And one more poem seening as how the MPs are annoying me so much

Justice

The MPs are instructed that they must now repay
Some of the dodgy cash that they have spirited away.
They arrogantly stand, rolling out their weak defences
Blaming the rules in place for claiming their expenses.

They fought so that no details would ever be disclosed
But fifty two percent of them have so far been exposed,
They had no choice, the truth was out and so the Police arrived
To investigate the quite amazing claims they had contrived.

Just as we began to think that we had seen the worst,
And that this foul, salacious bubble had, at last burst,
The Police have charged some MPs with what’s amounting
To stealing our cash through criminally false accounting.

And Gordon Brown Prime Minister, the whip did soon withdraw
On discovering that they were searching through the law
For some aged clause that would leave them quite exempt
From the law of the land which they treat with such contempt.

All is not however lost, for if just one good MP
Resigns their seat right now and makes clear the way for me.
I’ll enter the House of Commons before they hold the next election
And I too shall employ the rules of “Privilege” protection.

For if they can’t be touched for the things that they have done
Then under these same rules, I too could have some fun.
So be careful squirming thieves, when next you see the Mace
For it may be heading, at speed, towards your face.

And when at last, all these swine have drawn their final breath
On live TV, the BBC, bludgeoned to death
I’ll explain that these men themselves have attested
That for deeds committed in the House one cannot be arrested.

So if you feel there’s mileage in “Bludgeon a crook”
Then why not start up a group, right now, on Facebook?
When we have a million names, we’ll be hard to ignore
And then we’ll give new meaning to “The long arm of the law.”

Another poem

The sinking ship

The HMS Commercial sailed off one fateful day
Filled with holiday-makers who were quite happy to pay
For a day’s pleasure cruising upon tropical seas
With factor 19 cream on their faces and their knees.

The captain stood there proudly in his cap with its peak
And neglected to mention that the ship, it had a leak.
Presently they sailed away, far out of sight of land
With a crew who were quite clueless and paid cash in hand.

Well, the morning soon passed by and everything was fine
But shortly after lunchtime the weather went into decline.
The black storm clouds approached and the seas became higher
And the straits they were in were most certainly dire.

With the engine never serviced they could not outrun
The tropical storm that would soon replace the sun.
And cursing beneath his breath, the sad captain declared
That perhaps he really should have got the radio repaired.

The winds closed in so quickly and with terrifying force
And the vessel soon was blown many miles from its course.
In howling winds, lashed by waves and rattled by the thunder
It was not long until the ship started to go under.

Throughout the night those not drowned, they helplessly drifted
The storm began to fade away, the night slowly lifted.
A survivor yelled aloud that he thought that he could see
Something in the distance – the top of a palm tree?

As dawn became morning someone soon spotted sand
For yes, they had drifted within sight of some land.
Staggering from the water, non-believers converted
And prayed thanks to the Lord for this island, deserted.

For this group of survivors things could have been much worse
As the range of their many skills was amply diverse.
A doctor, farmer, cook and an iron ore smelter
A builder who set about making them a shelter.

Not everybody though gave approval to these plans
A man stood up addressing them (whilst rubbing his hands.)
“You people worry far too much of water, food, health.
I’m Guy and I’m a banker and I generate wealth!”

They’d suffered so much trauma and some were still in shock
They believed what he had said and so they did not mock.
Despite the hype and splendour though, some folks’ hearts sank
On the opening day of the New Island Bank.

They soon had made up a mould and minted up some coins
And the banker experienced a warmth in his loins.
The cash was divided with no difference in rank
And the banker used all his share to buy out the bank.

Now the bank was liquid and had cash it could invest
Folks gave Guy their money - as he paid them interest.
And soon the bank had purchased the rights to the little stream
And charged the people a small fee – then he’d keep it clean.

Guy went on to argue, until they all conceded
That capitalism was the system that they needed.
Each person had skills he said, and they ought to be prized
And all working together, well, that should be despised.

So now the population, they all began to trade
Some weaker folks went hungry and some fortunes were made.
The teacher grew quite poor because an education
Has to come second when you’re faced with near starvation.

