Monthly Archives: January 2018

The last (lust?) word on whipping in to inner London in December for a quick Christ-messy weekend. Accommodating desires and accommodation can be uncomfortable.

Little Room For Love In London.

I’m not saying London’s dark and gloomy
Or that the Hotel Le Cubicle is less than roomy,
Or there’s no room within to swing a pussycat,
I don’t believe we can stretch credulity to that.

Should one find one who whets one’s sexual appetite
Don’t invite her back to share the night,
One will find oneself feeling like a monk
Unless she’s happy top’n’tailing in a bunk.

Whatever happened to peace, empathy and understanding in the community? …Oh.

All Too Cutting.

Out to the quiet garden I did go,
The sun’s a’ shining, seeds to sow,
I brought out the iPhone, the better to hear
iTunes to sooth the memories of last nights beer.

For a sadly hungover sort of fellow
The mornings music should be oh so mellow,
AC/DC is all well and good on a Saturday night-
Not so much in Sunday mornings white bright light.

Humming along to the Beautiful South,
Reviewing my morning vow of nil by mouth,
There came an unwelcome cacophony from next door;
Paul Heaton can’t compete with a mowers infernal roar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside I went, cursing, back to bed,
Back to nursing my poor pounding head,
Now my neighbors complaint is understood-
Last night he said mine’s a rowdy neighborhood.

Bitten by the riding bug again, for some reason. If you can’t dream, eh?

Firing Up In The Classic Manner.

The Promise.

I’m enamoured by most motorcycles I must profess,
There’s a plethora of eastern promises I’ve come to posses,
But I have lived long with one overriding regret,
That’s that I’ve never owned a classic Velocette.

But now, thanks to a late great Uncles largesse
I can turn my wife’s ‘no way’ to a reluctant ‘yes,’
Soon as I heard the word I sat down with smile set
And my fingers fairly danced as I hit the Internet.

Not for me a malleable mildly tuned inoffensive MSS,
No, I yearned for the fabled Thruxton, nothing less,
But I was to be seduced by a tarted up Vixen, and no debt,
She possessed the fine lines and promise of the true coquette.

The Arrival.

In my garage she’s sat, submitting to my caress,
A twist of the throttle, her kick start I gently press,
A backfire, a belch of flame and my bellowing epithet
Sounded as the kick start hit my calf like a curette.

… My thanks to those Hall Green designers I duly express
For their crankily geared starter only slowed my progress,
If my mild criticisms cause those old buffers some upset
When it comes to your clutch, how crazy could you get?

The Reality.

The old dear’s propped up, oil dripping, in its own mess,
Her starting procedure and clutch adjustment- anyone’s guess,
My once bewitchin’ now forlorn Vixen leaves me in a cold sweat
But my long-standing limp IS making her impossible to forget.

© Obbverse.Com

A light moment, recalling motorcycing and memories of those who’ve gone before. Some of us learn, some were destined to never…

Skid Mark.

I was idling patiently at that long red light on Shakespeare Road-
Perhaps it was seeing that name that drove me to pen this ode-
When I was shaken from my reverie by a motorcycling moron
Who blasted through the still-red light, off to Hell and gone.

Over the fading roar I heard a mindlessly maniacal chortle
Trailing from a halfwit who thought a Hog made him immortal,
It was his lunatic behaviour made me recall it was at this very place
That an aquaintence from my past had moved on to a state of grace.

Not friends, a love for motorbikes the one thing in common we had,
This was your archetypically simple surly monosyllabic bit of a bad lad,
I’d had the privelege of crossing his path on the interschool football field;
He’d proved a brutal tackler then, but with time, my wounds have healed.

His private school could find no way to remediate this malcontent,
At fifteen, educated with only a bad attitude, out the door he went,
Yes, I realise that it’s neither good form or etiquette to think ill of the dead
But could there ever be much of a future in store for this prize knucklehead?

Yet, at fifteen, without a job or skill
He’d lined up a deal to buy a Bonneville,
What would a rigorous IRD audit possibly reveal?
Besides cultivating good business sense, a great deal.

His red-rimmed eyes gazed off into space
Behind the dark tint of his full-face,
He’d taken to smoking what he sold
-He soon sounded like Vader with a cold.

Next he took to flying high, at speed,
An accident waiting to happen, all agreed,
He began gambling approaching the amber light,
It was glaringly obvious this boy was none too bright.

What a wild card he was, pushing the boundaries and his luck
Until he ploughed his Bonneville into an innocent container truck,
There the Triumph and its rider terminated. coming to a crashing halt,
So stop for lights, otherwise its lights out, and it’s whose damn fool fault?

Back to the land of the ice and snow, Where there’s sod all sun and the cold winds blow. (Apologies to Led Zeppelin and the Immigrant Song.)

Home And Away.

Oh, to be back in the sceptred isle on a sepulchral January day,
No, there’s no place like home the old folks unfailingly say,
The rain paints the streets a shade of an all too familiar grey,
Hmm, whatever possessed me to go rather than jolly well stay?

Now I’m thinking of MY home as I trudge through the spray,
Where the rain gently but rarely falls on the sun crazed clay,
That welcoming sun’s calling me back, and no more will I stray,
I’m going home, getting my old Spurs scarf and giving it away.

Paris, city of romance, where love blows through and clings to every corner of the city’s richly historical air.

High Expectations.

Of Paris’ Bohemian quarter Lonely Planet has enlightengly writ
Even in it’s darkest corner it’s denizens look well lit,
This is one part of Paris they highly recommend you hit.
(Not recommended if you can’t face a toxicology kit.)

Low Expectorations.

Outside the Cafe Rouge we found a place to sit;
Parisiennes are a passionate people we’ll readily admit,
Young lovers stroll by, clasping hands, or tit,
Sucking face and Gauloises wherever they see fit,
Here, french kissing doesn’t mean you have to quit.

Then, when they come up for air, they breath, smile and spit!
Their aimless nonchalance does Parissiens little credit,
All this phlegmy frenchness is begining to wear, a bit,
Ah, the French have style and culture, who could doubt it?
But as I wipe my sleeve, I believe I could do without it.

Random thoughts from a trip to Scotland that put a few stereotypes in their place. Then again…

Three Verses.

Old Angus.

‘I’ll not pay two pounds,
I’ll pay one pound fifty;
Mean as it sounds
I’m keen on bein’ thrifty.’

—————

Talk Of The Stockbridge Tap.

They say the Scots are very tight
But that’s not what I found,
They thanked me generously last night
And all I did was stand around.

——————–

Some See The Stars/Half Empty?

Is auld Dunfermline not an intoxicating sight?
The impact of these ancient walls, so profound,
Old stained windows remain a dark architectural delight,
The rusty crusty iron-barred door indominatably solid and sound-
I’m still pounding the old bars at dawns first light,
Dunfermline not forgotten despite all the pints I downed.