Am I alone in hoping there could be a lone Ranger?

Dumb Truck.

Whenever I drive down to our local Mall, sadly
The car parks are chocka-block, row upon row,
And every second conveyance is parked badly,
So, slowly, 'round and 'round the carousel we go.

Away we go, eyes crawling past the serried ranks-
So many big double cab trucks, so few hatchbacks,
Slaloming from side to side of the tight lanes thanks
To trucks with rear-ends fitted with triple bike racks.

All the Mall car parks are of a reasonable size,
But unfortunately, not if your parking skills suck,
It's a rare trucker who'll win a 'best parker' prize
When trying to park Fords monster big-as truck.

Because 'round here the Ford Ranger is ubiquitous,
It's the most bought and desired vehicle of any sort,
A work truck being the top seller sounds ridiculous,
But that double cab truck is now fashionably sought.

From top Master Builders to Jack-offs of all trades
Every working man wants to be wheelin' a Ford Ranger,
But the fact they're also favoured by fair delicate maids
Makes its macho appeal to the masses even stranger.

With Rangers being big 'n' tall and double wide
One needs to park it with a surgeons precision,
But when two are parked on either side, woe betide
You should you reverse and don't have periscopic vision.

Now that the Ranger has become a fashion accessory
The petty pissy upper-class one-upmanship has begun,
Are Mag wheels, fog lamps, chrome bull bars necessary
'Specially for the rich bitch tart navigating the school run?

The Ranger has upstaged the fabled Range Rover,
Once the default choice of the wealthily endowed,
With its lofty cabin so one could sit and lord it over
The poor lost Souls and losers in their Cruzes crowd.*

It's rough enough when a Ranger hauling a trailer
Takes a foot of precious space off your parking slot,
I've been known to swear like a road-raging sailor
When trying to scrape into a park- turns out it's not.

So we curse it out and back out to crawl along again,
Past some Power Ranger who looks and sees just fine,
Parked outside his gym this muscle head with half a brain
Strides and whistles past the 'Disabled Parking Only' sign.

Then, amongst the range of cabs and gleaming decks
I spy a gap in the Rangers that, with Gods good grace-
If it isn't a trick of the light or my steamed-up specs-
May be an actual honest-to-God free parking space!

Turning 'round the corner we slow and brake,
I don't believe it but the evidence I can't refute,
I stare, rub my disbelieving eyes, do a double take
And hit the horn, knowing she won't give a hoot.

Hot Mama in her air-conditioned comfort won't take a hint,
She sits vaping, idling, adding to the massive carbon bubble,
Madam peers down her snooty nose through the window tint,
Parking 'tween the painted guidelines isn't worth her trouble.

* Kia Soul and Chevy Cruze. Cheap 'n' cheerful runabouts, nippy, small enough for the Mall, unless you have one truck of an ego.

'Why the Ford Ranger, a big unwieldy bloated behemoth of a truck remains NZ's best seller is a mystery to me. Maybe those who do buy them think having a big deck makes them special?

'Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful,
And just a little lazy,
Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful,
I'm just as God has made me.'
The Northern Pikes, 'Don't Hate Me.'

©Obbverse.

The recent past wasn’t all happy days and sweetness and light. We had our darker moments.

Fossil Fooled.

Nowadays when I look back on my childhood days
It's with a clear eyed not misty rose-tinted gaze,
Oh, my bright summers weren't all gloomy greys,
Only in winter did I suffer a dark depressing malaise.

Back in those dim dark days before Emission Control
Every household was heated by trusty dusty coal,
To add to my misery it was this lucky middle sons role
To drag his butt and the empty scuttle down the coal hole.

Each chill smoky grey day I'd fill the scuttle, knowing full well
I wouldn't want to go back out there once darkness fell,
When coal smoke filled the air and you could taste its smell,
So I filled that coal bucket full enough to stoke the fires of Hell.

A rundown rotten wreck of a villa was all poor Pop could afford,
We'd sit chillin', frozen backs to the wall while the fire roared,
Wind whistled through shiver-me-timbers warped weatherboards,
Somehow it had escaped being condemned, unlike our slum landlord.

The rent meant no riches left to hire a TV, even a Black and White,
Naught but an old RCA valve radio to keep our spirits up at night,
We'd turn on the crackling radio and I'd warm to its glowing light,
But to turn your back to the flames too long raised the risk of frostbite.

