More travails from South London. Flippin’ football!

(On losing 0-3 at Selhurst Park to Burnley- bleeding Burnley!)

Same Old Selhurst Story.

Losing to lowly Burnley is hard enough to comprehend
But coughing up three lousy goals at home tends to send
A message to fans and foes alike; if it's goals you're seeking
Come to Selhurst Park, where the home side's goal keeps leaking.

Down, down the table the wounded eagles painfully descend,
Our front boys can't hope to score, our defenders won't defend,
Nowadays Roy's tried and true old school team tactics are creaking,
With the teams average age well over thirty, they're well past tweaking.

We're sinking towards the relegation end,
Waiting to be washed down, 'round the bend,
Roy stubbornly still says his old boys are just peaking
But what a load of old cobblers Hodgson keeps speaking!

Not you, not I dare say old Roy is not well intentioned
But half Roy's hobbled side also deserve to be pensioned,
I'm told I'm sounding ageist with my sage but savage critiquing-
The naked truth is this team of stumblebums is well past streaking.

‘All grey foxes and bald Eagles.’

 

 

©Obbverse

Captain Tom Moore, 100 years old, his duty is now done.

Last Parade.

It's been a grim grey February day,
Captain Tom Moore has faded away,
Sir Tom inspired us all by soldiering on,
But age has slowed him and now he's gone.

He raised our spirits in our darkest hour,
Now he's been elevated by a higher power,
A centurion who didn't stand by and idly talk,
Even with his walker Sir Tom walked the walk.

©Obbverse

The first blush of a hot summer, the sound of an old song and suddenly unsettling feelings resurface. Why? I guess I do still remember that long passed perfect summer. Ah, well: And so it goes.

Them Ol' Solid Gold Summertime Blues.

At last those cold clinging wintry days dogging spring are done,
Now there's no better place than on the warm grass under the sun,
And as I doze my mind drifts back to yesterdays unclouded by regret,
Of good old days by the pool, when we wuz young and green and wet.

Those were the days, before our mapped-out lives had begun,
Before a mother aimed her daughter towards a rich mans son,
When the discs spun only for us four; Clare, Marie, me and Chet,
Long gone days, then soon forgotten, but now- impossible to forget.

©Obbverse

So long, Sean Connery; there has been no better Bond.

(Written slightly irreverently, but with love.)

James Bond- The Final Cut.

The great Sean Connery has gone to the great beyond,
Hung up his holster, laid down his gun, gone to his eternal rest,
Few dispute Sean portrayed the perfect classic Bond,
Sorry, Danny Craig, but there's no shame in being second best.

Franchise Guys.

With the on-screen arrival of Sean
A double zero hero was born,
The second Bond was David Niven
So a Royale disappointment was a given,
Next up George Lazenby gave Bond a shot,
Like Lazenby's 'career' best quickly forgot,
Then came rakish roguish Roger Moore-
Uh oh, seven bombs, each worse than the one before,
Eventually Timmy Dalton replaced ol' Rog on the bill,
Twice stepped into Bonds shoes- two, run of the mill,
Then they lined up Pierce Brosnan to don the tuxedo
Of the serial seducer with the long-lasting libido,
Three quick Bonds and Pierce was spent,
Seems in a flash he came and went,
Now Daniel Craig's just the latest stud to put it about...
It's high time Fleming's played out Bond is written out.
Undertaken, then interred.

Ringo Starr bashes his way to eighty. Good to see Richard’s still kicking that kit.

Starr Bright.

Happy 80th birthday, Ringo Starr,
Who’d have thought you’d come this far?
Does the oldest member of the worlds best band
Take a moment to bow his head and silently stand?

On his auspicious day there’s a tinge of regret
As he remembers the glory days of a great quartet,
Since he’d first set the Beatles beat on ‘Love Me Do,’
Time has now cruelly edited the Fab Four down to two.

©Obbverse

Alan Jones and his multitude of hang-ups are going off the airwaves. Aussies, enjoy the quietude.

Press Zero.

A word on Alan, he’s due his first and last post,
It’s a kind of a eulogy to a long-winded talk-back host,
It’s finally time to hang up, Alan Jones,
The man who had the last word on a million phones.

He’s a hard man, holding riotous views on race,
Not scared of shovin’ women back in their place.

So wave goodbye, Mister Always Right,
The kind of bloke who just keeps holdin’ on to every slight,
Say bye-bye, biggest mouth in the ol’ Dominion,
Cheerio, best Aussie broadcaster… in his humble opinion.

Ain’t nothing more the old football coach enjoys
Than a boozy chin-wag with those good ol’ boys.

An Aussie prattler the Left rightly loathed and feared
But with an ego needing to be loved and revered,
A mean-minded misogynist whatever way he tried to spin it,
Finally, the mouthy shock jock’s put a sock in it.

 

©Obbverse

The legendary Stirling Moss, a blast from the past, has passed.

Off The Grid.

The final flag has fallen for Stirling Moss,
His stirling record now shows his last loss,
He enjoyed his 90 years on Gods green earth,
He lived and loved the fast life for all it’s worth.

Countless female fan’s hearts and great races breezily won,
Yet somehow fated never to top the podium in Formula One,
So now with a backwards smile wreathing his never beaten face
He so easily leaves us mere mortals behind and steps up a place.

 

©Obbverse

Terry Jones, member of Monty Python, moves on. Sorry, ex member. The world of humor has lost a great one today.

Terry’s Pissed Off.

Farewell Mr Jones, know you’l be missed,
How well you filled the role of Mr Creosote,
Of Jesus’ Mum, of that rude nude organist,
Terry rarely, barely,played a bum note.

Now is the time to raise the wrist,
To drink to John Cleese’s fitting quote,
‘Four left to go on the Dead Parrot’s list.’
Goodbye Jokester, That’s all he wrote.

 

©Obbverse

The year grinds on. Even at the very end of 2019 another bright thread in life’s rich sweet and idiotically human tapestry sparks out. Goodbye, Neil Innes. In the comedy of life, his timing was impeccable.

Fresh Wound.

Here we are on December Thirty-First,
I’ll be glad when this accursed year is done,
This stinking year must rank down with our worst,
But we don’t care- or dare- to dig up that sorrier one.

I was chillin’ in the car when the news came on,
Then the fuggy atmosphere grew a degree colder,
Neil Innes, immortal eccentric English wit has gone!?
The words I heard drove me over onto the hard shoulder.

What a way to wrap up a bad year’s news,
With a sigh but a rueful grin I wiped a tear away,
With his Python bits, Ruttle skits Innes would amuse,
He’s left us with a song and a smile, this dogs’s had his day

 

©Obbverse