Q

Q

Outside the surgery

Of the last GP in town

People with sleeping bags

Were sitting on the ground

Eating bacon sandwiches

Drinking mugs of tea

One grabbed me by the entrance

And screamed impatiently 

Get to the back of the queue mate

We’ve been here all night

Get to the back of the Queue you mug

Unless you want a fight

Who the Hell do you think you are

Are you taking the piss

Get to the back of the queue you

I’m having none of this

His ranting and his raving

Was more than I could bear

And he was supported

By a dozen others there

So I turned and walked away

There was nothing I could do

But wait and stand in line

At the back end of the queue

Daylight turned to dusk

Dusk turned into night

The queue stretched ever onwards

Without an end in sight

I sat down on the pavement

Collapsing in a heap

And an old lady said to me

As I fell asleep

Get to the back of the queue come on

You’re sitting in my spot

Get to the back of the queue young man

I’m desperate and you’re not

I need a new prescription

I’m older than you by far

Get to the back of the queue you

Who do you think you are

I walked all through the night

And all the next morning too

And in the afternoon

There was still no end in view

I hopped onto a bus

For a twenty minute ride

Got off at the station

And joined the queue outside

I bought a railway ticket

And from London caught a train

All the way down to Land’s End

And then back up again

To John O’Groats in Scotland

But the queue still never ended

Through villages, towns and cities

It’s lengthening extended

I caught a train back to Essex

Where I jostled past

Angry people in the garden

Camping on the grass

And as I turned the key

In the lock of my front door

I was deafened by the sound

Of an ear-drum splitting roar

Get to the back of the queue pal

Stop trying to push in front

Get to the back of the queue son

You selfish Jeremy Hunt

I’m sick of people pushing in

It ought to be a crime

Get to the back of queue you

I’ve told you one last time

After I explained to him

That this is where I live

And I‘d seriously run out

Of flying fucks to give

I made a reluctant phone call

And in desperation

Took out a second mortgage

For a private consultation

And looking out the window

At the people still outside

Thinking about what cuts

To public services implied

I started feeling guilty

For taking the private route

And robbing the NHS

Of a valuable recruit

I picked up the phone again

With guilt still in my head

Cancelled the consultation

Got undressed went to bed

And fell asleep and dreamed of

Wandering up and down

A never ending queue to see

The last GP in town

And if there’s a conclusion

I don’t know what it is

But leaving open-ended

Would be very much remiss

So by way of a denouement

Here’s my advice to you

If you need to see the last GP

Join the fucking queue!

Yes

Yes

My wife said to me

Somewhat anxiously

I’m very much in love

With you today

And I want a word with you

Tell me do you love me too

So I answered

In a reassuring way

Does honey come from bees

Do squirrels climb up trees

Do turtles nest

And lay eggs on the beach

Are the Rolling Stones a band

Does the universe expand

Did George the sixth

Have problems with his speech

Does Hamilton race cars

Did Churchill smoke cigars

Are quarks the smallest

Objects known to science

Did Lawrence ride a camel

Is a killer whale a mammal

Was Ghandi jailed for

Passive non-compliance

Are rhinoceroses rare

Is Bill Gates a Billionaire

Was Pennywise a demon

In disguise

Was Biggie Smalls a rapper

Is a WC a crapper

Do flies eat shit

Have spiders got eight eyes

Was Al Capone a Mobster

Did Dali paint a lobster

Does Grayson Perry

Sometimes wear a dress

Was George Elliot female

Did Sir Francis Drake set sail

Are there strawberries and

Meringues in Eton Mess

Have banks done dodgy deals

Do polar bears eat seals

Do British trains get

Cancelled due to snow

Did Caligula lose the plot

Does a Bentley cost a lot

Was Trotsky taken out

In Mexico

Are battery hens abused

Was Victoria unamused

Did Sally Gunell win

Olympic gold

Are the icecaps in decline

Does a grape grow on a vine

Are the pyramids of

Giza very old

Do fruit trees flower in spring

Could Pavarotti sing

Did David Bailey

Take a photograph

Are the seas and rivers wet

Does Las Vegas take a bet

Did Gandalf face

The Balrog with his staff

Was Philip born in Greece

Did Theresa cut the police

Did Cameron shag a pig’s

Head in a club

Does Tiger Woods play golf

Should kids keep away from Rolf

Did Mufasa die

When Simba was a cub

Is the pope a catholic

Is Titanium metallic

Was Kasparov 

Much good at playing chess

Is calamari squid

Would you like a million quid

Do I love you darling

Absolutely

Yes! 