All too soon only hearing the radio began to pale with seeing TV,
Every damn fool kid at school knew who Shatner was but me,*
Thankfully a school mate's family took pity on me and my poverty,
Now on cold nights I'd bask in the warmth of "Star Trek's" Company.

For this nerd was besotted with Science Fiction of every kind,
But TV shows that fired the imagination were hard to find,
Till one Wednesday evening I found all my stars had aligned,
Channel Three had put on a double act that blew my tiny mind!

I found I was pulled 'tween 'Star Trek' and 'Lost In Space,'
I loved Spock's dispassionate manner, his stony face,**
And yet Judy Robinson's ass eyes made my heart race,
Talk about being stuck between Spock and a hard place.***

I'd treadle off on my 3 Speed down our smoke blacked street,
Pedaling at walking pace, visibility down to under six feet,
Blue hands gripping the handlebars, face white as a sheet,
My sweat soaked cheeks backsliding all over the banana seat.

The lampposts seemed to appear too far and few between,
Their bright white light diminished to a sulphurous sheen,
One had to ride eyes wide open and keep ones wits keen-
One can't rear-end a parked car and keep ones undies clean.

But a grittier problem was- the winter air was problematic,
Sucking up lungfuls of smoke ill becomes an asthmatic,
One freezing wheezing night I tried to remain phlegmatic
But hacking up lumps of black phlegm is beyond melodramatic.

So, a week laid up in my bed, in pneumonia and delirium's grip,
The Doc prescribed me rest, chicken soup and a penicillin drip,
He flicked his Bic with practiced flip, sparked up a charcoal tip,
Advised me to avoid smoky nights as smoke curled from his lip! 

Nowadays when I hear the praises of "the good ol' days" being sung,
Some Boomer goin' on about 'how great it was when we wuz young,'
I'm just the one to harshly tell that blithering fool to hold their tongue,
A childhood choking on smoke'n'ciggies- we should all have black lung.

Our long-ago innocent childhood days now seem too brief,
Old Father Time has shown himself to be a sneaky thief,
Still, I stand here, glad to take a deep healthy breath of relief,
But till I leave this Earth for Heaven there is this lingering belief,
What if I don't go up in a puff of smoke, but down to the Fire Chief?

* Bill Shatner, gung-ho all action hero and over-the-top actor portraying Captain Kirk of Starfleet Command.
** Leonard Nimoy, Mr Spock of Star Trek- if you don't know him then Pop Culture is wasted on you.
*** Marta Kristen, looking very pretty acting as Judy Robinson. Her actual acting, fair at best. But back then, in my quieter reflective moments, with time on my hands, in my mind I'd replay every scene she had been in. Hey, I did say I liked Sci-Fi. And Fantasy.

(This one came about after having a lunchtime rendezvous at a restaurant with an old mate and reminiscing about the good and bad old days. Compared to back then, there are blue shies and light at the end of the tunnel.)

'Don't turn tail on me Judy. I am not a robot.'     'The good ol' days? Blow it out your rear.'        

'There's a light
Burning in the fireplace,
There's a light, a light
In the darkness of everybody's life.'
Rocky Horror Picture Show, 'Over At The Frankenstein Place.'

©Obbverse.

Some rare lucky days the game of life just has to make you sunnily smile. And I’m beaming Away.

An Unexpected Kick In The Kop.*

The times I've watched Crystal Palace play and lose
Has driven this once happy-go-lucky dude to booze,
I've sat and watched my wretched misbegotten club
Lose to lesser sides who've had the luck of Beelzebub.

I've watched this luckless team lose for far too long,
So often I've seen my dream go nightmarishly wrong,
The times my patience and belief have been sorely tried,
The countless days I've watched and slowly died inside...

Oh, in such tearstained woeful misery I've wallowed,
So many last-minute defeats I've retchedly swallowed,
And after all my prayers to Good God (or what-have-you,)
Today I do believe I've either lucked out or broken through.

For this Sunday mourning looking o'er Liverpool's ground
A moment of rare and precious satisfaction has been found,
To watch 60,000 Scousers** crying 'neath the wan Anfield sun-
I know I'm no religious man, but Lord above, I owe You one.
(Liverpool 0, Lucky Palace 1.)

*The Kop, part of the Anfield ground where the most fervent Liverpool fans cheer their team to victory. Usually.
** Scousers, term of endearment for the good folk lucky enough to reside in Liverpool.

