Birds, Biltong and Batsmen

I’m pleased to report that last year’s song thrush is back. At least he looks similar. I also saw a heron the other day, and a pied wagtail. (I was with someone who knows about these things).

* * *
Morning

553 for 5. That’s how it ended last night. Not bad at all.

A day of records – only the second time four England players have scored a century in one innings, and Prior the first England wicket-keeper to score one on debut.

Pity we couldn’t have had a bowl at them before stumps, but as someone said, get the runs now, while it’s easier than it will be on the last day. And it might be best to grind them into the dust until, say, lunch today and take away all hope.

I’ve read the West Indies’ attack described as being less than world standard. But they’re not Zimbabwe. This is not going to be a pushover.

I hear there’s a football match going on at the same time today.

Later

I said the Windies would give us a run for our money. Beautiful aggressive batting from Ramdin and Bravo, showing others how to deal with Panesar, who himself demonstrated the nerve, not to mention stamina, needed by a spin bowler. Great bat-bowl contest.

Prior showed that he’s a pretty competent keeper. A pity that he had had to show it by reducing the runs Steve Harmison would otherwise have given away in wides. And it's worrying about Hoggard. I hear he missed the birth of his son in order to play for England. That's the kind of man we need in the team.

It’s shaping up nicely, as they say in tabloid-land.

* * *

And now, with acknowledgements and apologies to Stanley Holloway, Marriot Edgar and the PC police, here’s a monologue based on an incident I’m told is true.

‘T’were a few year ago, one September,
In this tale that I’m going to relate,
When t’king of some African country
Came to London on visit o’ state.

He were due to 'ave dinner with H.M. the Queen
Which didn’t quite please the old dear.
‘I’ll bet the blighter eats peas off his knife
and doesn’t drink nowt but beer.’

The Prime Minister told her, all smarmy-like,
‘Don’t fret thi'sen, ma’am, said he.
‘For after he’d finished at spear-throwing school,
He studied at L.S.E.’

Besides, said PM, all ‘aughty and grand,
In ‘is white tie and tails and ‘is topper.
The ‘ole thing’s in aid of good will and peace.
And we're after ‘is diamonds and copper.

All right, said Queen, but gave him the look
That folk get when they’re sent to the Tower,
‘For England, our realm, we will do this deed,
But the man’s still an absolute shower.’

His Majesty brought dozen wives with ‘im,
Just enough, but not the ‘ole set.
They came in the baggage compartment
Of an 'Elephant Air' jumbo jet.

He were just a bit peeved by the Customs -
Kept waiting he were for a while -
As they checked out his sackfuls of ganja
And examined his pet crocodile.

They ‘ung onto his assegai, then let ‘im go,
To be greeted by Prince Phil and Queen.
The pageant and pomp and the circumstance
Were grandest old lad had yet seen.

Guardsmen marched by wearing busby ‘ats;
There were flags of bright red, white and blue;
There was biltong, and bush tea, and coconuts.
Aye, an’ old ale and sandwiches too.

The Queen gave king a couple of jars
Of honey from Prince of Wales’ hives
The queen got some cheese made from lioness milk
And Philip got one of the wives.

The Queen took king on to Buckingham House
In a carriage all way up the Mall.
Crowds, they were deep, and folk cheered like mad
They tret lad just like an old pal.

He waved to the crowds, all the way, did king,
With a big grin that showed he were pleased,
While Philip were whispering in new wife’s ear
And queen were nibbling on t’cheese

Four milky white horses, all thoroughbreds,
Were pulling the plush regal cart,
When a silly old mare at back let go
Wi’ a right royal, thunderous fart.

An un’oly ‘ush settled down on the crowd.
T’king were too non-plussed to speak,
And when t’orse repeated her lez-majesty
Prince Phil started swearing in Greek.

But Queen, dear old soul, is allus cool.
She ‘andles such gaffes wi’ great skill.
Australians, Frenchmen and Flatulence -
Such things are mere grist to ‘er mill.

So with lady-like handkerchief over her nose,
She said, ‘What a nasty mishap.
We are sorry, Your Majesty, that this transpired.
O do please forgive us, old chap.’

