There's a time to rhyme

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I like to do a bit of poetry (or as Anna calls it 'poeming') now and again.
 Here is one I wrote a long time ago.

NORTHERN LIFE

We had fried fish today, for tea,

Fresh, from t’chip-shop d’yer see.

I said: I must not eat t'batter,

For t'batter's sure to make me fatter.

Our mother, she did not agree –

And threw t'teapot straight at me!

My dad, he looked up from his paper,

Shouting: Stop this bleedin’ caper,

I’m tryin’ t’do t’crossword, here –

Now go and get me some more beer.

He banged his jug down on t'table,

I ran as fast as I was able,

To the ‘Offy’ down our street,

But coming back I chanced to meet

My girlfriend, Mary Ellen Hickey,

Who said: Oi, Oi, let’s have a quickey.

We did, but when I got back 'ome,

The beer had lost its head of foam.

Luckily, mi dad was out –

Knocked cold by mother’s fearsome clout.

I said: What have you done to dad?

He’s really looking rather sad.

She finished off  t'beer herself,

Replaced t'jug upon t'shelf

And said: Nah lad, no time for strictures –

Get yer cap – we’re off t’pictures.

Anna: update

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Marks & Spencer’s café – Friday 11^th November.

I am going to reincarnate myself – she said.

You mean reinvent yourself – I responded.

Reincarnate… reinvent… what does matter? Is same thing.

To reincarnate you have to be dead, first – I quipped.

You English and your bloody silly language – she snorted.

I decided to backtrack.

Well I think that is a good thing… for you to reinvent yourself, I mean.

What, you are not liking Anna in her present invention?

Of course. What I mean is… well, I have reinvented myself several times.

Yes, but Anna is not making such a bloody mess of it like as what you have.

I decided to change the subject – I see you are still wearing that perfume. So… sensuous…powerful. It hit me as I was passing the carrot cake.

Yes, brother Sven he send me some… in diplomatic bag.

Diplomatic bag! - I expostulated.

Is little Swedish joke – she laughed, pleased that she had caught me - Of course he send by normal postal service which is crap in your country.

If you dislike our country so much why did you sneak back in?

I do not sneak back. I never leave.

But I thought you had been deported.

Hah! Such stupid immigrant officials. No wonder country overrun with bloody foreigners.

Like yourself – I joked. This, I realised as I wiped the lemon-merengue from my face, was a mistake.

I am not foreigner – she screamed – I am from Sweden, not some half-arsed country what has only just been drawn on map!

Sorry. Of course. But I see now why it is necessary for you to reinvent yourself – I said.

She calmed down. You catching on quick, boyo.

Boyo?

Just little word I pick up from Welsh gentleman friend. Which is not all I pick up from the bastard, but this is by the wayside.

So how...

When officials come for to collect me, I am no longer there, having successfully transposed myself to flat of girlfriend Sylvia, above shop of man who sell special meat for Jewish peoples.

That’s nice – I said.

No. Is not nice. You should experience awful stink what comes up through cracks in floorboards. Which is bringing me to present point of meeting we are now enjoying.

[more on this story later]

At a loose end?

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When you find you can’t face Facebook

And think that Twitter’s for twats,

And them that Skype

Are not your type,

And Bebo is driving you bats.

When your Hotmail’s gone cold

And though you’ve cajoled

The bloody thing won’t let you in,

All your text has been lost

At unthinkable cost

And you just don’t know where to begin.

When you see the banality

Of ‘virtual reality’

Staring you right in the face,

And you live in terror

Of ‘system error’

And haven’t got room for ‘MySpace’.

Why not pick up a book (not a Kindle!)

Or better still, go for a walk –

You could call in a pub

Some shoulders to rub –

Before you forget how to talk

Anna returns

******************************************

Well, it’s funny you should say that, Mr Adams, but I shall be seeing Anna later today. She has changed her name ‘for professional reasons’, and does not wish me to disclose her new name – at least not for the time being.

 I shall, therefore, continue to refer to her as Anna.

She did, however, make an informed comment on the recent scandal concerning – as she puts it – ‘the gent what got the boot for relaxing the immigration controls and has been used as a sacrilegious lamb by that cow of a Home Secretary.’

It is most unusual for Anna to take an interest in the political scene; I really don’t know why this item should interest her so much. I hope to find out more when I see her and shall, of course, pass on any relevant information.

DANCING TOWARDS THE DOLE

(Headline in the Independent – 24/10/11)

… The Northern Ballet Academy may have to lose 10 out of 40 jobs because of spending cuts…

I can imagine them hanging around on Monday morning, along with the regular clientele, waiting for the Dole to open: Leotards and Arabesques meet Shell Suits and ASBOS.

