poetry, rhyme

Post match post-mortem

Post match post mortem 4

Our lads played with courage, with passion and pride,
Was the kind of performance that warms you inside,
We controlled the possession, dictated the play,
The fact they scored seven? Just a bad day.

No they weren’t quicker, just we were too slow,
And as everyone knows, it’s a tough place to go,
The ball boys are naughty, the ref’s on their side,
We prefer it to rain, but it’s lovely outside.

Now we’re stuck at the bottom and fighting the drop,
But if points were for effort we’d be right up the top,
We beat ourselves, they didn’t beat us,
They smashed in seven, then parked the bus.

On a pitch smooth and silky, of course they played better,
But bring ‘em to ours where it’s rocky and wetter,
Away teams are lucky to get out alive,
And our fans don’t wear clothes ‘less it’s minus five.

No we weren’t lacking desire and bravery,
And for 10 grand a day? Well, it’s practically slavery,
We’re a bold, dashing side, with invention and flair,
Tanned glossy thighs, and long golden hair.

I simply can’t question the boys’ heart and soul,
They just need to score more in the OTHER team’s goal,
We’re working on passing and shooting and movement,
Was 8-0 last week, so a marked improvement.

On their lad’s broken leg, yes, that’s always a shame,
And he’ll probably never be quite the same,
But perhaps it’s a measure of where the game’s gone,
‘cause back in my day, he’d get up and play on.

Now I’m sure you’ll all busy, so time to wrap up,
We’ve a big midweek game in the who cares cup,
I predict in the future we might actually win,
But for now, I could sure use an extra-large gin.


Beauty and the chicken


beauty and the chicken

For my little sister Lara and her husband (Chicken) on their wedding day. 

I first met the chicken alone on the stair,
A scruffy young posh boy with fluffy blond hair,
Thick chunky legs poking out from his shorts,
He was bad with girls, but good at sports.

First impressions of the new boy in school,
Were less Casanova, more village fool,
On the palm of his hand a colossal red blister,
He was the kind of guy you could trust with your sister.

But let’s not forget that way back then,
Our heroine was probably not yet ten,
There was plenty of time for this handsome young prince,
To trim his nails and have a good rinse.

The years went by and chicken became,
A bit of a legend, renowned throughout Thame,
But his time was spent out chasing balls in the dirt,
When perhaps he should have been chasing some skirt.

Meanwhile, Larisa Poppy Moore was growing up!

She cast off the tantrums and childish tears,  
And on reaching the age of 18 years,
The local economy started roaring,
As sales of Lambrini and Breezers went soaring.

Her and her wonderfully happy band,
Would have nightly adventures, get right out of hand,
As the nights grew longer, the skirts got shorter,
She was very much her mother’s daughter.

But for all of the parties and drunk fun and laughter,
A partner in crime was all she was after,
A strapping young sportsman to hang around,
But apparently those are thin on the ground.

So, we have one a sporting hero, afraid of girls,
And a local young damsel with pretty brown curls,
Hoping to catch a ‘rugby sort’,
The former just hoping he might get caught.

The only thing that could stand in between,
The greatest love story the world had even seen,
Was a raging brother with a grip like a vice,
But I actually thought it was all rather nice.

I first put two and two together,
On an August afternoon, with temperate weather,
‘Twas Lara’s birthday in old London town,
And chicken just happened to be around.

The situation got steadily scarier,
As chicken was increasingly ‘just in the area’,
One thing naturally led to another,
And I was on track for another brother.

Time to conclude.

They’re a partnership of quite some note,
And on each other they count and devote,
When together they’re never glum,
Adversity and sadness they overcome.  

They’re peas in a pod, a perfect match,
And, in their own special way, an excellent catch,
So from a proud big brother and a lifelong friend,
I wish you both the world ‘til the very end.


Mr Cyclist

Mr cyclist

Moody Mr Cyclist, why are you so mad?
You’re saddled high, the road flies by, you really should be glad,
You say you find your inner chi when out there on the bike,
But with the slightest altercation anger crashes through the dyke.

Tell me Mr cyclist, but are you really happy?
Or searching for an outlet in a life a little crappy,
The fact you had to touch the brake is not a good excuse,
For that comic rant of hate and bile and biblical abuse,

You say that you’re escaping from the choked commuter farse,
But your face is like a warthog with a cactus up its arse,
Your chilled ‘off-bike’ demeanour’s a deceptive mask of lies,
For the rage in every sinew of your gristled calves and thighs.

So your ride has revolutionised the way you see the world?
But it seems that something’s up, from the abuse that’s being hurled,
I admit I rode a bit too close, and maybe nudged in front,
But it really was an accident, I’m not a “dreadful c***”.

And for all your smuggy righteousness, you always jump the lights,
Like a smarmy two wheeled Robin Hood, in shiny padded tights,
You say that it’s the only way to see you don’t get hit,
But you and I both know that that’s massive crock of s***.

About the other weekend, I brushed passed you on the track,
It was half one in the morning, you were head to toe in black,
And then began the shouting in those stupid girly tights,
Just go and buy a helmet and some twinkly shiny lights.

To wrap this up in earnest, you’re a wally and a twit,
You make the cycling world a target that the taxis want to hit,
So ride your steed with joy and speed and cut the stupid fuss,
Or put it straight back in the shed and take the f*cking bus.


Shut up Sharapova.

Shut up Sharapova

Shut up Sharapova, you’re a monumental bore,
You make the joy of watching Wimbledon a shouty, screechy chore,
With every wail of anguish, and every bellowed scream,
I want to stuff your massive gob with strawberries and cream.

