Waiting for the train

I was waiting for the train the other day. It was early afternoon and I thought it wouldn't be too busy, but there were lots of people milling about and chattering. With a few minutes before the train was due, I found a seat and made some notes, and for some strange reason, Tennyson's The Charge of the Light Brigade popped into my head. Perhaps the galloping rhythm reminded me of the train's movement. Anyway, here's the result.

French to the right of me,
Italian to the left of me,
a loud guy on his mobile on the edge of the platform.
Travellers tugging wheelies,
passengers pushing buggies,
a disembodied voice echoes from the speakers.
Footsteps, laughter, chatter.
Backpacks, bum-bags, handbags.
A humming train pulls in, sighs, stops. I push on.

It's Friday, it's five to five...

I must have been watching BBC's Crakerjack! aged six or seven, but all these years later, if someone says "It's Friday", my next thought is always, "It's five to five". So here's Friday's verse a triolet celebrating a kids' telly programme.

It's Friday night, it's five to five,
it's Crackerjack!
Oh what a time to be alive;
it's Friday night, it's five to five,
and on TV, a party vibe.
Hear that 'crack'-ing word? Shout back!
It's Friday night, it's five to five,
it's Crackerjack!

This is Thursday

The 1970s, IMHO, was the best decade for music, and you could get it all on Top of the Pops on Thursday evening.

Every teen in 70s Britain
on Thursday evenings would be sitting
at half past seven, in front of the box,
eagerly anticipating Top of the Pops.

Wednesday: half-day closing

Here's my verse for Wednesday.

Before the birth of the online store
buying goods was quite a chore,
and woe betide the afternoon shopper
who, mid-week, might come a cropper
'cos many a town across the country
had half-day closing, every Wednesday.

Not much to say about Tuesday

I thought I might as well write a rhyme for Tuesday too. Here's a Tuesday limerick:

Here's Tuesday, there's not much to say;
its child in the rhyme's full of grace.
With a spiritual bent,
the last before lent
is for pancakes and stuffing your face.

Monday starts the working week...

A lttle senior rhyme to start off the week:

Monday starts the working week
but not for senior retirees
whose waking thoughts are nearly always
"another day, but which one is this?"

Questions for Tom Jones

This summer I embarked on a bus and rail tour of Wales. Mad, I know, but using Traveline Cymru's journey planner the trip went relatively smoothly. I started in Cardiff and made a special detour to Pontypridd for a pint in the Llanover Arms where I was inspired to write a few verses about the great Sir Thomas Jones Woodward OBE, who was born in Treforest, just down the road.

Photo Raph_PH - flickr, CC BY 2.0, Link

I'd ordered a pint of Brain’s Bitter,
when, guess who walked in off the street?
Tom Woodward, or as you might know him,
Tom Jones, Jones the Voice, OBE.

He wore a silk shirt, half-unbuttoned,
a gold cross on his big hairy chest.
His trousers were skin tight, revealing
quite clearly his meat and two veg.

He wore a flat cap and dark Ray-Bans,
which might have fooled one or two folk,
but he couldn't disguise his Welsh accent,
nor baritone voice when he spoke.

I bought him a drink, said, "Come join me.
There’s no need to sing me a song.
Instead, would you answer some questions?
If you like, You Can Leave Your Hat On."

He grinned, replied, "It's Not Unusual
that fans want to know a few facts
‘bout my life and my numerous lovers.
So please, go ahead and just ask."

I thought him a gent, said, "I'm curious.
That Pussycat sounds like a tiger.
Who was she?" and grinning Tom answered,
"a very good friend of Delilah."

"And where did you meet? In Treforest?"
"The first time, yes. Later we'd roam
to Cardiff. We'd Kiss in the Valleys,
and on the Green Green Grass of Home."

"What makes Pussycat so attractive?"
"She's a Lady, and local," sighed Tom.
Then smiling and winking he added,
"If you know what I mean, a Sex Bomb."

We laughed. He said, “Just one more question,
and I know what that question will be.
Tho' I asked of her over and over,
What's new Pussycat? She never told me."

