“Result!”

“Result!”

Cardiff City three

Cardiff Town three

Bristol City Two

Bristol United Two

Act One

Scene One

Scene One

Seen them all.

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I had an ‘oops!’ moment.

I had an ‘oops!’ moment.

I was in Russia

and I needed a pee

I should have been in Prussia

silly me.

“Lingerie!”

“Lingerie!”

Never name your dog ‘Lingerie’;

when you’re walking in the park, “Lingerie!”

When they are barking outside in the dark, “Lingerie!”

Never name your dog ‘Lingerie’.

About Fish!

About Fish!

They said

that I should read

a poem about

fish.

I wish, I wish

that I had ever written

a poem about a fish;

upon my dish

or swimming in the sea,

swimming up to me

telling tall tales

of Davy Jones’ Locker

and rare white whales.

So, where do I begin?

Sardines in a tin?

Pilchards?

There is a difference between the two – if only we knew.

I think

that

when a salmon is in the pink

it should be left to do what salmon do;

swim the sea to Wollamaloo

or Timbuctu –

isn’t that what salmon do.

As you can see

I don’t know that much about fish

in the sea;

but, here’s the rub…

they

know even less

about me!

Apologies.

Apologies

I received an apology

from an anthropologist –

I was top of his list

of people to apologise to.

The next on the list was a purple gnu,

whom the anthropologist did insist

just didn’t exist – but he did,

and so he’s received an apology, too.

The apologies themselves are beautifully written,

especially the one to the mosquito

that the anthropologist had inadvertently bitten;

I admit that his prose has left me quite smitten.

All in all, over a hundred apologetic letters

he wrote, some with quotes;

and, like a sad song on a piano

with black and white notes

in a minor key.

But, whilst he hand-wrote every second note,

he didn’t devote himself

to improving his ways –

he’ll be writing more apologies

in a couple of days.

I know all this

because I am friends with the purple gnu, the mosquito, too

we make a fine crew.

“There Be Ghosts!”

“There Be Ghosts!”

Sudden strange sulphur smells

signify spirits.

If you believe in that sort of thing.

I don’t.

Perhaps you do.

Anyway, it was the alliteration of the phrase

that caught my gaze.

‘The Yarn of the Nancy Bell’ by W S Gilbert

‘The Yarn of the Nancy Bell’ by W S Gilbert

‘Twas on the shores that round our coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:

“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain’s gig.”

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:

“Oh, elderly man, it’s little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea,

And I’ll eat my hand if I understand

However you can be

‘At once a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain’s gig.'”

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,

He spun this painful yarn:

“‘Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian Sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,

Which has often occurred to me.

‘And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o’ soul),

And only ten of the Nancy’s men

Said ‘Here!’ to the muster-roll.

‘There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain’s gig.

‘For a month we’d neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and, accordin’ shot

The captain for our meal.

‘The next lot fell to the Nancy’s mate,

And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite

We seven survivors stayed.

‘And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,

And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

On the crew of the captain’s gig.

‘Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question,”Which

Of us two goes to the kettle” arose,

And we argued it out as sich.

‘For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook he worshipped me;

But we’d both be blowed if we’d either be stowed

In the other chap’s hold, you see.

“I’ll be eat if you dines off me,”says TOM;

‘Yes, that,’ says I, ‘you’ll be, ‘

‘I’m boiled if I die, my friend, ‘ quoth I;

And “Exactly so,” quoth he.

‘Says he,”Dear JAMES, to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,

For don’t you see that you can’t cook me,

While I can and will cook you!”

‘So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.

And some sage and parsley too.

“Come here,”says he, with a proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell,

“‘T will soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you’ll smell.”

‘And he stirred it round and round and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

‘And I eat that cook in a week or less,

And as I eating be

The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

For a wessel in sight I see!

* * * * * *

“And I never larf, and I never smile,

And I never lark nor play,

But I sit and croak, and a single joke

I have–which is to say:

“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain’s gig!”