The last of the Mohicans (Chingachgook)

The last of the Mohicans (Chingachgook)

Walking through the churchyard, I saw him there;

An original man, beyond compare;

An ancient eccentric, with a Mohawk;

A pensioner punk, who wanted to talk.

He asked me if I cared to share a few

Roll-ups and cans of lukewarm Special Brew,

And listen to a serious matter;

So I sat with him and heard his patter.

He said he was a ted in ‘fifty-six,

When Rock around the clock was at the flicks.

He had a flick knife, and during the show,

He slashed the seats at the Trocadero.

In the early sixties, he was a mod;

A pill popper, immaculately shod,

On a Lambretta, going up and down

Fighting with rockers in a seaside town.

In the late sixties, he found a guru,

And went to a commune in Kathmandu,

But it was run by a fake millionaire,

So he came back home and shaved off his hair.

And in the process became a skinhead;

Moon-stomping to music Jamaican bred;

Skins in the sixties, he said, were cool cats,

And only very rarely racist twats.

He was a Starman in ‘seventy two,

When Bowie finally made his breakthrough.

But when The Dark Side of The Moon appeared;

His taste in music went deeper and weird.

He grew his hair longer, became a freak,

Saw Hawkwind and Genesis reach their peak;

Back in the day when they were worth seeing,

Before the Pistols came into being.

The filth, the fury, Mary seeing red;

The established sounds dying out or dead;

He adopted a chain from ear to nose,

And the declaration; anything goes.

He was a punk till around ‘eighty-four

When the old romantics became a bore,

And for want of something better to do,

He found consolation in sniffing glue.

In ‘eighty seven he rapped with a mate;

And then acid tripped him into a state 

Of ecstasy; with new drugs to consume,

As DJs scratched and pumped up volume.

And in that smiley state, he changed his name;

“Chingachgook”; the chief of Mohican fame;

He’d reached a peak; and he had it in mind

That he was unique; the last of his kind.

Brit pop was hardly a sensation;

He felt it to be an imitation;

A ringing knell to the finality;

And demise of originality.

The scene petered out like a dying flame.

Twenty years went by and no eras came.

With nothing but more of the same in sight,

He aimlessly drifted, without a light.

Up shit-creek with no paddle or canoe,

Drowning to the sound of radio two;

Trapped for an age, in a digitised grave,

Of Brit-pop, house, metal, mod, punk and rave.

And that was it; he had no more to say;

Silently he sat, and I walked away;

Leaving him staring blankly into space

Or maybe some other faraway place,

Where out of the blue, comes a sea of change

That’s against the grain and feels a bit strange,

Unconventional, untraditional,

Alternative, cool, and original.  

Chingachcook; the unique; the peerless one,

Looked tired and jaded, by the time he was done,

And all his anecdotes, are written here,

Complete with glue, acid, roll-ups, strong beer,

And the thoughts of a man; long in the tooth,
Offering an observational truth;

DJs and bands are playing nothing new;

A watershed movement’s long overdue.

A years' worth of tears

A years’ worth of tears

One day, I fancy, I’ll get a cup,

Collect all the tears that run down my cheeks,

And, if in a bucket, I save them up,

I reckon, that after fifty two weeks,

The amount would be a hell of a batch.

What would I do with a bucket of tears?

Wash the car? Water the broccoli patch?

Or keep them, and save up another years

Worth of salty tears, which is quite a lot,

And I bet you’re reading this and thinking,

Why the Hell is he telling us this rot?

Is he on drugs, or has he been drinking?

The truth is, I sniff lots of onion juice,

And I want to put the tears to good use.