'Sorry, Reds fans; today you'll never wail alone. I'll smile all I can, coz this never happens.'

'But dreaming's all I do,
If only they'd come true.'
Kylie Minogue (!?) 'I Should Be So Lucky.'
(And today all my hopes and far-fetched dreams came true!)

©Obbverse.

The final whistle’s been blown, the star of the game steps into the end zone.

Hail Mary Time.

It's game over for free running back OJ,
A man who had his share of jeers and cheers,
No more slow driving down the Freeway
With the following cop cars grinding their gears,
No more wondering if he might get away
Or get sent down to Sing Sing for forty years,
No more forensically viewed play by plays
Seen by a TV audience and a jury of his peers,
No more deliberating o'er what the judge may say,
Now he has been taken from this vale of tears,
But does OJ face one final Judgement Day?

'You can bend it, you can break it,
You start to even fake it,
Can you hear the congregation sing?
The truth is, the truth is, 
A tricky thing.'
Jace Everett, 'Tricky Thing.'

©Obbverse.

I keep on gamely trying, but I think I’m losing the love.

Once Upon A Team.

Here's the story of a love that's pathetically sad, 
Of a relationship that pushes sanity to the brink,
When the most equitable man can be driven mad,
Slowly into low spirits, then deep despair you sink.

When it comes to a lifelong sporting passion
Following the popular crowd defies my reason,
Arsenal, Man C or Liverpool lead this years fickle fashion,  
But the true fan stays staunch, season after futile season.

I offer up a short tale that may help explain why
I've long supported this peculiar particular mob team,
The reason why on on wintery Saturdays I laugh and cry-
The two emotions tend to blend into a maniacal scream.

If you're a far-flung fan of the beautiful game
And you make the migration to London Town
There's many a fine footballing team I could name
That'll keep your spirits up and not let you down.

Up in North London Spurs or the Arsenal come to mind,
To the East lies West Ham, replete with their nice new pitch,
Off to the West, Fulham and Brentford, but most get behind
Chelsea, successful due to the suspect riches of Abramovich.

I felt no kinship with posh Chelsea's nouveau riche,
I didn't want to be part of the latest big spending trend,
Plus, I have the kind of skin that bruises like a peach,
My face wouldn't look right squashed in at the Shed End.*

So, not necessarily for me the glamour of the top tier-
But nearby blue-collar Millwall proved no band of brothers-
Those gap-toothed tattooed skinheads filled me with fear-
Angry red-faced Denizens do not mix play well with others.

So I walked away from the Lions Den and into the Valley,**
Charlton's pathetic teamwork didn't  set my hear a' racing,
(Jimmy F Hasselbaink couldn't score in a ten-pin bowling alley,)***
Soon further down the Southern roads I found myself pacing.

I found myself standing outside Selhurst Park,****
The floodlights soared up to quite a height,
Then... a flash banished the encroaching dark,
And on that fateful Sunday evening I saw the light.

Watching my first game, one thing I (un)easily understood,
Clearly this team would struggle to get near the top division,
And now, after so many bad years and the precious few good
I've stupidly stoically supported Palace, so do I rue my decision?

Oh, what a crazy up and down team I chose to follow,
I knew Palace would- could- never win the Premiership,
Yet this constant taste of disappointment is hard to swallow,
As for any FA Cup sweet taste of success, just a sniff, never a sip.

But there's no going back, I have to live with my choice,
I'm stuck forever with being a red and blue shirt wearer,
I've seen Chelsea's and Arsenal's fans win, sing and rejoice,
The closest we've come's being coached by ex-Arse Pat Vieira.*****

Our club's carefully run by money men who don't dare buy success,
(T)ask our Chairman for more funding, he gives... a nod and a wink,
The Board needs to be investing more, they'd far rather spend less,
Seeing cash-strapped Palace being pissed about drives me to drink.

But for better or worse, long ago I laid out my footballing stall,
Every tough year I pray we'll somehow remain a Premiership club,
But it's galling, sitting watching the Arse, 'Pool or Man City win it all,
Is it jealousy or self-pity that drives this bitter man down to the pub?