Please shut up Sharapova, do the watching world a favour,
Give us just a minute’s break of silence we can savour,
At one end of the tennis court I’m positively thrilled,
But from the other comes a piercing shriek of something being killed.

Dear Sharapova, please excuse my acrid tone,
But after watching just two sets of you I need to be alone,
It’s like I’ve opened up my sitting room to a raging power lifter,
And you haven’t even started going up the volume shifter.

It’s so confusing Sharapova, you’ve such silky endless legs,
But you are literally a siren, and the question that this begs,
Is how can something quite so wonderful make such an awful din?
And also does council make a soundproof wheely bin?

Shut up Sharapova, we all know you have to whack it,
But other players manage it without that dreadful racket,
You’re so elegant between the points, your flowing golden hair,
So why transform into a werewolf being murdered by a bear?

I wonder if when night time comes and you’ve other balls in hand,
And your coupling reaches 40 love, is it heard throughout the land?
In the final throws of pleasure does your other half roll over,
Put his fingers in his ears, pleading “shut up Sharapova”?

Ok Sharapova, so I’d like to make a deal,
That perhaps we could agree over a quiet evening meal,
The tennis fans of England give a million English pounds,
To make sure that this ordeal doesn’t last the early rounds.

I look forward to your thoughts.


Nosh. No nonsense.

Nosh - no nonsense

Saturday morning, headache pounds,
With a thousand fags and late night rounds,
From out the window a life giving breeze,
Brings the smell of eggs and bacon and cheese.

All the above, with lashings of sauce,
And the weekend might just take a pleasant course,
Follow the scent, find the venue,
Throw open the door, look at the menu…and…

What the fuck.

Sparrow’s eggs with flourless bread,
Poached in squid ink on a watercress bed,
A bacon crisp, and tomato foam,
Served with an ironic garden gnome.

It’s Tuesday evening, rain smashing down,
Job is shit, girl’s out of town,
Head from work and straight down the pub,
For some honest, hearty, home cooked grub.

Shepherds pie, sausage and mash,
Steak and fries, corned beef hash,
Order a pint and while it’s poured,
Take a minute to look at the board…and…

What the fuck.

A salad of fragrant buttercup petals,
Dressed with foraged stinging nettles,
Butterfly wings and road-kill mousse,
Pomegranate seeds and snail juice.

Sun baked tail of grass fed lamb,
Glazed with pickled gherkin jam,
Chips cooked 27 times,
Wilted leaves and candied limes.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to be faced,
With a weird and wonderful dish to taste,
It’s just that there’s a time and a place,
And sometimes a man wants to stuff his face.

This farty fancy food invasion,
Is not for every meal occasion,
So take your rosti and sea bass lips,
And bring be some old fashioned fish and chips!


The morning pilgrimage


Watch the grannies in their cardies duck and weave,
Midst the sticky pungent remnants of the night time’s boozy heave,
A geriatric dance around the mess,
Of another Camden weekend of ridiculous excess.

Spirits high and gummy smiles wide,
They inch along the pavement like a blue rinsed zombie tide,
With elegance, decorum and repose,
Stopping just occasionally for a necessary doze.

Like shrapnel from a multicoloured comet,
Stretches out a rancid patchwork quilt of fresh projectile vomit,
Coating dirty greying flagstones with its stench,
And forming stagnant putrid puddles round a rusting bus stop bench.

Yet the ancient morning pilgrims soldier forth,
As they make the daily voyage to their Mecca two blocks north,
Set their pacemakers to get there before nine,
So when the post office doors are opened they’re the first to get in line.

They wind their tartan trolleys left and right,
As they dodge with great agility detritus of the night,
To head the queue to buy a book of stamps,
They must first avoid the lingering drunks, the crack-heads and the tramps.

In anguish one cries out then swiftly veers,
To evade a streaky ribbon of repulsive dog shit smears,
Which reaches out in vain to block her way,
Its curving dank brown finger in mischievous stinky play.

And with a final thrust at last they reach their goal,
Recoup with tea fresh from a thermos and a foil packed egg roll,
They’ll be back around the fire by half past 10,
Rising up the following morning to do it all again.




Advice for lads


If you’ve cocked things up in royal style,
And they can’t be fixed with a ‘cheeky smile’,
You’re surrounded by anger, confusion and shock,
You need to be gone by many a mile.

Allow me to elaborate.

When the perfect snowball launched with pace,
Arcs through the air with deadly grace,
Misses its target by quite some way,
And smashes your granny flush in the face.

When your mongrel mutt without a sound,
Clears the fence with a single bound,
Gets his doggy lipstick out,
And violates the neighbour’s pedigree hound.

When your beautiful dinner date tips her head,
And into her quarters you are lead,
You wake in the night all warm and content,
And realise you’ve pissed the bed.

Run my boy, run straight for the door,
Run like you’ve never run before,
Run fast and free with the wind in your hair,
Til the land runs out and you reach the shore.

When you smash a cricket ball clean and true,
Over the hedge and out of view,
From in the distance you hear the crash,
Of something expensive and shiny and new.

When you’ve jumped your old man’s brand new car,
Just for a ‘test drive’….not too far,
And you click as he picks up the keys to show mum,
That you left in the back seat your co-pilot’s bra.

When the coffin passes your point in the crowd,
And all around you stand sad and proud,
Your body in mourning, tired and stressed,
Starts to giggle then laugh out loud.

Cast aside resolve and mettle,
Just head for the door and do one, petal,
Show the world a clean pair of heels,
And wait from afar for the dust to settle.

For if you’ve crafted an epic fail,
And instinct tells you to turn and bail,
Heed these words and don’t resist,
And you might just live to tell the tale.

You’re welcome.