Monthly Archives: July 2018

The Old Stag

I turned into The Old Stag public house on a whim. It wasn’t a thing that I’d usually do – in fact, I’d only frequented my ’local’ about three times in the two years that we’d been living here. When I say ’about’ three times, that number is so low that I should definitely be able to recall the previous trio of entrances.

Let me see.

I first went there on the day of our moving in to ’The Beeches’ when I was seeking a short length of fuse wire.

’What do you think this is – an iron-mongers?’ was the ’friendly’ reply to my query. I left there a little deflated, and with nothing in the way of a solution to our ’current’ electrical problem. ’Current!’ do you get it?


The second time of entering through the doors of The Old Stag was when we took our family visitors there for a traditional Sunday Roast.

It was a Sunday; but, according to a notice in the bar, their chef was unwell after catering for a stag do in The Old Stag the previous evening. His own. No food was to be forthcoming and so we departed for distant climes to provide a hearty repast for ourselves and our guests.

The third time was well over a year ago. There was a darts derby match on that night. Treveltope Targets we’re playing Polymouth Phoenix Arose (sic). I was surplus to available bar space and the corner I stood in rapidly became a Room 501 for me.

Tonight was different.

’Under New Management’ had announced the notice in the window.

But. I was under no illusions that we were going to be happy with our renovated and re-upholstered local.

”Welcome to The New Stag!” a moustachioed copy of Charlie Chaplin, minus the Brown Derby bowler hat, approached from behind the bar.

”Can I get you a drink, sir? The first one is on the house.”

Well, I was stunned.

There had been a total transformation.

Gone was every vestige of character in the place. Modern seating, lighting, framed prints on the walls that would have confused Picasso. I was shocked to see a modern twenty-first century bling of a place.

I must say that I am no fuddy-duddy; but, this was something that I couldn’t help but gawp at.

A golden bust of a hugely oversize stag’s head was a centrepiece that would have put King Tut to shame. Antlers spreading up and out like a peacock’s tail – only much more flamboyant; and when you considered the marble plinth that supported this… this… monstrosity…

The stag was probably the worst attempt at a likeness since… well, since cave-paintings began.

”Can I get sir a drink? Sir?”

I was too shocked to reply. I had become transfixed by the gaze of the Lord of the Forest, I stood and was transfixed.

The eyes, it was the eyes that did it. They were piercing. The only part of the statue that wasn’t gold, they looked right through me. They knew my innermost thoughts and desires. I was revealed to those eyes as if my whole life’s CV had been printed on the side of a red AEC Routemaster London bus and paraded up and down Oxford Street for a week – the whole thing being simultaneously broadcast on 57 varieties of television channel.

I know not what happened then; but, I awoke in a hospital bed.

After much fuss and bother, I was informed that I had been taken from an establishment ’licensed for the purveyance of alcohol and spirits…’ some three years previously.

”Oh!” was my uninspiring response. Followed by the even more dismal, ”Oh, deer!”


Swoop! (About Gulls).

Swoop! (About Gulls).

Avoiding the cracks on the pavement,

meant that I was not paying attention

to what was going on around me;

to be precise ’above and behind me’.

I was also balancing the dietary combination

of pasty in one hand

with an ice-cream in the other.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, I was rudely awakened to the realities

of Looe and its resident opportunists seeking opportunities.

I have never seen a Herring Gull so big,

or was it just that close up they seem larger?

Anyway, this one was working in tandem

with a White-Headed Gull, patrolling the mean streets of a Cornish town on the look-out for easy-pickings, scraps and lickings.

Seeing me, they zoomed right in;

One grabbing the sweet, one the savoury –

oh, how I wished they were safely enclosed in an aviary.

It was over in a manic blur of wings and beaks;

whoever speaks from personal experience of these street muggings

is liable to be shaking and unable to string a sentence together –

and desperately in need of comfort and huggings.

Ah, well, ’stormy weather’ as they say,

helps to keep the gulls away.


So, just on the vision of this front cover would you buy the book?

Or would you ask for more information?

Would you want to read an extract?

Like this:

My task is to create a device for the safe eating of pasties (other food-stuffs are available) in Seagull-occupied areas.

If only I was an inventor…

And not a writer.


A hood

Might be good

With an area covered

Safe from attack

From the front

And the back.

With a space for the pastie to be held;

Like those masks

Of those people that weld;

But, with a little more space

For the pasty to face

One’s face.

Perhaps with a shelf inside

To rest the pasty

Between bites;

And maybe a light

For eating pasties at night.

What about a plastic Eagle

Perched upon the crown?

Seeing one of those might

Cause the seagull to think twice

About swooping down.

A Golden Eagle

With flapping wings

That you could operate

With carefully positioned strings.

And mirrors like you get on a Mod’s Lambretta

To allow for approaching seabird vigilance.

Thinking along these lines

Makes me feel better

That the ‘gulls can be deterred;

They won’t beat my Super-Gull-Proof Helmet;

They’re not that clever a bird…

Are they?

LindaGHill’s #SoCS – 10-Minute write – The Bat

Linda G Hill’s SoCS

linda’s #SoCS (10-minute SoC) – prompt: 3-letter word.

Linda’s prompt (See here for more info) for SoCS (for Stream of Consciousness Saturday) is “3-letter word.” Start your post with any 3-letter word. Bonus points if you end with one too.

The bat was sat upon the mat.

”Whatever you is, you ain’t no cat, bat!” remarked Alice, with all the caring love in her voice that any bat-mother could display.

”We got no need for a batty bat!” her little joke.

The bat pricked up it’s ears and tried to understand the words. No, just the sound of the human’s voice with no actual level of comprehension.

The bat sat for a while longer, before deciding that sitting upright was a bit of a chore.

’I shall go and hang from the ceiling once more – I enjoyed that the last time I tried it.’

The bat had been experimenting with its environment. Learning by watching its bat-mother was not going that well; walking on two-legs, sitting upright, and talking in that deep and gruff manner weren’t natural for the bat – and then there was the diet.

Bat was sure that cheese and pickle sandwiches* were very nice, if you liked cheese… and pickle.

The bat upon the mat thought a lot about that.

*That was as far as I got in my 10-minutes.

5-a-day poetry!

My poetry has ramifications

(and other, smaller, words)

for my dietary necessitations.

One of my five a day

is written early;

only four to go.

Two, sometimes three by lunch –

depending on how late lunch is taken – some days my writing is rather slow;

and four by four o’clock

is a target

that is always achieved…

in my mind.

I try not to make my poetry too sugary,

I often find

much fibre in my words

and they are often easily digested,

by geeks and nerds;

who, like me,

are like me, too.

Five a day is a target

a goal

an ambition

a desire

and when achieved…

I sing with the choir

whatever that means.

Please Tell Me – a song

Please Tell Me

Intro C / G / Em / F / Em / F / C


Tell me


All about your world

Em F

Every single detail


I have got to know


Where you come from


Who you are


And what has made you




So sad.




There are so many stories


Is there another one like yours?


You’ve climbed through many windows


Avoiding the lure of doors


So, please tell me all about your self


And why you sit upon that shelf.


PS has anyone ‘ever’ played through one of my songs? #JustWondrin’

An Introduction to Poetry.

“Good morning,

please sit down;

don’t cry;

try not to frown –

it’s only poetry.

Rhyme is no crime!

This you will believe

given time

and a positive introduction

to the classics.

Listen with open ears

and an open mind,

and you might find

that poetry is not that bad after all –

and once you are hooked…”