* The Shed End- in the past, not where anyone other than a true Blue/White Chelsea fan wanted to be.
**The Den, home of Millwall, nicknamed the Lions. The Valley, home ground of of Charlton Athletic. When I think I'm foolish supporting Palace I think of Charlton. Could be worse.
***Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, at Chelsea a very good goal scorer. Waltzed breezily into Charlton a fleet-footed legend, left limping.
****Selhurst Park, home of the Eagles. I hope they will soar, one fine day. Gotta hope; praying to the sporting Gods hasn't done anything yet.
*****Patrick Vieira, a great ex-Arsenal player, not able to manage much great at Palace. Not given the chance.

'The warm welcome offered by the gentlemen of Millwall Football Club.'

'Now I'm the one who's crying,
I'm a fool there's no denying,
When will my heartache end?'

Hot Chocolate, 'So You Win Again.'

©Obbverse.

Rich man, con-man, beggars belief.

Holy Writ!

Friends, even I, the true leader of this greatest of nations
Suffers his undue and unfair share of trials and tribulations,
Like being charged with sedition, being proved guilty of fraud,
But with my latest business acquisition I'm taking it to the Lord.

My friends, though I've honestly and innocently pleaded
As justice stands now some monetary miracle will be needed,
I've a passel of circling lawyers, all wanting to be legally paid,
Till, in a blinding revelation I saw how a fortune might be made. 

Friends, I'm endorsing this God Bless The USA Good Book,
My loyal red-blooded patriotic citizens, it pays to give it a look,
It's the real deal at $59.99, a hundred if I toss in my autograph,
Every word is His, but I believe He's happy if I sign on His behalf.

                                         'Just... No.'

(I’ve all but given up on commenting about this candidate, but this flim-flam scam is enough to make me lose faith in any residual trace of humanity. Folk can -and have- made their minds up about his worth, and no words of mine are likely to get many, if any to change their minds. But. This last act, this last raw deal of his has to shake the belief of one or two of his blind followers.)

‘Now I hear the whisper soft and low
Through every mile I run
As I travel through this world of woe
With a bible and a gun.’
Jason Ringenberg, ‘Bible And A Gun.’

©Obbverse.

A second dose of Covid: Talk about the flow-on effect.

Fluid Affair.

Before this Covid kicked back in I'd been in the pink,
So the Doc prescribed aspirin, rest and plenty to drink,
Despite me happily swallowing my brandy/lemonade tincture
My mirror shows my rude health hasn't re-entered the picture.

So I'll tip in a tot more brandy to top up the carafe-
Seventy percent brandy tastes works better than half,
Doc, I'll take your tip, let me dip into my pool of wealth,
Doc, I'll go top shelf and drink long to my good health.

No, this positively clinging Covid hasn't been shaken off yet,
I lie abed, alternately thrashing in a hot then a fluxing cold sweat,
Dry throat, sweat slicked hair, this slow sickness will not be rushed,
Sleep, wake, get up, stand, shake- well, my kidneys feel well flushed.

'Stagger out of sweaty bed, hang your head, let off stream, back to bed. Repeat as required.'

'Yellow River, Yellow River
Is in my mind and in my eye,
Yellow River.'
Christie, 'Yellow River.'

(Slowly on the improve, but fluid intake means deep sleep remains broken at best, spotty at worst.) 

©Obbverse.

It’s one sad sick world we live in.

Sick Excuses.

I've been hit with the bl- blessed Covid- again!
Hit with two doses when (n)one would suffice,
I didn't count on it, but even in my fog-filled brain
It seems selfish to find I've been blessed twice.

So I'm off to my sick bed, with lemonade and brandy,
To my long suffering WP friends, sorry, I'll get back to you,
I'm in no mind for sick puns, can't think of words to bandy,
Till I'm better, no correspondence shall be entered into.

 'The brandy is strictly medicinal- well, the first bottle was.'

(Sorry, I'm finding my mind is taking a brain check today.) 

'I get knocked down, but I get up again,
You're never gonna keep me down.'
Chumbawumba, 'Tubthumping.'

©Obbverse.

Remember those good ol’ classic car days, and nights? Small chance for wild romance in our neck of the woods.

Little Pleasures.

As a rapidly growing lad I'd always had eyes for a Cadillac,
Big and wide, plenty of room when you jump in the back,
Compared to what I was restricted to as a growing teen
That big-as Texas back seat made it my dream machine.

Back then a lass I was keen on- the feeling hotly reciprocated-
Felt frustrated by our burning love, yet to be consummated,
Till now, under her Ma's eagle eye we'd restrained our sex drive ,
No wonder She(ila) and I couldn't wait for my birthday to arrive.

