Mr Chips

 

Mr Chips

 

 

Catchphrase, ITV – a sweaty, smirking, Roy Walker,

thieving pairs of donkey’s hind-legs -

Poor legless bastards, bemused, sit up and beg –

‘Can you say what you see? What it is yet?’

Here’s Mr Chips, hiding behind a celebrity square,

doing something suspect, all hands - you’d swear

on tribes of honest injun’s tripping the Can Can –

it shouldn’t happen to a vet, let alone a man.

All this is apropros of nothing, random beliefs

like when you’d not bothered brushing your teeth,

there’s a smell sweet - tuna fish, is it? Good grief.

Now, there was this dog, probably shaggy, his tail

wagging as you entered Archie’s pub, a talker?

Not much of one, but he had a hot trick or two

under his collar, he’d go on the nick, like they do,

partial to a bag of cheese and onion. Now, the boxes,

well, they were on the floor, with holes your socks

would be proud of, cut out - he could get his snout

in there quicker than your liminal zone could shout,

‘Crisps!’ Which we all did. Frequently. ‘Crisps!’

And he’s off and at them, bagged him a packet,

settles it between his front paws, then, snags it

with his canny teeth and he’s having his portion.

Bad breath? Wouldn’t get close, if you’re asking.

Poor Archie, at his wits end, he’s multi-tasking,

begging us, ‘Fellahs, don’t say ‘Crisps’!’

So, of course, we did it more, so did the labrador,

its belly getting so big, it’s scrubbing the floor,

which had to help, right? Until, one day, dog’s dead.

I stopped going after that, don’t know why -

well, I do - but I found new pubs, invited in, ‘Drink!’

they’d say, ‘Drink!’ You’re by toilets, under sinks

black holes getting blacker until there was only black.

‘Say what you see.’ Not much, actually, looking back,

made my considered choice, revealed a square,

exposed Roy Walker and Mr Chips crowing there.

Thickets

 

Thickets

 

 

There’s no shortage of degenerative growth

every morning - taking a reassuring swallow

of agreeably bitter coffee, thick on the throat,

draining a mug to fill the hollows.

On brambled trees, deep throaty chokes

of wood pigeons, birdbrains all, but he’s low –

a baritone east of bass, what he knows

he surely rumbles to tendrils tugging fences –

ineffectual barriers; last lines of defences.

 

They could only keep electricity switched on

haphazardly, Coker, Masen and the rest,

some hazard Wyndam drafted in to advance tension

and the Triffids, ramming barricades, were blessed

with a primal intelligence such vegetation

must surely have, an urge to usurp what was left –

and there was a sickness that flew the night,

linked to circumnavigating, artificial satellites

ringing lines of latitude like necks; burning bright.

 

There’s a beauty deep in those woods

beyond pickets, dark sung songs for everyone

composed carelessly from indifferent thickets - should

mean something, but don’t. Yesterday, spending long

hours scrubbing dust, carpets thick with floods

of undisturbed mites, she’s calling from beyond:

We must go home, dear, where you and I belong.

And, on the orders of some listless general

another child lies injured by the falling shrapnel.

Cumberbatch

 

Cumberbatch

 

 

‘Where’s your England shirt?’ I asked the Grandson,

14, young, strong, doesn’t have one –

so, I told him, ‘try one of mine for size’,

nothing doing there – ‘too big, too old’ - he cries,

wiser eyes than mine on the bigger prize.

 

I’d picked a Beckham, 7, from some tournament, long lost -

maybe from that time we’d tossed

pairs of plastic St George daubed hand clappers at the big screen,

got thrown out, banned forthwith, watched dreams

sail on, sail on down the line, Rooney’s off, Ronaldo winks,

the whole reel reeks, your heart sinks.

 

Half an hour until Sports Direct shuts tonight

2 hours until kick off, haring down Pydar Street,

that’s him and me – he picks a blue top,

they’re all out of white, red – none in stock –

you notice she doesn’t say, ‘due to popular demand’,

or some other cliché – still, he’s looking grand

in medium and, as I pay, I feel I should say

to her, ‘he should be prepared for decades of pain,’

but puts me in my place,

with her quiet titter, ‘I don’t own one.’

 

BBC1, we’ve switched it on,

I played ‘3 Lions’, ‘World in Motion’ - New Order - 12 inch,

what else? Done the Age UK nostalgia tour, put drinks,

your heart sinks, Chapman, Shearer, Mowbray –

quips about Lineker, cut and pasting poor taste – all they say

is guaranteed to court disaster and the best saved for last,

ill-informed public chestnuts then your very own Cumberbatch.

 

He’s a silhouette, throwing shade, rocking ‘With the Beatles’,

almost black and white, but not quite, nearly regal:

‘Seize,’ says he, ‘The Day! You lions!’ or some such crap,

that tumbles like clowns, pratfalls into your lap - that’s that.

 

Yesterday, I bought him his first England shirt,

then, when sleep flirted from behind her skirts,

stared at the ceiling, pondering a world of hurt.

 

Tonight Tonight Tonight

 Tonight Tonight Tonight

Let’s all get up and dance to a song

that was a hit – there’s fragments of it,

shake yourself from an afternoon kip –

let slip slumber, lose any grip

of internal worlds you’d unspooled and projected.

It’s half of two, give or take –

day of a big game - well they’re all big, this late

on in tournaments, England Norway -

He would’ve loved that, found a pub somewhere,

wittered on about live atmospheres,

Erling Haaland – you don’t get much more

corporeal than him – certain to score –

press sharpening knives, watch how he skives

on the park, but, boy, he’s sharp.