The farmers sought to get some cash to employ farm hands
So to grow their businesses and cultivate the lands.
The banker, he advised them to allocate some shares
That would pay out in hard cash as they sold all their wares.

The advice of this expert was never rejected
And a brand new Stock Exchange was shortly erected.
Built for nothing, by the bank, with just one condition
All deals that were done would attract commission.

Each transaction had to pay a small fee to the bank.
Some made enormous profits whilst certain others sank.
Win, lose, draw, on every deal, the bank still got its slice
The banker thought to himself, “A bonus, very nice.”

And Guy counted all his cash, in his bank, contente
Whilst all throughout the land the people, they lamented
When you chose to look at it, it did seem rather funny
How they did all the work but the bank got all the money.

One or two of the people then withdrew their cash
And as rumours circulated this turned into a dash.
The bank ceased to pay them claiming that it had run dry
Whilst the nouveau poor simply asked each other “Why?”

“Well of course” the banker said “I do get a few perks.
But if we paid any less our staff would all be berks.
The cash that we held has now all gone out as bonus
And on you, to take good care, was firmly placed the onus.

If you had provided us some better regulation
We wouldn’t now be faced with all of this privation.
The service we provide, it is completely essential
Without a bank, this town would have so little potential.

Just to show you goodwill, here is a solution
Relying upon just a tiny contribution
And no-one here need fear that they will get the axe
Just a small percentage charge, being levied as a tax.”

The people now worked longer, just to earn the same
And the bank took the taxes but none of the blame.
Then just three months later the bonuses were back
No cash left to lend and the farm-hands got the sack.

Hungry, dirty, in despair, the teacher looks on
And wonders to himself how it has gone so wrong.
Guy sits at home, counts his cash and prepares to retire
Oblivious as the people build a mighty bonfire

A poem

I’ve been compared to Eric

Yes I’ve been compared to Eric
And the reason why, is that
Our styles are so very similar
When I’m plucking at my Strat.

As my fingers surf the fretboard
And my feet control the pedals,
I wear these words around my neck
Like a row of polished medals.

Maybe they’ll give me a name –
Something like Slowhand
And girls will scream when I play
Lead in a massive blues-rock band.

I could have got big-headed
I think you get the gist, so
I suppose it’s not so bad to learn
That they meant Eric Bristow.

A topical sporting poem

Well, what with the sports news being full of England winning the ashes and speculation as to the gender of a successful female (?) athlete, what could be more topical than a poem about gender fraud in cricket?

This one was inspired by the incorrect use of a well known expression on the BBC news. I can't say any more without spoiling the poem but think of it as being like someone I once knew who used to use the word "Touche" when the phrase they really wanted was "pot calling the kettle black."

As the Test Match Special team declined to share it with the nation, the task falls to me ...

The tale of Andy/Pandy

Andy was a sporting lad – his passion being cricket
And he was never happier than when standing at the wicket.
At school he took no notice and failed all his exams –
His only interest being cricket, he had no other plans.

Dedicated, focused, he was completely single minded
And to any other path in life he was completely blinded.
Careers advice came and went, he didn’t want to know
‘Cos as soon as he was able Andy planned on turning pro.

He thought that in a year or two, winning trophies for his county
The national selectors would offer him a mighty bounty.
And in the test arena he would take the centre stage
Five wicket hauls and centuries whilst still of tender age.

Many films have taught us what should happen in this tale -
He makes it big then crashes down, his career doomed to fail.
Then one last chance, against the odds, he has his glory day
But alas for poor Andy it just didn’t work that way.

For his club he played quite well and some he did impress
But county trials came and went without any success.
As a semi-pro, in the leagues, at least he could get paid
But when it came to the first class game, he couldn’t make the grade.

Even when it dawned on him that he’d never be the best
Andy couldn’t lose that urge he had to one day play a test.
He’d never be a Botham, Kapil Dev or Bishan Bedi
But could he get to play a test - if they thought he was a lady?

He started to experiment with a bra and rugby socks.
He shaved his legs, bought perfumes and a supply of pretty frocks.
He changed his voice, bought a wig and grew his nails quite long.
And washed his feet six times a day to hide the manly pong.