I passed my driving test, we all but ran down to 'Honest Joe's,'
Rarin' to buy any cheap but economical heap, so long as it goes,
'Coz here in the poor Colonies big gas-guzzlers run too rich for us,
Your choice is 'take that slow pokey joke of a car- or take the bus.'

All Joe's junkers cars had the same problem for courting coupling,
Each back seat more a cramped camp cot than bed fit for King,
I was tempted by the fine lines of a classy Coupe Capri Consul,
Sadly, just two seats, which declined to recline to the horizontal.

And here, beggars can't be choosers,
We drive shit Brit boxes, not cruisers,
And if you can't afford the Cadillac's gas
You can't go far, even with a willing lass.

Poor ol' Honest Joe was not a guy who'd let a sale go,
Joe had a full yard, times were hard, sales were slow,
As potential buyers, being in the drivers seat we suggested
We take a car each night and have it rigorously road tested?

Joe had to see all we required was a vehicle to contain our desire,
If I didn't think we were taking Honest Joe for a ride I'd be a liar,
We worked our way down from compact, medium and small...
If not for that spritely MG Midget we would've tried 'em all.

But the smaller the automobile the less the fun factor,
Mating in an Imp's akin to being crushed in a compactor,*
And things do get cramped, trying it on in a Morris Minor,
One stray flailing long fingernail could shred the headliner.

And it's hard work trying to use a Mini to facilitate a tryst,
One needs steely resolve and the agility of a contortionist,
And, believe us, forget the Fiat 500, they're all but rut-proof
Unless you make some butt room by pulling back the sunroof.

After working his stock the problem through,
We bought an old delivery van and made do,
Nowadays, whenever I knead my kinky sacroiliac
I wish we coulda, shoulda stretched to a Cadillac.

* Hillman Imp; another little British car- brittle engine = big mechanical problems..

Forget doing anything more than sighing and holding hands if you're sat in one of these, parked in Lovers Lane. 

(It happened to a friend of mine. No, not me. Honestly. And another transport poem. I'm going down a familiar road.)

'We go driving down old Highway seventeen,
She puts on the radio,
Rolls down the window, 
Lays her head back.'
Fred Eaglesmith 'Pontiac.'

©Obbverse.

Join the Boys Brigade, make friends! Or, camaraderie ain’t all its cracked up to be.

(A little warning; another dose of real life dark humour.)

A Moment Of Silence Please.

I'll do my very best to be polite,
I don't want to speak out of spite...

I was talked into joining the Opawa Baptist Boys Brigade,
There my first acquaintance with Mark Nervigan* was made,
He was one of those dumb kids who possess one simple skill;
To get under your skin gave him some sort of sadistic thrill.

Mouthy Mark preferred flight to fight,
The master of the fast departing slight.

The leader of the Boys Brigade quietly took angry me aside,
Asked me to let Mark's jibes go, let his smirking taunts ride,
'To me, Mark's a textbook example of being 'a little headstrong,''
Any Freudster could've told him Mark had been read wrong.

Mark's head was wound a little tight???
In my heart I knew he was not quite right.

I grew older, soon outgrew the Boys Brigade, but I'm afraid 
I found Mark had joined the football club in which I played,
Once again he had the unnerving skill of getting up in my grill,
His digs, pokes and jabs, precise and painful as a dentists drill.

His niggling needlings held a venomous bite,
I fought against shutting his mouth with all my might.

So I left the Boys team, seeing no need for our paths to collide,
Besides, I'd become quite preoccupied with a certain Girl Guide...
Years on, in the back pages I read Mark's life hadn't been led long,
On a nice new Triumph into a sewerage truck he'd ridden headlong.

In silence I read the reason, black on white;
Only smart-mouths argue against a red light.

I can't say his bad news left me shocked, sad and dismayed,
As a dumb kid all instructions to stop he'd wilfully disobeyed,
Now, as a mature man I'd never wish even Skid Mark ill-will,
But it pains my heart he totalled a pristine Triumph Bonneville.

*Not his real name, of course. But never have I met such an irritating f- fellow like him.

‘An attitude like this, but far less likeable.’

'And you may ask yourself 'where does that highway go to?'
And You may ask yourself 'am I right, am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself 'my God, what have I done?"
Talking Heads 'Once In A Lifetime.' 

(Don't know why, these posts have meandered of on a motoring path lately.)

©Obbverse.