Category Archives: England

Brexit is no longer a piddling little speck on the horizon. And yet a feeling of holiday atmosphere lingers over the brave little islanders as they dip a toe into the chill waters of the English channel. Way out there on the beach.

Going Swimmingly.

Not overly long ago life was so grand
‘Ere in England’s green and pleasant land,
From ships sterns the standard proudly flew-
By George, by Jingo, we ruled the seas so blue.

Welcomed in at any unspoilt port of call
Cook’s motley crew set in for the long haul.

Great Britain could justly claim
That they truly earned the name,
And so a mighty empire was built-
Worth every bit of patriotic blood spilt.

Cast a look at any old maritime map,
Rubber, oil, maple syrup- there to tap.

How swift Great Britain’s influence spread,
Half the world was washed in Rich Empire Red,
In far flung lands did the good folk feel enriched
Seeing their flag, ‘neath a Union Jack, newly stitched?

Eventually, if you keep on taking from a friend
All things- goods, oil, sweet deals- come to an end.

Her Majesty’s once Great Navy now looks half rate,
Time and tide have taken toll on the old boilerplate,
Old empty vessels, ready for scrapping if not seafaring,
Now the centuries old Union is ragged and wearing.

But brave little Britain, with a fair wind at her back
Push off from Europe, raising finger and Union Jack.

For the jolly old Empire is empirically sinking,
Great minds and high hopes are ever shrinking,
Is Britain’s role as a world power now historical?
Lets not ask the Great Question when it’s rhetorical.

 

 

©Obbverse

When the team you support’s been soundly beaten, some humble pie must be sadly eaten. England 19, All Blacks 7.

Black Out.

Would our mighty All Blacks stack up?
Could our twice World Cup winners back up?
How many points agin the Poms would we rack up?

But those big bad butt-ugly Blighty boys broke our attack up,
An hour in and its either reach for the Prozac or crack up-
At full time its back to the Hotel to weep, then pack up.

 

©Obbverse

Premier League football, first game 2019, the excitement never ends… Wolverhampton Wanderers V Crystal Palace.

Wandering Away From Home.

‘Twas at Wolverhampton, on a night crisp and clear
Crystal Palace kicked kicked off the first game of the new year,
But Wolves played like a pack of mongrels on this night,
They huffed and they puffed but they showed little bite.

But neither were the Eagles soaring,
This game was tame, tedious and boring.

If someone- anyone- wouldn’t score for us soon
We’d join in with the Wolves fans and howl at the moon,
In the last ten minutes Palace score not one goal but two,
But it’s been no walk in the park watching Wolves lose at Molineux.

We won, yet I feel sorry for Wolves all the same,
We had all endured a dog’s breakfast of a game.

 

©Obbverse

Donald Trump continues his goodwill tour around Europe, showering all and sundry, peasant and gentry, with his ‘charm.’

The King Of The World.

When Donald went off to Windsor to visit the queen
He thought it a suitable platform to strut and preen,
Sadly, Don doesn’t know much… about Royal protocol;
He strode out ahead of Her Majesty on the Royal stroll,
Did he thoughtlessly think he was strolling on his links so green?
He Royally ballsed-up, but for Liz its not the first horses ass she’s seen.

©Obbverse

World cup, England heading home empty handed, but hey, tomorrow’s a bright new day! Isn’t it? Positively.

No Direction Home.

The England party struck boldly forth
To a knees-up in Putin’s welcoming North,
Supporters hopes, then expectations increased
As they watch another unexpected sun rise in the East.

After England’s semi-disappointment they’re heading South
Going from up for the cup to looking down in the mouth,
Even as the sun sinks and Englands high hopes go West
Fourth place seems strangely better than second best.

©Obbverse

England, so close in the World Cup but bowing out again. Going home. Ah well, home is where the heartbreak is.

The Lion Weeps Tonight.

Our brave English boys continue to astound,
Gareth’s guys have barely put a foot wrong,
So I’ve backed Britain, plonked down my last pound,
I’m flying off to Russia, to join that joyous throng-
Praying God or Aeroflot get me safely to the ground.

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““

Silent in Moscow’s sombre departure lounge I’m found,
About me England fans faces are gravely long,
From a drunken fellow traveler comes a sorry sound,
The hollow mocking chorus of that ‘Three Lions’ song;
He’s coming home by baggage bay, or gagged and bound.

Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Donald Trump all set to collide in an uneasy meeting of the minds.

Hands Off.

Poor Theresa May is finding this leaving lark tough,
Trump is coming a’calling just when Boris calls her bluff,
Boris’ untimely and boorish approach she should rebuff-
She ain’t no bloody Boadicea, but she’s made of stern stuff-
But she is oh so tempted to hand it to that tousle-haired scruff.

Let Bo take the tiny hand that slithers from the silken cuff,
A pedicured pampered hand, yet a touch… course and rough,
Let them bond over common interests; trade, markets, dandruff?
But Tess does know one red white and blue bastard is quite enough,
So she’ll smile, lie and try to think of England and not stalk off in a huff.

The soccer/football World Cup, England, the semi-finals, and finally, a reason to believe?

Getting The Cross In.

It was months and months of Sundays back I began to doubt
The words Father McEvedy would by rote routinely spout,
But this July St George has never seen anyone so devout,
For it feels the world is about to end
When your World Cup hopes depend
On England miraculously winning a penalty shoot-out.

So many years as a lapsed Catholic and an avowed atheist,
The cold comfort of the confessional, all too easy to resist,
Yet I’m rattling the old rosary, praying, hoping for an assist,
Perhaps He might help out Southgates squad-
Argentina don’t need a helping hand from God,
Good Lord, what better reason to prove You exist?

©Obbverse

England go to the world cup with no expectations, but perhaps this time hopes might not fade away, like the last time, and the time before and the time before that, and… (Best wishes and good luck from the Antipodes.)

Reboot.

I woke this morning, from a fevered dream,
My mind had dreamt of a winning England team,
So I shook my woolly head, threw off the duvet,
Rose to face the reality of watching England wilt away.

But this game had a result few could anticipate,
A smile wreaths the dial of gloomy Gareth Southgate,
I shake my stunned head, I stroke my gaping jaw,
Am I dreaming still or is this England in the final four?

Was it half a century ago Geoff Hurst won our hearts?
When the pop of ‘Mothers Little Helper’ topped the charts?
Dare I dream of those good ol’ days, of glories long gone,
Of 1966, since when all but the Rolling Stones have rolled on?

Oh, this is something long hoped for, if truly unexpected,
High time for the faded old red white ‘n’ blue to be resurected?
So, up to the loft I’ll go to disinter that trusty dusty back-pack;
Lets see if time’s been kind to a cheap-jack souvenir Union Jack?

©Obbverse