“What you lookin’ at mate? Fancy a trip daahn A&E, do ya?”

(I don’t know if ballet dancers really do speak like that.)

Anyway, it isn’t called the ‘Dole’ anymore: it is now the ‘Benefits Office’…

 ‘A rose by any other name…”?

I wonder if the unemployed dancers will get ‘Jobseeker’s Allowance’. What kind of jobs would they be seeking? Is ballet a transferable skill? And, if so, transferable to what?

“Unfortunately, we do not have any vacancies in Ballet at the moment.”

“Mmm, I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Err… You look a fairly fit young man. How about something in the building trade? Plenty of fresh air, exercise, that sort of thing. Now, Barrett Homes have a vacancy for a brickie’s labourer and- “

“Messing about with BRICKS! Have you any idea what that would do to one’s hands? A dancer’s hands are as important as his feet. Artistic impression. It’s all in the hands, you know.”

“Okay. Well, how about Postman? Again it’s out in the fresh air, and they give you a bike and- “

“A BIKE! Now you really are joking. Wreak havoc with the calves, that would: pedalling some stonking great machine up and down the highways and byways? Be serious, lovie.”

[Sighs] I’ll just put you down for Jobseekers Allowance.”

And would the ladies fare any better?

“I’ve got this vacancy for a female lavatory attendant at the town-square toilets. It’s mostly just sitting in a little cubicle taking their 20p and giving them a ticket. Of course there is some cleaning too, but you will be issued with rubber gloves and– “

“Excuse me – did you say rubber?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible darling. I’m allergic to rubber. I found out by accident one night when I…  Never mind. But I just don’t do rubber.”

“Well, ASDA are looking for shelf-stackers. I could–“

“LIBRARIAN!  Now I think that might suit me.”

“Oh - do you have any qualifications?  Experience?”

“Well no. But it can’t be that difficult: stamping books and keeping kids quiet.”

“Alas, there have been swingeing cuts in that field too. Do you know, I get library assistants in here looking for jobs as dancers! Some in their fifties too. Sad really.”

“Well, perhaps I could- “

“Tell you what: I’ll just put you down for Jobseekers’ Allowance.”

We no longer make anything in Britain, so the one-time employees of the ‘manufacturing industries’ are well used to ‘signing-on’. But when the recession hits the Entertainment and Leisure Industries things are indeed becoming rocky.

The CIRCUS for example: The only things CLOWNS are good at are honking motor horns, falling down and frightening small children.

As for LION-TAMERS – forget it.

And what about JOCKEYS? Little men who ride horses. What are they going to do if the Racing Game gets clobbered? I suppose they might get some seasonal work – in pantomime: Snow White and the seven jockeys?

PROFESSIONAL  FOOTBALLERS?  Oh dear!

Ironically, TELEVISION CHAT-SHOW HOSTS might not do too badly. With their incisive, probing interviewing skills they would be ideally suited to working in the Benefits Office which, because of the current crisis would need more staff…

The ‘ill wind’ that blows up the tutu also fills the sails…

Science (and turnips)

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The 'Physical  Sciences' are an exact science; the 'Social Sciences' are not.

It must be nice to work in a field where there are exactitudes; certainties. Where there are 'answers' waiting to be 'discovered', and you are either right or wrong.

I once worked in a field gathering turnips. There was neither right nor wrong in that field - just turnips.

You can always be certain of a turnip.

Stop moaning

Throughout History there have always been dissenting voices: malcontents, whingers, people who want to spoil it for everybody else.

It’s not on, you know

What?

This sacrificing virgins business.

Ah – you only say that because you are a virgin

.

Well. Isn’t that what they tell us? Not to ‘know’ a man before marriage? You stick to the rules and then what happens! You’re a prime candidate for the knife.

Yeah, well that’s our religion. Innit. Our culture. That’s what’s made us rulers of the world. You should be proud to be selected.

Talk about ‘I’m alright Jack’. Everyone knows you’ve been round the arena more times than an old chariot.

Ah, but I’m married. You need to read the small print: if you are married then you can put it about as much as you like. As long as you keep it quiet. And attend the temple every week. (in fact some of them High Priests are very friendly – if you know what I mean.)

But they’re supposed to be celibate

They gotta pretend to be celibate. Innit. They gotta be seen to be highly moral. Whether they are or not don’t really matter. That’s what makes society work: hypocrisy!  Makes the wheels go round.

So everybody who follows the rules – they lose out?

Well, obviously there’s got to be a majority to follow the rules so that the minority can break ‘em.