Echo Chamber

                     

Echo chamber

Hello

Hello

Hello

Hello

Can you hear

Hear

Hear

Hear

Me

Me

Me

Me

Me

Me

Me

Me

Red

Green

Yellow

Blue

For the many

Not the few

Strong and stable

Off the table

She relents

He’s on the fence

Tweet it text it

No deal exit

Second decider

Boris the spider

Giving it large

Cummings Farage

DUP

ERG

IRA

Join the fray

Divided nation

Demonstration

Confrontation

Provocation

Ever contending

Dollar ascending

Pound descending

Public spending

Slump impending

Trump befriending

Condescending

Tweets offending

Queen attending

Deal depending

Bluffing bending

Border defending

Union rending

ISIS blending

Never ending

Gammon

Snowflake

Project fear

I’m fucking

Out of here

Muslim

Christian

Infidel!

Communist

Fascist

Heaven

Hell

Hello

Hello

Hello

Hello

Can you hear

Hear

Hear

Hear

Me me me me

Me me me me

Me me me me

Me me me me

Me

ME!

Jimmy Daley

Jimmy Daley

Jimmy Daley was a baby in need

Of love, kindness and parental care;

His dad was a squirt of abandoned seed;

His mum was an addict who wasn’t there

When Jimmy was found outside a drug den

By social workers backed-up by police,

And driven away at the age of ten

As mum OD’d and found permanent peace;

Hers was a story not properly heard,

A statistic; a problem left too late

To alter the fate of a boy referred

To a children’s home funded by the state;

Foster carers saying he was too much,

And in need of more than a loving touch.

Jimmy Daley was a runaway teen;

Home was a future Panorama,

A tale of abusers; ignored, unseen;

A national scandal; a TV drama.

He was barely fourteen in ‘93

And he was sleeping in a shop doorway;

Hiding from the eyes of authority,

Stealing after dark and begging by day,

Till he was picked up and brought back again

By the local police, time after time,

To an institution of fear and pain;

A cycle of abuse and petty crime,

Leading to where it isn’t hard to guess;

Prison-wings, addiction and homelessness.

Jimmy Daley was a desperate man,

And his desperation grew all the more

When the local council enforced a ban

And he had to steal what he once begged for.

Who would give a job to a man like that?

An alcoholic without an address,

A thief, a junkie, a beggar, a rat,

A welfare scrounger, a permanent mess,

A man who you wouldn’t look in the eye,

Let alone talk to or have as a friend;

A scumbag, whose every word is a lie;

In short, he was labelled and in the end,

The labels prevented people seeing

An individual human being.

A homeless man froze to death in his sleep;

I read the story, took note of his name,

And thought about the things that people reap

When others sow seeds in life’s cruel game

Of winner takes all, or luck of the draw;

Harshness and indifference came to mind;             

It appeared to me, that his lot was poor,

And subject to things unjust and unkind;

The system never offered him a choice;

Who, with a conscience, can honestly say

Without doubt or irony in their voice;

That life is what you make it, come what may?

Jimmy Daley couldn’t make it a plan;

His life was finished before it began.

Ghost Town (part 2)

Ghost town (part 2)

               

Bags of rubbish block doorways

Naked dummies mock displays

Boutiques in administration

Prior to permanent termination

Vacant signs stuck on doors

Of banks and chain department stores

Metal shutters coming down

On every other shop in town

In amongst the rubbish bags

Redundant workers dressed in rags

Unwanted adolescents

Zero-hour-contract dependents

Manic souls in numbers countless

Jobless hopeless helpless houseless

Down-trodden disrespected

Used abused burnt-out rejected

Spectres in a ghostly play

Many from a bygone day

Occasionally catch the eye          

Of other people passing by        

Some stay silent others talk

Most but very rarely walk

Beyond the confines of the spot

Where day and night they spend their lot

I passed them as I walked along

Reminded of an eighties song

One indignantly composed         

That told of nightclubs being closed

Walking home empty-handed

Haunted thoughts occurred expanded

Led me to a different time

Before smartphones and Amazon Prime

And finally a lamentation

A tribute a dedication

To traders on the high street

In empty stores that can’t compete

This town is a wilting flower

Wetherspoons Paddy Power

Aldi and Lidl are doing fine

Everything else is in decline

This town is one of recession

Debt redundancy depression  

Future prospects in a mess

Homeless damsels in distress

Empty husbands empty wives  

Empty pockets empty lives

Food banks running out of food

DWP staff being rude

This town is a dying show

A sale where everything must go

Selling costing lesser still

With no-one paid to work a till

Online trading on the cheap

Shops forever put to sleep

Metal shutters staying down

This town

Is coming like a ghost town