Not cricket. He said.
Don’t care. Said Mr Turner.
What am I to do between 5 and 7?
Not my concern, you’re not sitting here,
We don’t like you’re demographic and its lack of money.
But my listeners. But my games, my lines. My life.
Commercial radio is no place for cost cutting,
Just people cutting and Mike has gone.
Beware all those who plan careers
In this, the people marketplace.
You’re young once only
And then only briefly.
In Italy this week
A loving God
Who is all powerful,
Killed off a couple
Of hundred people
In an earthquake.
They must have been
Evil, presumably?!
The bell tolled,
The faithful went to prayer
And their Leader sent a message
“Assuring us of his spiritual nearness,
Sharing the anguish”.
The bereaved I’m sure,
Would be comforted,
That the souls of the departed
Were fine,
Presuming they were
Good Catholics and
Regularly went
To confession,
The dead that is.
Some mercy was shown –
Survivors were found
Pleased that their names
Were not this time
On the celestial roll call.
The dead, Sofia, Carlo,
Anna, Francesco
Fictitious and fleeting,
Will be remembered for some years
By a plaque, itself destined
For destruction by some future
Wanton act of the same God.
In the morning the mist rolled down from the peaks
To mingle with the steam rising from the hot springs
That formed the headwaters of the Orinoco river.
The snows were still waiting to melt but we floated around the pools
Enjoying the scenery and the fact that we were warm
In spite of the obvious cool of the mountains.
Exploring the waters we were suddenly caught
In a current that left us powerless to resist;
Swept downwards we struggled to keep our heads
Above the torrent and to avoid the attentions of the rocks
That waited their chance at each bend.
In no time at all, it seemed, we found ourselves
Down the river and out at sea fighting huge waves
That pummeled us as much as had the river earlier in our journey.
The waves eventually grew smaller and we were washed
Onto a gentle sloping beach where we were able to recover.
Around us were exotic plants of all kinds
And above the beach the miracle of a terrace bar,
No illusion this but an invitation to partake.
Dripping back to our towels we picked up some
Valuables to barter for ice creams with the locals.
Wild water rapids we got licked!
Sitting there sipping my tea on the indoor terrace
I was completely relaxed and the noises
That bounced off the skin of my bubble
Added to my sense of wellbeing.
The sounds were never quite prominent enough to intrude
But I could hear what they were.
Chairs moved, table tennis balls pinged and ponged,
People spoke and I could, I thought, detect
The faint whirring of the air-conditioning fans above,
Teaspoons clicked and straws sucked as footsteps went by.
I could see the rainwater running
Down the glass roof outside the bubble
But the sound of the rain was only in my imagination.
Climbers went slowly up and down the wall.
A man, who had been sat with his daughter
For at least ten minutes in front of me finally spoke:
“When is your first exam?”
The family eventually found me and the bubble burst .
Jardin Des Sports, Longleat Center Parcs, Easter 09
Well,
We listened with amusement.
We enjoyed the later banter.
The elder male grandchild was on.
He held the crowd.
He shouted clear.
The description was crisp and the cola was tasty (so we hear).
Then we heard the sirens.
The pool, providing you can find somewhere to plonk your stuff, is a good place to go when you arrive.
The queue of cars, when it was time to go to the villa, was long and with engines running not particularly environmentally friendly.
The villa, when you finally get there in the car, is a long way from the pool.
It’s a good job we have the car, because 50 camels worth of baggage would have taken a long time to carry the seemingly miles to the villa.
The beer, after we had returned the car, was very satisfying.
The queue, in the Parc Market, was highly frustrating when considering all I wanted was a pack of bacon for breakfast.
The bill, from the Parc Market, did not represent a single pack of bacon.
The rain, on the way to the bike hire place, was somewhat disconcerting.
The rain, when riding the bike back to the villa, was very wet and for those of us with glasses, obfuscating.
The hills, between the bike shop and the villa, were completely exhausting.
The glass of wine, back at the villa, was absolutely essential.
The cuddle with Anne, at the end of it all, was highly satisfying
Center Parcs, Longleat, Easter 2009.
wyth awr i lawr i lwch,
uffern o le mewn tywyllwch;
eu tynged oedd syched hwch,
diffrwythwyd mewn diffeithwch.
gan alun davies
What brought about the fury of that dawn?