#NaPoWriMo Paint Pot Angel

So NaPoWriMo has ended. Actually, 2024 is the first time I've participated, and I only managed one new poem throughout April. The Poetry Society prompted me to choose an artwork featuring a figure, to ask the figure a question, and imagine the answer. Having visited Bristol Museum and Art Gallery recently, I went for their Banksy figure, Paint Pot Angel, which you can see in the gallery's ground floor hall.

Here it is then. Hope it makes you smile.

Banksy's Paint Pot Angel
I can't hear you! Speak up! What's that you said?
That Banksy has put a large can on my head.
I can't see a thing and I'm feeling quite faint.
There's a very strong smell. I think that it's paint.
Since two-thousand-nine I've stood in this spot.
Won't somebody please take the stinking pot off?
Hello? Hello? Are you still there?

Alice's Adventures in Blackpool - a poem for children that's best read aloud

Writing Magazine's recent competition was to write a poem inspired by Lewis Carroll's Alice adventures. If you've been following my book reviews, you'll know that last year I read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for the first time. The competition asked for "a poem on any aspect of the Alice stories, from a re-imagining of their contents to the facts and myths that surround their writing, illustration and publication." I imagined Alice transported to Blackpool to see her distant working class relatives, the Ramsbottoms. You might recall that Albert was swallowed by Wallace the lion after poking the big cat's ear with his stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle. The story was immortalised in verse by Marriott Edgar.

Well, I wrote and I wrote, and by the time I'd finished, my poem was too long for the competition. So here it is for you, dear reader. I hope you enjoy it.

Alice's Adventures in Blackpool

It'd been such a very long journey
to Blackpool, and right after tea
young Alice was feeling quite drowsy,
so declined to go paddling in t'sea.

So. Farewell then Stars n Bars

2023, the start of a new year and the end of an era as it sadly heralds the closure of Monaco's Stars n Bars on 27 January, thirty years to the day since the American diner opened.

So many memories have been made there! We've had rowdy meals with friends and convivial drinks at the bar. And all the events! The first floor venue, Stardeck, has great views over Port Hercule, and if you've been in Monaco as long as me, you'll remember it as Fusion. It hosted the Riviera Comedy Club where the Other Half and I saw Isy Suttie in 2009. And what about all the networking evenings? You never knew who you'd meet. One time we were just about to leave when an Australian couple came over to say hello and we ended up having dinner with Mr Nightclub of Melbourne. Monaco's musicians entertained us at Open Mic Nights, we watched Barack Obama's inauguration and SuperBowl streamed live on TV, and at one memorable quiz night we were joined by a Monaco VVVIP.

Here then is my tribute to Stars n Bars for all the great times I've had there.

In Memoriam

Stars n Bars, we must say our goodbyes.
Adieu! No more burgers and fries.
Thanks for thirty great years.
Cheerio, ciao and cheers!
From the ashes a phoenix will rise.

Cabbie's Halloween

When I was a kid in the UK we didn't celebrate Halloween, but there was a time when I encountered the idea of vampires. I've no idea how, whether I saw something on the telly, or in a comic. Whatever or wherever, for a while I used to keep a bible under my pillow and pull the bedsheets tight under my chin so my neck was completely protected.

Cabbie's Halloween

When I go to bed tonight
I'll pull the covers very tight
So vampires cannot bite my neck.

Address to a Crisp Sandwich on its feast day

Today we celebrate crisp sandwiches. The humble snack now has its own annual feast day on 25th October, which is also, of course, St Crispin's Day.

If you're new to this delicious treat I recommend you read The Guardian's How to eat: a crisp sandwich. It's very important to use the right type of bread (mass-produced white sliced toastie loaf) and spread (salted butter), as well as the correct style and flavour of crisp.

A few friends are coming round this evening for a traditional Crisp Sandwich Supper and we'll all be wearing our Apparel of Laughs crisp sandwich t-shirts. The butties will be solemnly piped in, piled on a silver platter. We invited the face of Walkers Crisps, Gary Lineker, to recite the Address to a Crisp Sandwich, but sadly he wasn't available.