‘Indeed, lass,' said king, all gentleman-like,
'Forgive thee I will, but of course.
Though between me and thee, if I may speak so free
I thought at the time it were ’orse.’

Yellow Ribbon: a song.

So why d’you wear that ribbon in your hatband? -
The yellow one, it’s often made me think.’
She flexed her barmaid arms
And flashed her barmaid’s charm.
‘I noticed it when first you came in here
To buy a drink.’

I eyed the glass of beer the woman proffered
And handed her the cash to pay my way.
Then I raised it to my lips,
And took a long, slow sip,
And pondered how I could explain to her
And wondered what I’d say.

‘Well, maybe it’s a sign I’m helping cancer
Perhaps I think that yellow goes with black.
Or maybe it’s to say
Thank you, boys who’ve gone away
To fight a war from which so many of you
Won’t be coming back.’

In truth I wear the ribbon in remembrance
Of loss, regret, and fear I couldn’t face.
For it’s a badge of shame
And I bear a coward’s name.
I ran away and lost a love I never can replace.

My Mate

Freddie


They’re an queer lot, Yorkshire fork
- Tha knors, the way they talk.
Well, I thought I’d met one of ‘em, nerm of Fred.
But Fred’s not Yorkshire born,
Despite ‘is funny torn.
E’s Lincolnshire from t’toes to t’top of t’ead.

He’s a proper Lincoln feller
With a belly that’s reet yeller
But as a lad were tekken north, where men are men,
Where women go without,
And you don’t do owt for nowt
And if you do do owt, tha does it for thi’sen.

‘E likes to ‘ave a smork
‘E knows how to tek a jork
Just as well when merts like me are on t'floor
Cos if ‘is words I miss
I allus tek the piss
But with Fred it’s easy come and easy gor

He works ‘ard all through t’night
And arrives at t’pub first light
To slerke ‘is thirst with several pints of cork.
For this blork ‘e sups no erles
- Apart from times ‘e ferls.
Then ‘e’s a real, reet Yorkshire pisshead, that’s no jork.

Why does ‘e work so ‘ard,
Stacking boxes in the yard?
‘E grafts all night and wants no sympathy
‘E staggers out of bed
Just to get a pat on t’ead
I’d say ‘e just wants to break free.

But ‘e’s more than crertes to lift
And packages to shift -
There’s drivin’ through the night both near and far.
If ‘e wants ‘is pay to earn
‘E’s got office cords to learn.
(I thought young lad were learning the guitar.)

‘Is first name’s really Mark
And it’s just a silly lark
That’s ‘is nickname comes from t’singer blork in Queen
But Freddie’s not a queer
Even though ‘e drinks no beer
‘E’s a lady-killer, keen and lean and mean.

Yes, ‘e’s got the teeth to flash
And until he shaved his tash
The two men looked the serme, like pair of gloves.
But this Fred lifts no shirts
He prefers an arse in skirts -
It’s a crazy little thing that we call love

Oh yes, ‘e likes the girls
And ‘e loves to fondle curls
With female ‘earts t’bugger likes to toy
He just wants it all
But he doesn't want to fall
‘E’s just a good old-fashioned lover boy.

As a lad ‘e used to run
But now them days is done
Them borns is creakin’ when ‘e teks an ‘ike.
All the exercise ‘e terkes
Is liftin’ lords o’ crertes
Though sometimes ‘e just likes to ride ‘is bike.

They say ‘e’s Sleight by nerme
And ‘e’s pretty slight in frerme.
I doubt if he is over 5 foot 4
But if ‘e has the thought
That yon blork there’s a scrort
It isn’t long ‘fore t’bugger’s out the door.

I can still remember
It were one day last September
When a drunk refused to leave, just stood and cussed.
Our Fred were on ‘is feet
And yon scrort were out on’t street,
And that is how another one bit the dust.

Well, ‘e wants to go back ‘orm
E’s not content to use ‘is phorn
To the dales ‘e often talks of going back.
But Freddie, just think on -
Forget you when you’re gone?
You Mark my words, young Fred - Sleight chance of that.