Just one more step and he could surely gain that sporting fame
All he had to do now was select a female name.
He toyed with many options, Cathy, Debbie, June and Flora
And finally decided he would call himself Pandora.

This seemed a brilliant choice as he was always known as Andy
So he wouldn’t be confused at all when someone called out “Pandy!”
Things were back on track again, he was really on a roll
He went to a solicitor and got his name changed by deed poll.

And soon enough, in the ladies’ game, through the ranks he rose
Taking wickets, scoring runs whilst wearing ladies’ clothes.
He chatted to the other girls of hand cream, love and flowers
And made a point of never being seen whilst in the showers.

And sure enough the day came when he got the sought for call
“It’s England here, we’ve watched you play, good form with bat and ball.
So come on Pandy, raise your game, don’t even think of failure
Don’t be meek, for come next week, you’ll play against Australia.”

After so much disappointment, words alone could not express
His absolute elation, so he donned his favourite dress.
When his day of fame arrived, he’d want to look his best
So he bought some extra Immac for his arms and cheeks and chest.

The waiting seemed eternal but soon the big day came
And off he went to Edgbaston – the setting for the game.
The sky was blue, the toss was won and the pitch looked nice and flat.
Said the English captain to the Aussie “I think we’ll have a bat.”

But soon enough with saddened faces the openers returned
As, how to bowl on English pitches, the Aussie girls had learned.
And the moment Pandy dreamed of, finally came alive
As she strode out to the middle with England twenty nine for five.

The crowd of sixty seven made a noise like many more
And from Pandora confidence exuded every pore.
“I’ll knock your bloody head off” said the bowler, over the din.
“Okay, good luck” Pandora said “and may the best man win.”

The Aussie girls ran in hard with swing and seam and bounce
But Pandora wasn’t to be outdone and savoured every ounce.
She drove the ball and cut and swept like May, Lamb or Hutton
Although she may have dressed like Lamb, she really was just mutton.

She ground it out, her dream come true, the runs began to flow.
And soon she had her fifty and then decided to let go.
The scoreboard started flying around, they’d make three hundred yet
But as they quickened up the pace Pandora began to sweat.

She carried on regardless ‘til her score was eighty two
Then signalled to the balcony – her gloves were soaked right through.
When a century on debut is all that occupies your mind
It’s easy to forget what, in your kit bag, they may find.

The substitute dashed inside and soon found Pandy’s kit.
Gillette Mach 3 – unusual, but she gave no thought to it.
The thing that raised her interest, amongst sweaters, shirts and socks
Was the moment when her hand touched upon Pandora’s box.

And just as in the myths of old, all Hell was soon let loose.
The chairman of selectors was seen trying to tie a noose.
Management met behind the scenes with every member fuming
As Pandy moved to ninety eight, her maiden century looming.

In ran the Aussie bowler but she overstepped the mark.
The ball flew through mid-wicket and almost left the park.
The crowd rose to their feet with cheering and cat calls.
Not quite what Pandy’d meant when she prayed to have no balls.

And the folks down there at Edgbaston still speculate today
About the silent England balcony as she left the field of play.
A hundred and fifty three not out – an innings long and brave
She climbed the steps to great applause then went to have a shave.

And the next day’s papers praised her, and her great achievement
Sympathising with her family about their sad bereavement.
With greed perhaps she’d run downstairs to sign the sponsors’ deals
Which is not a great idea for a bloke in six inch heels.

They got the team’s own doctor to certify the death
And had a quick cremation, hardly pausing for a breath.
To help allay suspicion, they blamed it on “the pox”
But we all know the real truth of the tale of Pandora’s box.

Florence - an historical poem

This piece of silliness was inspired by a comment I overheard (thanks June) as a lady tried to describe another lady to her friend. I can't say a lot more without giving away the gag.

Anyway, nearly all of this is true, with one slight adjustment to history ...

Florence

Little Florence was born back in 1820
To a family that was blessed with plenty.
And they derived their fun and games
From messing around with the family names.

Mum’s name was Smith and dad’s was Shore
“Not good enough – we’ll use them no more.”
Her uncle’s name could hardly fail
So Florence became Miss Nightingale.

