per point (1.) could cause the bottom slice to change its physical state to become more toast-like.
6. The "wafer-like" state in (2.) would prevail over time, so in order to reach the "toast-like" state in (5.) surely this would have to happen very rapidly: water must be expelled before air. However, using additional heat to achieve the latter feels like cheating. It could be hypothesised that the correct environment (sealed, so that Boyle's Law might be properly applied) and a tall enough stack of sliced bread might cause the lowest slice to self-toast before it flattens.
7. This self-toasting (6.) would cause the slice of bread to become brittle, and be crushed, rather than flatten.

The question therefore is: how tall does an upright loaf of bread need to be to cause the bottom slice to be crushed into crumbs, rather than simply squashed?

 Following this train actually raises more questions, now that I see this on the screen. "Wafer-like" (2.) and "toast-like" (5.) are certainly two different states of existence for bread. However, matter is known to have the following properties: solid, liquid, gas and plasma... and of course, under extreme conditions, Bose-Einstein condensates, degenerate matter and suchlike. So: if the material state of bread can be changed due to the pressure exerted by more bread stacked on top, how massive would a loaf of bread have to be in order for the pressure (and subsequent heating due to Boyle's Law) to transform the bottom slice of bread into more extreme states? Could enough energy be transferred to that slice for it to form a singularity, for example? For such a thing to happen this would not only require an extraordinary amount of energy, but for the bread slice to cease being matter entirely. However, even more energy would be used to bake the dough into bread. So by the time enough bread has been baked to test this hypothesis, all the energy in the universe will have probably been used in the baking process, thus ending all life. But at least we wouldn't starve.

In Soho Square

In Soho Square

The weather is clear and I breathe the air.

The rainbow flags fly high

And all the passers-by

Smile brightly.

The rhubarb gin swirls in my stomach

And my eyes focus

On the things I hadn't noticed before.

The bags of rubbish bake under the sun,

Their insides putrefying and stinking

So much that not even the seagulls dare approach.

Dusty slime.

Slimy dust.

On the bench next to mine sits a man

Chattering away at anyone who will listen.

But this is London,

Where listeners are hard to find,

So perhaps the only audience

Consists of pigeons and squirrels.

A girl sits on a stair,

Playing with the braids in her hair.

A toothless guy cracks a grin over there.

I think I'd rather be just about anywhere

As long as it's not in Soho Square.

Under Manchester Skies

Under Manchester skies do I stand,

Wet.

The steel-grey skies release their cargo upon me.

A steady drizzle,

Horrible drip-drip soaking wet weather that never stops.

Through my coat, through my clothes,

My very skin threatens to slough away.

I stare up through the rain at the steel-grey skies

And reflect that I cannot remember a single Old Trafford Test

That wasn't affected by the weather in some way.

I try to blink the rain from my eyes,

Scowling and squinting at the skies above,

Wishing I could find a better metaphor than "steel-grey."

Or is it a simile?

It has been so long since I studied the details

And since I am a poet,

It really is something I should know.

I raise my collar and step forwards with a sigh,

Only to step in a puddle.

The Manchester skies are steel-grey today,

Just like they were yesterday.

In Praise Of Darren Stevens

The sun gleams off his scalp

As he waits at his mark,

Thoughtfully polishing the ball

And squinting at his quarry. 

The batsman takes his guard,

Scratching at the turf.

One last look around the field,

and he's ready.

The bowler smiles slightly.

He looks down,

Only for a moment,

And fixes his gaze on the target.

He runs,

Gracefully,

Ball in hand

Up, up, up,

A leap,

Arms in motion.

The batsman waits with his willow aloft.

Back and across.

Left foot forwards.

Bat sweeps down.

Too late.

He doesn't even look back,

The sound ball on wood came from behind.

Darren Stevens has claimed another victim.

Stevo is 45 years old,

A proper Dazzler.

And being a couple of years younger than me,

I feel certain he has a bight future ahead of him.

That young whippersnapper Jimmy Anderson

Could learn a thing or two from him,

I am quite sure.

The beauty of watching Stevens play cricket

Is his joyful abandon when playing.

He bats like a man without a care in the world,

Flaying good county bowlers to all parts of the ground.

When will the England and Wales Cricket Board

See sense and call him up?

A Lovely Flower

Would it not be interesting

To be a lovely flower?

To start of as a tiny bud

Unleashing all that power?

Unfurl the petals, spread my wings

And face towards the sun.

A bloom of colour, bright and gay,

Bring joy to everyone!

A feast for insects, flies and bees,

And pollen in return,

Until a man with secateurs

Severs my head.

Test Match Special

Working from home

Allows me to listen

To Test Match Special.

I like it.

Jonathan Agnew,

Or Aggers, as he is known,

Should read some audiobooks

As his voice is quite reassuring,

And relaxing,

Except when he gets excited,

Such as when Jimmy Anderson takes a wicket

Or Joe Root scores a hundred.

Jeremy Coney talked about lunch

During the first Test.

He said he had a lovely lunch,

Although it seemed to consist

Of the same watermelon salad

Provided on day one.