Address to a Crisp Sandwich

Praise be to you, my childhood treat,
The best of butties, hard to beat.
Today's your day, today we meet
To celebrate.

The Yachtsman's Ale

A little ditty I wrote to mark the return of the Monaco Yacht Show tomorrow. It's inspired by AA Milne's The King's Breakfast.

The Yachtsman told
the Captain, and
the Captain told
the Cabin-boy:
"Buy some ale and cheddar cheese
before we set to sea."
The Captain asked
the Cabin-boy,
the Cabin-boy
said, "Aye aye Skip.
I'll get it chop-chop from the shop,
that's just beyond the quay."

Mad Kane's limerick challenge

I do enjoy reading humorous verse and rhymes and have been trying my hand at writing them too. Madeleine Begun Kane has a blog dedicated to limericks and she issues regular writing challenges. The most recent was for a ‘Random Word Generator’ limerick, and not being one to leave the gauntlet on the ground I've had a go. The instruction was to use at least two random words from: shop, run, news, warning, first.

When I was a kid I drank pop
That I bought from the local sweet shop.
Then home I would run
'Cos I thought it was fun
When the fizz popped the cap off the top.

More stuff

• Mad Kane's Humor Blog

A senility rhyme for second childishness

On entering what Shakespeare describes as "second childishness", all sorts of little aches and pains begin to manifest themselves. It's easier to put on weight and harder to lose it. You don't sleep so well. Oh, yes, and although you can remember things from your childhood, you have no idea what you were doing yesterday.

So here's a silly senility rhyme for anyone having trouble remembering how to count:

One, two, Can't reach my shoe;
Three, four, My knees are sore;
Five, six, Mem'ry plays tricks;
Seven, eight, Putting on weight;
Nine, ten, Remember when?
Eleven, twelve, Projects shelved;
Thirteen, fourteen, Cutting down caffeine;
Fifteen, sixteen, When's my flu vaccine?
Seventeen, eighteen, Now I am unseen;
Nineteen, twenty, Must spend a penny.

More stuff

• Image source: Wikimedia Commons: Joachim Martin Falbe
• Nursery rhyme inspiration: Wikipedia: One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Networking in Monaco

There are lots of businesses hoping to gain a foothold in Monaco, but making contacts can be difficult. Bradley Mitton's Club Vivanova is one of the organizations putting buyers and sellers in the same room. So...

When business in Monaco's slow
There's a bloke that you should get to know.
Don't sit there and pout
Give Bradley a shout.
Your network will soon start to grow.

Check out Vivanova's website for events in and around Monaco (and Berlin).

A limerick about limericks

I've been writing verses recently, trying my hand at metre and rhyme. Apparently there are rather strict rules for the rhyming elements of limericks, and I'm still not sure I've got them right. Here's another attempt.

Limericks bring such delight
But they're really not easy to write.
I have a hard time
With the rules about rhyme,
And try as I might, mine are sh*te.

A limerick for Lola

I thought Barry Manilow's classic song, Cobacabana, could be briefly explained in a limerick.

A punter in Copacabana
Was aroused by a showgirl's fine cha-cha.
Her boyfriend saw red.
One man was shot dead.
The poor girl's now old, drunk and gaga.

More stuff

• Copacabana song on Wikipedia
• Barry Manilow on Wikipedia

Song with lyrics on YouTube

A limerick for today

I logged on to Facebook this morning
To make a quick check on a posting.
I've sat and I've scrolled
For three hours, all told,
When I could have been limerick writing.

Marcel Marceau, miming artist

Source: Chariserin-Flickr
Creative Commons

French mime artist Marcel Marceau was born today.
Here are a few lines about him.

Marcel Marceau, miming artist,
Stripy shirt and whitened face.
He, the art of silence practised;
Pulled on inconspicuous ropes,
Leant on walls that went unnoticed,
Took large bites from fruit unseen,
Struggled in the face of tempests.
Famously, in Mel Brooks' Silent
Movie (nineteen-seventy-six)
Marceau speaks. He says quite clearly,
"Non!"

More stuff