Named after the city of her birth
This could have led to so much mirth
If her parents hadn’t taken pains
To live in Tuscany and not in Staines.

Her sister must have worn a frown -
Born in the Greek part of town.
Could parents really be so dopey
To call their girl Parsinope?

But with talk of names we do digress
From the points we really should address
So let us focus on the tale
Of the famous Florence Nightingale.

The fact that I can now reveal
That her ample skirts did conceal
A defect passed down by her mother
One leg much shorter than the other.

As Florence used to hobble round
She made a most alarming sound.
Her footsteps walking down the road
Like a string of “A”s in Morse code!

With a six inch gap between her knees
She stood at forty five degrees.
“Quite a problem” the doctor said
But great for leaning over a bed.

These words had a profound effect
And her new career she did select.
To her family’s disgust and cursing
Florence decided to enter nursing.

Having finished all her training
Florence soon began complaining
She even helped to change the law
To make life better for the poor.

This sort of thing can soon annoy
The 1850s Hoi Polloi.
So driven by their jealous fear
They sent her off to the Crimea.

Looking back it seems quite quirky
Where she ended up - in Turkey.
For a front line post she’d been hopeful
But ended up in Constantinople.

She said “I really think I’d rather
Be somewhat nearer Balaklava.”
But the local hospital was full
In the place we now call Istanbul.

And whilst the view was more than scenic
The hospital was not hygienic.
And the poor sanitary conditions
Killed more than did Russian munitions.

They cleaned the sewers, scrubbed the wards
Bringing hope to injured hordes.
And Florence’s familiar clip … clop
Patrolled the wards with her bucket and mop.

With one leg short and one leg tall
‘Twas a miracle that she didn’t fall.
She struggled on, she was no wimp
She was “The lady with the limp.”

Poem - The Best Men

A true story ...

The Best Men

A rhyme we all know urges us to remember
The events that occurred on the 5th of November.
And given the couple, it seemed only right
That my friend should get married on Fireworks Night.

Some names have been changed to protect the deluded
Some horrors omitted but most are included.
This was a wedding where no-one brought tissues
For the bride and the groom, well they had certain issues.

Bertie (we’ll call him) was fond of a drink
And his wife, soon to be, took this trend to the brink.
They made Darby and Joan look like Joseph and Mary
As every five minutes one or other’d get lairy.

And neither could claim to be new to the game
Some say she’d forgotten her own maiden name.
And Bertie had walked many a good mile
When he took his regular trips down the aisle.

The venue for weddings – the community hub
Is often a church but in this case, a pub.
But nothing tacky you must understand
For they even brought in a two piece band.

Whilst somewhat alarmed to be named as Best Man –
With alcohol likely to ruin the plan –
I did all I could so that things would go well
And I’d get no blame for the wedding from Hell.

The wedding day came and to my surprise
The bride and the groom had both managed to rise.
She was away being made up and dressed
We went for a “half” with his dad and the rest.

I had no control over half the equation
And looking at Bertie I suspected evasion
Might cross him mind with him now corpus mentis
If I let him escape I’d soon need a dentist.

It seemed a bit wrong to drink in the pub
So we went down the road to the local club.
Spirits and ale served to quell any nerves
But the journey back involved a few swerves.

And now at the venue things seem okay.
The bride has arrived – looks like we’re away.
Any time now, with vows made they’ll be kissing
When somebody whispers “The bride has gone missing.”

Trying our best to be most discreet
At the back of the room three of us meet.
“It’s only two minutes – she can’t have got far”
And in unison we all go and search in the bar.

The obvious location fails to deliver
So we look in the streets and check in the river.
Where she had gone I never discovered
But a phone call informed us the bride was recovered.

Taking your seat to hand groom the ring
On the face of it seems like a simple thing.
This was the job with which I was tasked
Thinking that I was the only one asked.

This illusion was shattered abruptly when
We discovered that Bertie had four Best Men.
Each stuperous evening - another best mate
And another Best Man for his special date.

The service proceeded with speed if not grace
And the groom’s mother cried - despair on her face.
As they rushed through the vows the couple were thinking
“Hurry up mate” we want to get drinking.