An ire that kept the harbour’s ships at bay,
And hid the folk of town in narrow streets,
That rose above the battered beach cafe.
The birds unsettled, taunted by the waves,
Though blinding sand the elements’ ordeal,
The sea a boiling mass that overflowed
To crash upon the castle rocks at Peel.
The ocean’s cities in ill-disciplined parade,
Their towering sides, skyscrapers of the storm,
Disordered buildings ranged in disarray
With roads, deep troughs, that met no shape or form.
That Davy Jones had risen from his grave
Seemed certain to onlookers in the spray,
He chose to punish miscreants abroad
Who should have better meant to stay away.
Then when at last the wind had sung its tune,
The clouds moved on to play to other halls,
And fishermen returned to ply their lines,
From high upon the granite harbour walls.
The strip,
Furious confluence of disposable society,
Magnet for irreverents,
Cruising ground for hungry souls,
Melting pot for a global fondue,
Curry, Chinese, fish and chips,
Full English breakfast,
Even pork pies and sandwiches
From the Shell garage.
On your way home from the pub,
You can satisfy your needs
On the Burton Road Strip.
My eyes are stinging
And my nose smarts
From the sensory attack
That is the annual chutney cook-in.
The fruit soaks up the spices in vinegar
Swelling with proud absorption,
The spoon stirs until leaving a trail,
Standing in the rich, dark pool of preserve.
Hot jars await the plasma ,
Rubber seals close down the smell,
Weeks of virtuous patience are
Rewarded with palatable satisfaction.
Walking along the path
He left a noticeable trail,
It was a smell,
A feeling,
An impression,
A change to the landscape,
Even an attitude.
It was nothing new
But nobody had seen it before.
He left the path behind and
After a while the trail
Began to fade away,
Though the weight of his footfall
Made it last a little longer than
It might have done,
As it did for others.
He left a tip for the taxi driver
And bought a train ticket
With his credit card,
Spoke to the barman,
Sang in the street,
Winked at the girl,
Had an eye test,
Switched the light on,
Painted the garage,
Mowed the lawn,
Picked up a piece of litter and
Put it in the bin,
Had four children
Who left home and
Then he occasionally saw
Until he died…
What do you get a woman
When she turns forty?
She already has it all,
Good looks,
Lively personality,
Rich and caring husband,
Dutiful children,
Great friends,
A VW camper van,
Exciting tastes,
Stylish wardrobe,
Intelligent conversation,
Great sex drive (apparently),
A mansion near the cathedral.
You get her a poem:
There was a young lady called Clare
Who drove me one day to despair
For try as I might
A poem to write
But damn it the muse wasn’t there
Four Oh
The numbers game,
A milestone we celebrate,
Marching on,
Steadily ticking,
One more goes by,
There’s no going back,
Drip, drip, drip
A watershed
Life changing?
It all begins here!
Live for the moment!
Do it now,
Before bits start falling off.
Four Oh.
The tree skeletons
Stand out in the fields
As I pass by,
Their stark, nakedness
Presenting no embarrassment
As might such frankness of expression.
In a time of want and austerity.
The countryside around is barren
But the coat of death
Has not yet turned to decay,
The deep freeze a desperate grasp on what was
But may no more be.
Save the planet you bastard,
Said her eyes,
As I asked for a bag
At the checkout.
She was right of course,
Though I did need
To carry the food home,
So I took one and left.
The train to Norwich stops at Ipswich,
Which is where I mean to go,
Once alighted catch a taxi,
Sorrel Horse in Barham ho.
Liverpool Street is very busy,
With commuters homeward bound,
None are destined though for Barham,
Sorrel Horse, so sweet the sound.
No bitter pill awaits in Barham,
Bitter beer that makes me smile,
Draught pulled pints of pure enjoyment,
Satisfaction Sorrel-style.
There’s a meal to match the finest
Mother ever could prepare
Freshly cooked and plenty of it
Sorrel Horse it draws me there
When the sun sets over Barham,
There’s a place that’s free from sin
Warm your back, the fire beckons,
Oh Sorrel Horse, most welcome inn.