A Real Man?

A Real Man?

I often recall the time a tough

Miner said, I wasn’t man-enough,

Upon intervening between his

Mate and me, one night, on the piss,

In the Labour club in ’84,

Where they were bedding on the floor,

During the war between the NUM,

And the cabinet in number ten;

And I wish I could say I was there

In support, but I didn’t much care

For politics back then-left or right-

And the reason I nearly had a fight,

Was mainly down to me being

Jealous over this girl I was seeing,

Near-snogging the miner she’d got talking too

Last night, who’d bought her drink or two.

But that’s by the by: my present intention,

Is to draw my audience’s attention

To the second line of this poem-stroke-rhyme,

In order to say: forty odd years later; whilst I’m

Still nowhere near man-enough, or at least

Not enough to take on an alpha-male beast;

I’ve now reached the point where for all my mistakes,

I’m fine with having not got what it takes;

I’d even go as far as to say

I’m grateful for not being made that way;

I’d rather labour everyday

To improve on who I was yesterday:

I want to be better, more feministic,

And less toxic and chauvinistic

Than the man who, last night, went to sleep,

Counting his blessings in lieu of sheep.

His blessings: mine; are the women I know;

Every one of whom, whether hid or on show;

Have scars, courtesy of man-enough men,

And if I had my time over again…

But what of it?

For now, I’m aware of the lake,

And the ripples of everyone’s mistake,

And though I’m far from being a good guy,

My fantastic friends give me reason to try.

Lydon

   Lydon

Thespians and popstars, well past their prime,

MPs in want of a second career;

I can’t believe it’s been a year since “I’m

A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here”.

The last time I watched was when Lydon said,

“You fucking cunts”, in front of Ant and Dec;

And ITV's bosses, upon seeing red,

Took steps, to further keep swearing in check;

Or so I believe; but enough of celeb;

I wanna talk about Lydon some more:

Now less a punk more Republican pleb;

Else what’s he wearing a MAGA hat for?

He, who once said of UKIP; and I quote:

“A black hole for the ignorant to fall

Into”, has changed his tune to Farage’s note;

As if he was never against him at all!

Likening Trump to a punk politician,

Supposedly anti-establishment;

He’s now aligned with Reform’s vision

Of ultra-conservative management!

Whatever happened to Johnny Rotten?

Was Anarchy in the UK a mere ruse?

Has he, in all honesty forgotten

How fascists manipulate working class views?

Or was he all the while playing the part?

Swearing and wearing flash clothes for TV,

When really he’s a contrarian tart;

A wannabe knight or an MBE.

Last year Farage himself was in the camp,

On I’m a Celeb, and from what I heard,

He was nearly ‘23’s populist champ;

Making the final and coming close third;

Now he’s Britain’s highest earning MP,

Gathering momentum and gaining ground;

In five years or less, he may very well be

Crossing the finish line, Downing Street bound,

And if John Lydon is performing still,

Will he be playing in front of the King?

The way things are headed he probably will:

His Public Image is very right-wing.

All reactions:

1Jackie Montague

Sold

Sold

Our bond was rarely especially strong;

With little in common, we ambled along;

Still, I recall fondly, Tony and I,

Beneath an autumnal, evening sky,

Each smoking one of Tony’s slim Hamlets,

The scent of which, blending with bonfire smoke,

Gave an aroma one never forgets,

As burning embers, glowing whilst we spoke;

Amiably putting our worlds to rights;

Crackled with warmth on the calmest of nights.

From spring through summer, the lawn being short

As a bowling green or a tennis court;

Round Tony’s we’d gather, for roast and wine,

And after lunch, if the weather was fine;

With shuttlecock, ball, bats, rackets, we’d play;

Or hide and seek, with the children, in or

Outdoors; and on every Easter Sunday,

Adults, and children alike, would search for

Eggs, which were easily found, and duly

Scoffed, (at least on the part of yours truly).

Tomatoes, seedlings, and flowerpots filled

The little greenhouse I helped Tony build:

Spinach, greens, broccoli with a purple sprout;

Runner-beans that never seemed to run out;

Flourished in the area beyond the main:

A well-tended patch, hidden by a hedge,

And sheltered by a pine, that enabled rain

And sunlight to nourish home-grown veg,

Yet trapped all the magic drawing me there,

Where edibles grew with meticulous care.

When Tony found weeding, digging, mowing,

Cutting and planting, too heavy-going,

I fortnightly mowed the lawns, front and back;

Tony would make me a Nescafé black,

And we’d talk like we did in autumns gone by;

Conversing in comfortable companionship;

He graciously, gratefully praising my

Mowing and occasionally, letting slip

The observation: “Oh, you’ve missed a bit”;

Which slightly rankled with me, I admit.

On a late October dry afternoon

In autumn, I mowed the lawns of Tony’s soon

To be sold abode, and when I was done,

I made a black coffee and sat in the sun,

Imagining my wife; a girl in the swing

Of her childhood years, and nearby, there,

Was a plot where fairies used to sing

Secret lullabies to children; and where

Now stands a greenhouse, empty and lonely

As the house-for-sale-where I first met Tony.

Sometimes I want to get into your head

Sometimes I want to get into your head

Sometimes, I see you talk down to your wife,

And feel I want to get into your head,

Swallow all the barbs that wound like a knife,

And utter respectful, kind words, instead.

Would I expect then, a loving reply,

Given by way of appreciation?

Oh what a pompous hypocrite am I!

Wise, only in my imagination;

Truthfully, I see my reflection in you;

A struggler I was, and I’m struggling still;

Despite all the decades I’ve laboured through,

The knowledge I’ve gained is scant more than nil,

And self-awareness, perhaps, even less;

I’m barely, I guess, a work in progress.

I Saw a Man Lying Dead on the Hill

 

I Saw a Man Lying Dead on the Hill

I saw a man lying dead, on the hill,

on the way back to the caravan site;

his blue eyes were glazed and wide open still.

Down in Polperro, upon a pub meal

Washed down with cider and sparkling white,

I saw a man lying dead on the hill.

His half-smoked cigarette lay burning, till

nature stepped in and put out the light;

his blue eyes were glazed and wide open still.

Drunk, on holiday, with two weeks to kill;

caravan-bound; turning in for the night,

I saw a man lying dead on the hill.

His wife inconsolable; how must it feel?

No one could comfort her, try as they might;

his blue eyes were glazed and wide open still;

and thirty years on, I take a heart pill,

reflecting, and drinking strong spirits in spite:

I saw a man lying dead on the hill;

His blue eyes were glazed and wide open still.