As a Crystal Place fan this all feels... strange, We're not used to seeing this kind of...change, It has my poor perpetually downcast head spinning, How can I make level sense of Palace actually winning?
But the team is winning more than less And If I wasn't a real(allistic) fan I confess I would be enjoying these moments, smiling deliriously But how long can I believe in Palace winning- seriously?
I thought once Manchester United came here We'd lose our way and normalcy would reappear, But the Red Devils, bereft of skill, lost to Palace 4 to nil, In any season it stands to reason that's a right royal miracle.
Our team of try-harders have learnt how to play? How did my poor Palace team find a winning way? Still, my logical mind tells me there's some kind of mistake, Please, can someone kindly pinch me to show me I'm awake?
(Wolves 1, Palace 3. I must be in Dreamland, or an alternate universe.)
‘From pathetic tragedy of playground proportions to golden triumphal run- at Palace?’
'Dream, dream away, Magic in the air, Was magic in the air? I believe, yes I believe, What more can I say?' John Lennon, '#9 Dream.'
I woke up to Lou calling out my name, Deep from sleep my fogged-up brain came, I saw my sweet spouse clinging to the wall, I felt my heart leap, then start to free-fall, Says she evenly 'better give the Doc a call.'
Hands flew to my Flip-top, I dropped it cold- Can't make the call if I've no phone to hold- Lou looked at the floor as I hard scrabbled, Fingers fumbled as I cursed and babbled, Prayers to find my phone garbled and gabbled.
Found the f- flipping thing, called a Paramedic, My rabid request for assistance, less than poetic, My usual smooth silver tongue turned traitor, How did the receptionist not need a translator? Anyways, a 'medic arrived a few minutes later.
Kara sat down, went through the tests For strokes, clots and cardiac arrests, I looked on fretfully, trying to bravely cope, My cool equanimity on a slippery slope, And Kara looked up from her stethoscope...
She said to me 'I'm going to give The patient a quick acting sedative, It's not serious, but you must know Your Lou is suffering a bout of vertigo, And to our clinic you two should go.'
She sternly said 'take these pills, as directed, Two of these will keep her calm and collected,' She gave two to Lou and tossed three to me, 'Lou's slightly dizzy, but you're all in a tizzy,' Lou pithily said 'no man for a crisis, is he?'
'Give me strength to deal with my light-headed affliction'
'Woke up in a panic, Like someone's fired a gun, I wish I could be dreaming, But the nightmares just begun.' The Kinks 'State Of Confusion.'
Folks, don't be concerned, my Lou is recovering well enough. Taking it easy, lots of rest, avoiding quick movements, pressing cold compresses on the fevered brow. She's doing one hell of a job- I should be up and about soon enough...
When Winter finally fades and Spring bursts forth In the wild and wooly woods of the far-flung North, We'll see the sap rise as the wood begins to warm, Thoughts of reviving old Pagan rites begin to form.
As is the custom long practiced by the ancient Norse In the young and green primal lusts begin to course.
Now no longer shackled by the cold confines of home Couples who'd just held hands now feel free to roam, And Earthy Mother Nature coaxes, prods and pushes Young lovers to discover what lies beyond the bushes.
With the sun above and flowers wildly growing down below How deep into the forest and how far would young love go?
The flaxen-haired maid coquettishly dips her fair left shoulder; That loose peasant blouse must be hard pressed to enfold her; Soon in the forest our young couple grapple hotly in the shade Wild eyes casting about for a sun dappled yet private glade.
But young 'uns, don't abandon yourselves to pleasure Before putting into practice one protective measure...
Stop- and lay your garments (or a blanket) on the ground, For those in a hurry (and horny) Spring surprises abound, Before you two lay waste to that soft bed of primrose petals Double check you won't wind up coupling on stinging nettles.
‘All manner of ferrel forest wildlfe doing what comes naturally.’
May the First was, back in the olden days, a day for celebrating life, love and libido- or for the strait-laced simply a means to roll around in debauchery and lustful lechery, and all out in the open, as Nature intended. Also, May the First fell on my Fathers birthday. Hmmm.
(Blame this piece of silly wickedness on Clive’s Take It Easy May Day post.)
'When I saw you standing there, green eyes, black hair, Up against the pink and purple wisteria, You said "hey, nature boy, are you looking at me With some unrighteous intention?" My knees went weak, I couldn't speak.' Nick Cave, 'Nature Boy.'
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.'
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.'
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!)
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.'
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 notmix 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?'
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.’
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 