Category: Poetry

Poetry corner: The Notts County Linesman

I have a lot of sympathy for linesmen. Assistant referees my arse though. Especially at non-league level where the voices are easier to pick out and, as opposed to a wall of sound, I imagine harder to blot out. They shuffle sideways through mud, get piss wet through and for what? £40 and their mileage? Anyway, this.

I am the linesman at Notts County
And I wave the yellow flag
I hear all the abuse from the Derek Pavis stand.
I hear you calling me a bastard
Because your striker was offside.
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

I get pelters for my fitness,
I hear you calling me big-boned.
I passed the bleep and fat tests I will have you know.
I hear you calling me a wanker
Cos your left-back’s a niggly shite.
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

I barely cover my expenses,
I get just 40p a mile,
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

Poetry Corner: Shopping In A Different Aldi

My regular is shut for a refit or something,
Or they’ve got new staff to train,
So I’ve to go and shop at a different spot
And it’s about to break my brain

I’m shopping in a different Aldi
And my blood is starting to boil.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi;
Where the fuck’s the fucking cooking oil?

When I come down here in my usual one
I find pizzas – Hawaiian, margherita.
But what do I find in this strange place?
A workbench and a patio heater.

I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
I can’t find the bloody pies.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Is there any falafel in this house of lies?

There’s couscous where the crisps go,
Everything’s different and yet just the same.
Crisps have replaced the cat food,
I can’t find the bog rolls. I’m going insane

I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Garden furniture and a welcome mat.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
There’s a whole extra aisle of pointless tat.

The parking bays are bigger here,
I swear there’s room for a tank.
The layout is different but familiar,
Like using your wrong hand for a wank.

I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Getting carried out and bundled into a van.
I’m shopping in a different Aldi.
Screaming ‘Instead of cheese it were frying pans’.

Poetry Corner: Aliyev

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

Now Azerbaijan is a wonderful place
Run by a sentient turnip with no charm or grace.
He’s got a big moustache and a very big nose,
And in downtown Baku what he says goes.

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

Insulting him is beyond the pail;
Do it on twitter and you could face jail.
He’s a tinpot despot with a slug on his face,
And like all oil-rich tyrants has a Formula 1 race

He hates criticism and he hates free press
Because they might find out that he’s a corrupt mess.
He appointed his wife to be his own VP –
No problem there, nothing to see.

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

His country’s blessed with lots of gas and oil
Which he uses to fund his lavish lifestyle.
It’s fun to mock this ridiculous man,
But now I’ll never be allowed into Azerbaijan

Aliyev, Aliyev, the thinnest skin by man possessed.
You run the risk of an arrest
By taking the piss out of Aliyev.

Poetry corner: Citalopram Sam

Citalopram Sam,
Citalopram Sam:
40 milligram.

Fluoxatine Slim,
Fluoxatine Slim:
Don’t know where my libido’s been.
Trazodone Frank,
Trazodone Frank:
Brain and hands don’t work,
But feel slight less wank

Citalopram Sam
40 milligram.
Citalopram Sam
40 milligram.

Prozac’s alright,
Prozac’s alright:
Little chap won’t get up
He’s just outta sight.
Paroxetine Jake,
Paroxetine Jake:
Can’t shit, can’t sleep,
Got the sweaty, dizzy shakes

Amitriptyline,
Amitriptyline:
Makes me invincible
You know what I mean?
No pain in my knees or in my back
And every emotion I now seem to lack.

Citalopram Sam,
Citalopram Sam.

I’m a howlin’ mess

Poetry corner: Vlad

There lives a certain man in Russia today
He’s big and strong, some of his best friends are gay
He confuses gayness and paedophilia
But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear
He can rig elections like in North Korea
The untouchable liar
But he’s also the kind of leader
All men would desire

Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Pictured topless yet again
You protest far too much
Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Wrestling a bear again
You’re so handsome, you’re so butch.

He rules the Russian land as if he was the czar
He often poses for photos without a bra
Always posing by raging waterfalls
Inviting the Russian people to admire his balls.
A political Machiavelli
He’s cunning as a fox
But he can’t laugh from the belly
Because of all the botox

Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Swimming in a lake again
It’s the love that daren’t speak it’s name
Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Playing soldiers yet again
Deny at will, but we all know you’re game

Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Poisoning the tea again
He holds no truck with dissenting ways
Vlad, Vlad, Vlad Putin
Tits out on a horse again
A total icon to all of the gays

Poetry Corner: Trump – a univocalism in U

Fuck; Trump.
Gut punch.