With all said and done we drank and we ate
And debated where might lie their fate.
Some gave it six months before she’d be leaving
Pessimists ventured the end of the evening.

The Best Men convened within bar’s easy reach
And decided who should be making the speech.
I think we drew lots and I was the loser
Making a speech for my mate in the boozer.

Far be it from me to ever disparage
The cynical views re. the length of the marriage.
In spite of the widespread doubts and fears
They held it together for roughly two years.

No-one can claim this time was delightful
And fuelled with booze it soon became spiteful.
Night spent in cells, police and injunctions
Soon took the place of everyday functions.

The house was re-mortgaged to enable libation
The money all gone, she made straight for the station.
Took the shirt off his back and even his vest
And the property was very soon repossessed.

Bertie is quick to make the admission
“You said it would happen” – a face of contrition.
But undeterred by all the trouble and strife
I hear that he’s working on his next final wife.

Poem - Christmas Time Again

Yes, as awful a prospect as it is, with September almost upon us, it will be the extended "festive" season in no time at all.

Perhaps, like me, you relish this with the same sort of enthusiasm as a dental appointment for some root canal work. If so, read on ...

This was originally written (and performed) as a song. For any musos out there, it's in 6/8 time just think DUM DADA DADA DUM DADA DADA

Chords (in G) are:

Line 1: G  C
Line 2: G  D
Line 3: G  Em
Line 4: C  D  G
Then repeat line 4 with some backing vocals singing "It's christmas time again" - Easy!

Christmas time again


Now Christmas time is once again here
The sleigh bells ring and the children all cheer
And every adult trembles with fear
‘Cos it’s Christmas time again.

The TV adverts make me want to scream
It feels like I’m having a terrible dream
The shops are still selling sun tan cream
But it’s Christmas time apparently.

Men dressed as Santa want all my dough
I’ll punch the next bloke that says “Yo ho ho!"
Shove his charity box where it doesn’t show
“Merrrry Christmas!”

Five quid a child just to go in the grotto
Cobblers to that unless I win the lotto
“Bah humbug” seems to be a good motto
When it’s Christmas time again.

The kids don’t want bikes or new party frocks
They’ve all got to have the latest X-box
And all I ever get are more bloody socks
And a year’s supply of Lynx.

And I must attend the wife’s works Christmas bash
Be on best behaviour and spend loads of cash
Oh sod it, I think I’ll just go on the lash
As it’s Christmas time again.

So I drink wine and beer in copious amounts
And then I set eyes on the girl from Accounts
I slip her my best lines – I’m ready to pounce
Well, it’s only once a year innit?

I take her outside – the air’s cold as a freezer
To help keep her warm I cuddle and squeeze her
Oh Christ, I think it’s a cross dressing geezer!
Christmas Bloody Christmas.

After three months of build up it’s now Christmas Eve
The kids are off school and I’m off on leave
One more mince pie and I’m sure I’ll heave
“Huuueeeey” - Christmas again.

The kids lie awake all excited in bed
For some fat bloke to come, all dressed in red
Next year I’ll tell them the old bugger’s dead
Yeah, that’ll save a few bob at Christmas.

Now it’s four in the morning on Christmas Day
I can’t go to bed ‘till the kids drift away
So I slip ‘em a Vallium and think “Hooray!”
A year before Christmas again.

The morning has come and the family’s here
The mother-in-law brings me no festive cheer
I’ve hidden the mistletoe out of blind fear
Help! It’s Christmas again.

The missus’s mother is no Christmas fairy
She’s out of her head on egg nog and sherry
And any time now she’ll start to get lairy
Not much peace and goodwill here mate.

And now the old trout has been drinking my whiskey
Oh bloody hell, now she’s getting quite frisky
I’m off to the pub – this is getting too risky
Why couldn’t I have been Jewish?

I stand at the bar in a line of new sweaters
Men that were wealthy, transformed into debtors
Some want to leave home, they write their wives letters
And Christmas cheer abounds.

The log fire burns and we stare at the embers
Come up with a plan to cancel Decembers
But we’re all too drunk and no-one remembers
‘Till it’s Christmas time again.

And again …

And again …

And again …