Find yourself in town, wandered down

from Angel Towers - some excuse about potatoes,

sun’s a thieving crook, gone and took

what water he can squeeze from your sponge –

and although you mostly avoid pubs

you still hang on to the Con Club –

paying annual subs

for a final bolt-hole that could prove handy -

nip inside order ice-cool shandy.

Maybe you’re halfway through

when you’re recognised –

hailed with a ruck of a shout, a hearty maul,

but you don’t remember his face at all,

later, when he’s off for a slash

you make a quick pass at boy bartender,

confess you can’t remember

who the hell he is – but didn’t you hide it well?

Jason’s back, now you’re in the know –

recalling how we used to go

with Chris … remember Old Trafford, England game,

we had more than a few, him, me, you,

he bought his lad – no, no, that was my boy –

was it? You fell down the steps,

well, we was all fucking wrecked,

twenty years back along, Steve McClaren, Rooney,

and City, lifting the Vase at Wembley -

choker about Chris – let’s not go there –

no, no, you’re right, shit, one day, he’s just gone –

I know – passed on, it’s just bloody wrong,

isn’t it? It was, like – let’s not bring it all back,

he was my best friend, come on,

I’ll put one in, have another one…

You make your escape,

but City have got Exeter, Saturday next, pre-season

friendly, well, there’s another reason

to hang on, you guess,

agree to catch up in the bar, bring the Grandson,

because we all belong

to some sort of football family.

And if he could brush ashes from his eyes,

wake up from an afternoon kip,

wonder what he’d make of it?

Your Own Now

 Your Own Now

If you often find yourself on your own now,

let me point out - the observer once observed

is just as valid – it depends on how

fast your relative’s travelling – 

If they blaze a fulgent curve,

well, case closed, it means you’re no more real 

than them. You ask - are you able to feel

the way I feel, if every present is present

and every now is now?

Evidently. The off-side rule laments bereft,

hides under beds in plain sight of the ref

until pronounced hereby abolished

and told to take up dust-moting instead.

Pitiful pastimes, these, watching drops racing drops,

thinking about how many sailor’s socks

I might have darned, if I’d stayed in, not left her

to take her up – 

We’re walking Cornish woods,

where we’d often talked in woulds and coulds

when I felt my present take your present’s hand

in mine – and it stopped me there -

while your ghost fingers combed my hair -

but someone observing us at light speed

saw that you were much more real than me - indeed

they sighed and said - I was the one who'd died.

Fruitcakes

 

Fruitcakes

 

 

Some boffin’s gone and crossed

a croissant with a muffin,

called it shitzhu, mufftini, something –

pumped the whole thing full of vanilla,

so you can’t taste nothing -

witness Fanny Craddock’s grief,

thrill as your Galloping Gourmet sprays

short slurps on studio floors in disbelief –

he never met a cab he didn’t like,

might order one; take flight.

I saw him platforming, up and down,

not Graham, but another fruitcake,

a sultana short - across his brow

what he thought might make for a fierce frown

rucksacked, like me, T-shirt, too –

anything could happen in the next half hour,

where’s Troy Tempest? That’s him,

accosting other travellers waiting

on the 8.15 from Manchester –

well, Penzance lacks the glamour

and I think, if he packed a hammer,

we’d stand back, plea bargain, submit,

but he hadn’t, just screaming shit

looking the very picture of pain,

as if the world and its people are insane –

lunatics breeding pastry crescents,

Pillsbury Doughboys in want of crust stuffing -

he’s in, out, up, down, tugging his cuffs

grilling those he can’t trust,

winkling them out for a shower of spit –

he’s finding plenty of material

to get to grips with – saves his best bit

for two bearded blokes giving it dap,

because in his head he’s got their backs,

better believe it, buddy –it’s your lucky day.

We’ll shuffle uncomfortable, look away

as though he’s wraithlike, doesn’t exist,

well, that’s the best way to deal with it,

after all, who here can honestly say

he’s wrong? There are some there

who thought Gareth Gates was a neat idea,

watched Mad Lizzie wake up and dance,

and absolutely swear by Lemsip –

it’s either heartsease or heartache

until they think up something else to bake

he’s just trying to ward a world off fruitcake.

They’d Quite Like To Apologise

 

They’d Quite Like To Apologise

 

There’s a tinker without an axe to grind –

just a tea chest full of table knives

down Helston way and onto The Lizard,

all the better to nick the gizzard,

he misses arteries but snicks the veins –

spot him from window seats on the train

where an interminable litany intrudes

upon these fascinations - has us glued

to cheap moquette polyurethane foam,

an adhesive of beading sticky sweat

and we’re not even part way there yet -

a hissing classless deadpan monotone

slithers from speakers and drones,

plucked slit wristed, tanpura style,

by a two-fingered woolly mittened

thread-sleeved Stourport dreadnought:

It seems they’d quite like to apologize:

for moving slower up your inclines

than they’d like, for running late,

it’s a lot to ask; there’s a lack of seats

due to pulling two coaches not three,

please give yours up for infirms or elderlies,

unexpected air conditioning malfunction

at Droitwich, that earlier cancellation

mentioned previous, but compensation –

if you search up and click GWR Delay.

While Cornish countryside makes its way

inch by inch, inspector’s sent, greets you

with a surly, ‘All tickets joining at Truro,’

clickety-click, but we’d quite like to glower,

sullen at the backs of seats, ignore

that courtesy, let them punch fresh air,

conjure up streaky rashers of fare flouts

spitting in pans - ticket touts, litter louts,

waiting for a long-delayed day they shout –

‘The Emperor’s got no clothes.’ Point out

quiet lanes, long and winding routes,

from London to The Lizard via Helston Town -

your saw-toothed tinker's heaping mounds

of all slack tongued lip-service he ground.