I can only suggest that the caterers at Lord’s

Lack some imagination.

What I enjoy most about TMS

Is the sheer, unbridled enthusiasm

Shown by Jim Maxwell

Whenever Australia come to England.

At one minute to midday

His voice becomes animated

And he takes a deep breath to announce

That it’s time for the Shipping Forecast.

I have a digital radio,

Which means I don’t have to listen on long-wave

So thankfully my coverage

Remains uninterrupted.

The Power Washer Club

On our street,

Everyone owns a power washer.

On our Street,

Everyone takes turns to try and waste the most water.

On Mondays it's the guy across the road.

On Tuesdays it's the man on the corner.

Wednesday is Barry's turn, he likes to clean his car.

On Thursday it's usually our next-door neighbour,

But this week he's on holiday in Cumbria.

So next-door-but-one has taken responsibility and hosed his driveway.

Friday's washer is Steve,

And Saturday seems to be the turn of everyone else.

Sunday is no day of rest,

As the bloke opposite brings out his power washer.

I am not a member of the Power Washer Club.

We did buy one ages ago,

But I think we used it just the once.

The Invisible Killer

What woes this invisible killer does bring!

What terrors, affictions and other things!

Oh! Covid! How awful it is

To live in a world struck down like this!

No! No more! Stop causing a scene!

I wish to receive the Covid vaccine!

The Irresistible Lure Of High Velocity

The drivers rev the engines on the grid.

The crowd holds its breath.

The lights begin to change.

The cars rev harder.

And they're off!

The cars go around the track.

Around they go.

See them go.

Around and around.

Look at them go around.

There they go.

They go around.

They go around.

Some bloke squirts champagne from a very big bottle.

Hurrah!

Covid Nation

I have learned many things about myself

During the pandemic.

Most of the time I work from home

Which suits me very well.

I have avoided getting sick,

I have avoided meeting people,

And I have avoided that bloke at work who talks for hours and hours about the time he lived in Finland.

So, what have I learned?

How to make Kimchi is one thing,

Although I have to get the ingredients off the internet,

So I might as well buy it ready made from Waitrose.

I sometimes wish that I live in a more cosmopolitan area,

Where Korean radish and fermented chilli paste are readily available,

But then I would probably have to meet other people

When I go to the local greengrocers,

And that would never do.

One thing in particular I have realised

Is how much I dislike other people.

I sneer at folk from behind my net curtains

And curse when they make too much noise,

Although I do it very quietly

So as not to draw attention to myself.

Perhaps lockdown has not been too bad for me.

It keeps me off the streets,

Away from other people

And at home with the cats,

Where I belong.

There is an added benefit:

I don’t have to listen to that bloke at work who talks for hours and hours about the time he lived in Finland.

On Potatoes

 I’m allergic to raw potatoes.

They make me sneeze

And make my eyes water

When I peel them.

When I peel them,

I have to stick tissues up my nose

Or wear a facemask.

Thankfully, in these dark times of Covidity

And unpredictability

I have plenty of reuseable, washable masks

So that I can peel potatoes

Without sneezing all over the food,

And, as an added benefit,

Not catch the coronavirus.

Lockdown Blues

Lockdown’s not been kind to me,

It’s made me rather fat.

It’s down to inactivity,

I now look like my cat.

Ollie is a rescued tom

That likes to sleep all day.

He sleeps, he eats, and sometimes shits,

And I clean his litter tray.

Ollie has a brother too,

Oscar is his name.

Although they are both black and white,

They do not look the same.

Ollie’s fat and Oscar’s thin,

And their markings are distinctive.

Oscar’s are symmetrical

But there’s not much that’s descriptive.

I wish Ollie would get out more;

The vet is worried about him.

I’m more worried about my waistline.

Perhaps I'll join a gym.

The Nature Of The Human Heart

 

The human heart is a mystery

To some, but not to me.

I see it for what it really is,

As electricity runs through the bundle of His.

Wordsmiths talk about desire,

How love ignites the heart’s fire,

Makes it throb with passion

Or beat in some other fashion.

The heart may slow when you sleep at night,

Or speed up when you get into a fight.

Yes, they say it becomes affected,

When you are elated or dejected,

Or when you get into a tussle,

But I know that it’s just a muscle.

Horror

Horror is cool

Horror is dudey

Horror is scary

But still very dudey

I like horror

Cause it is full of blood

Also I think

That it ain’t a load of crud

The gory bits are best

Especially the maws

Of the big, big monsters

With their chainsaws

Notes On Working From Home

I sit

At my desk

As I work from home.

When I look up

I see the garden.

I see the grass.

It does not look any longer than it did yesterday,

But my wife will still ask me to mow it

And put some fertiliser on it.

 

I sit

At my desk.

Technically,

It is the dining room table

As I do not own a desk,

Let alone an office.

If I had an office,

It would be upstairs

And I would not be able to see the garden,

Nor be constantly reminded of the need

To mow the lawn.

 

I get up

And make myself a cup of tea.

As I wait for the tea to brew

I look out

Of the kitchen window

And see the bloody grass again.