The Magpies

I met old Madge, sat on a post,
He eyed me, full of sorrow.
I raised my hand,
As man to man,
Hi, Magpie mate, good morrow.

Another maggot bird flew in,
His feathers fluffed with joy.
He turned my way,
He seemed to say,
Good day to you, old boy.

I wondered as the third arrived,
If what men say is true,
Why they believe
These birds are thieves –
Good morning, Sirs, to you.

Mischievous, motley jesters all,
Who love all shining things,
I’ve seen you steal
A hawk’s own meal
And scare him with your wings.

They say you wouldn’t board the ark,
That you are birds of evil.
You flapped around
Christ’s bloody crown –
Not you, you handsome devils.

A fourth arrived, a fifth, a sixth,
To where a rabbit lay
Full near to death.
With its last breath
Said, Spare me, sirs, today.

For, Magpies, I shall soon be dead.
Then you can have your fill.
But with pit-black eyes
The cruel magpies,
They gathered for the kill

Satan’s blood dripped from their tongue,
Their beaks, they stabbed and speared
The rabbit’s eyes.
It screamed and cried.
God damn you, Sirs – they never heard.

You hateful birds, of carrion bred,
For life you are not fit,
Keep from my way.
And hear me say,
On all you god-damned birds I spit.

Sonnet 2

'A poem is never finished, merely abandoned.'

Each one so precious: a sonnet

When with the dawn she slides into my bed,

The dress of dreamless darkness slips away.

Her teasing fingers flutter on my head.

Her whispers draw me up and into day.

Laughing, the throbbing sun has reached his height,

Spreading himself across the sweating land,

Thrusting aside the clouds with shafts of light.

The world is his to own, his to command.

But soon the evening sky is bleeding redly,

The day despairs, declines and slowly dies,

The melancholy moon is hanging sadly,

Betrayed by love and laughter, lust and lies.

Each woman, each so precious, always leaves.

So let it be. I am too proud to grieve.

Poets should eat more meat.

Birds cry
And lovers lie
In sylvan glades and shady nooks
And sigh.

Bees drone
And lovers groan
With eyes aglow and soulful looks
And moan.

Poets long
And sing their song -
Anaemic, euphemistic muck! -
How wrong.

Oh, please! Give me a steak,


Hot and hissing,
Pink and sizzling,
Plumply spread across my eager plate;
Red with blood, flecked white with dripping fat;
Egg-yolk yellow,
Onions smelling
Scorched, with bloated mushrooms gilled in black.
Hunger oozing,
Juices drooling,
Mingling, melting, burning the back
Of my gulping throat,
So fast I choke,
Too fast to last,
Bursts in my belly, an orgasmic blast

What a load of rubbish!

Five-minute sonnet

I wonder would you like a cup of tea
From sunny India where the tiger roams;
Or cocoa from that land across the sea
Where elephants and lions make their home.

I've Kenyan coffee, some from far Brazil,
And sugar from the beets of Lincolnshire.
And if your tender nerves are prone to thrill
I've even got decaffeinated here.

No, what I want's a pint - and make it snappy -

With frothy bubbles foaming at the brim

- regards to Keats the great -I touch my cap.

I wish I could have shared a round with him.

See, sonnet-writing isn't quite so hard,

Affectionately, Bolingbroke the Bard.

Celebrity is the mask that eats the face of those who wear it.

John Updike

Sonnet number 1

A shared assault on crosswords brings us here,

Sitting, watching, arguing, just conversing,

Of course, there's each day's quota of cheap beer -

Well, ling'ring at the bar, waiting, cursing.

Surrounded by a swarm of drunks and smoke,

Thinking, 'My God, there must be more to life.

Just who is that crude loudmouth who just spoke?

And why does that oaf eat peas with his knife?'

But then, one Thursday, squinting through the haze,

Tobacco-choked and fingering our glass,

A light breaks through, and we enraptured gaze:

A blaze of blonde, of beauty, grace and class.

So, lovely ladies, please accept this wine.

A little late, but be our Valentine.

I'd trade all of my tomorrows for a single yesterday

Kris Kristofferson