Bull-dung shunts sunburnt rug-brush up rungs.
Grubby, puny thumb up pussy?
Mud-stuck gun nuts shrug.
Spurt bunkum?
Just stunts!

Put up?
Shut up?
Humbug.
Fuck Trump.
Fuck Trump’s Ku Klux Kunts.
Buck up.
Junk Trump’s putsch.
Curb Trump’s unsubtly nuts scum club.
Drum up tumult, spur hubbub,
Shun Trump’s sundry clubs.
Burst bubbly untruths,
Bust myths.
Shuck thy rusty bum-cyst study-pygmy.
Usurp.
Thus turn US un-nuts.

Poetry corner: America, you’re a twat

“Keep off my ancient lands!” cries she
“Send your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost back to sea”
America, you’re a twat.

Your new President has extremely thin skin –
An open racist has just got in.
The KKK are celebrating the win.
America, you’re a twat.

You’ve had 200 years in which to grow the fuck up.
The whole thing runs the risk of blowing up
When you see that you’ve been sold a pup.
America, you’re a twat.

Fucking Donald fucking Trump?
That compulsively lying fucking chump?
With you and your country I’ve right got the hump.
America, you’re a twat.

The whole thing is just fucking absurd.
Into a maelstrom we’ve all been hurled.
And now begins the end of the world.
America, stop being a twat.

David Bowie would know what to do.
I’m starting to think he was society’s glue.
Oh, to go back a month or two
When America was less of a twat.

Poetry Corner: This is why I drink

Government by plebiscite.
Opposition never to be seen.
A supine press obsessed with clickbait articles
That encourage you not to think;
This is why I drink

Crowing about the hill of beans
You outright lied to win.
And when it goes tits up and I say ‘I told you so’
You kick up a right old stink;
This is why I drink

Wake up too early, travel to work.
Sit in an office for a few quid an hour.
Go home, eat tea, go to bed.
Repeat until you’re pushed to the brink.
This is why I drink.

Pills for depression, pills for the pain.
A buggered ankle, knee and hip.
A constant voice in the back of my brain
Reminding me I’m hardly in the pink;
This is why I drink.

Public sector pay freezes.
Social security cutbacks.
People being left on the scrapheap.
From its responsibilities government will quickly shrink;
This is why I drink.

Emboldened racists, empty patriotism.
A government that think it’s alright
To demonise the other
In an attempt to appease fascistic doublethink;
This is why I drink

I also like beer. And pubs,
And the people that staff and frequent them.
It gives me a space to forget.
Away from life’s horrors and tedium to shrink;
This is why I drink.

The years go by as quickly as you wink.
This is why I drink.

Poetry Corner: Lest We Forget

Every November
The great and the good gather
At the Cenotaph.
They’re all very solemn.
‘Lest we forget’, they say.
And I look around
Through the rest of the year –
At the hate,
The intolerance,
The poison rhetoric,
At conflicts ongoing
Around the world –
And it’s clear to me
That they –
That we –
Remember
Nothing.

Poetry Corner: Evidently TransPennine

Won’t get to work ‘til half past nine.
A fucking KitKat’s £6.99.
We’re expecting six cars, they send fucking three.
Stuck on platform 16b.

The fucking air-con’s fucking bust.
If I sweat much more I’ll fucking rust.
We’re outside Morley, blocking the line.
Evidently TransPennine.

Shove us in so fucking tight.
Veal calves have more fucking rights.
To squeeze more of us on they’d need fucking lube,
Onto this Diesel-powered misery-tube.

The fucking toilet fucking reeks.
Engineering lasts for weeks.
This fucking happens all the time;
Evidently TransPennine.

Fucking earphones fucking leak.
Fucking ringtones fucking shriek.
Fucking massive wheelie cases
Taking up our valuable spaces.

The fucking Metro’s fucking dire.
Can’t wait until I fucking retire.
By then I might be 89,
But free of fucking TransPennine.

No fucking seats – I’ll fucking stand;
A year of this costs me two grand.
If this derails, we’re fucking fucked,
Inside fucking cattle trucks.

We’re all crammed in, can’t fucking breathe,
Personal space costs additional fees.
Commuter conversations; asinine.
Evidently TransPennine.