But that’s not fair.

Oh grow up! Sorry - you're not going to, are you. Anyway, make sure you look your best when they come for you. And for God’s sake smile! After all – tomorrow, you’re his chosen one.

Mr Adams

Was it Jung who talked about 'synchronicity' ? Only last night I had a dream where you asked me to umpire a tennis match between yourself and a friend. I asked you how long you were staying in England, you said - two months... you had to get back to your cork-farm(???)

So nice to hear from you... I have not been blogging for a bit but I have been writing.
I don't know how this 'ping thing' works but I will put more stuff on the blogg.

I have been a bit iffy of late and am visiting the doctor tomorrow. I rang up this morning and joined in the free for all. You have to ring at 8am to get an appointment. Of course everybody is ringing and it took me 45 minutes to get through.

I said - who've you got on today who's any good?
No appointments for today.
Okay, tomorrow then? Is that old Irish Biddy still working there? She seems a wise old trout.
If you mean Dr O'Hoolihan, she is no longer with us.
Oh dear, I sorry to hear she died.
No, I mean she has moved to another practice
Ok. Just stick a pin in then.

She booked me in for 10.30 to see a doctor with a vaguely English sounding name.

I shall issue a medical bulletin in the next 24 hours.

A Pastoral Pastiche

They encourage me to write while I was in there. I wrote this poem which they said had real promise.

A Pastoral Pastiche

On either side the river lie
Long fields of corn, and other stuff -
Which I cannot identify -
That clothe the hills and seem to meet
The ever lowering sky.
But this I know to be
An optical illusion,
Which causes simple country folk
A welter of confusion.

Now see the weary ploughman treading
Homeward o’er the lea,
Wondering what his dear wife Edith
Will have cooked him for his tea.
A change he hopes from last night -
A great big piece of mullet –
All day he’s tried hard to remove
The fishbone from his gullet.

He wanders lonely as a clown
Who, tired of circus and its thrills,
Longs to take up gardening,
And grow some golden daffodils.
For he was once a farmer’s boy,
Son of the soil – a Shropshire Lad,
Loved  his dear old mother –
But couldn’t stand his dad.

Meanwhile, in ivy covered cottage,
By a mill pond, dank and deep,
A weary woman waits and worries –
At the window see her weep.
Whispers to her dark-eyed daughter –
 Father’s late again, I fear,
 We’ll give the bugger ten more minutes –
 Then you can help me drink his beer.

  Just up and to the left of Dorset,
   A mile beyond the customs post,
   Girl Guides fold their tents in silence,
   And steal off home, to buttered toast.
   They’ve gone, and left their litter scattered -
   What a dirty little band -
  Just one corner of a forlorn field,
  That is forever, wasteland.

Five and twenty transit vans
Driving through the dark,
Porno for the parson,
Cocaine for the clerk -
Don’t go asking questions
It doesn’t do to pry -
Just watch the wall my darling
While the paedophiles go by.

 If I could keep my head, perhaps,
 While all around are in a tizzy,
 ‘Cos church clock’s stopped at three -
  If I could meet with Old Tom Cobley,
 And not to ask where’s thy grey mare?
 A better man I’d be –

 If I could fill each Happy Hour,
 In tavern warm and coach-house bright,
 With foaming porter from the barrel –
  I don’t think I’d go home tonight.

  But ours is not to reason why,
 Or do a runner on the sly,
 But bite the bullet where it falls –
 If we would grace Valhalla’s Halls.
 And so,upon this sceptre’d isle,
 This jewel set in silted sea,
 I leave these questions still unanswered, for
 It’s bugger all to do with me!


Please don't anyone try to reproduce this poem because I have copyrighted it.

           

Should auld aquaintance...

Good to hear that Mr Adams is still around in Illinois - or perhaps it is New England now!
Anyway, it is evidently not in that Guantanamo Bay place or he would not have access to the internet.

I went for a meal, on my own. In a cafe. As I was eating my 'Flying Start' (which is a sort of small English Breakfast), I noticed some big plastic letters, high up on the wall, which said "Children's  eals". The "m" must have fallen off and I began to worry that it might have fallen on someone's head; the sign is right above the till point and the letters look pretty substantial - like they're made out of some thick grey plastic stuff.

Anyway, Ephraim says that I must stop concerning myself over such things - that I am not responsible for everyone on the planet.

I told you I would be back

**************************

Well, I have finally been released into the community. My 'key worker' is Ephraim. I am not sure if he is Egyptian or Turkish, but he smokes some funny cigarettes. Anyway he tells me that I must not tire myself out in the first few weeks, so this will be a short post.