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?

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Read a witty blog on toilet humor, and something moved me. (Thanks, Kunal Thakore, and his blog Random Rants Ruminations Ramblings.)

Ruminations From A Little Room.

There are times, times when Nature calls
When on the verge but the urge stalls;
After arriving white-knuckled,
Zipping down, belt unbuckled,
Then taking your seat with indecent haste
You find yourself sat, with time to waste.

What a tedious place to be confined,
In a silent cubicle, in a bind.

But no poet minds being ‘unavoidably detained,’
Sitting, pondering, mind wandering unrestrained,
I refuse to sit idly by,
I’ve pen and paper, triple ply…
Now my tale is told, and in reasonable rhyme,
A half-decent job, given the constraints of time.

It’s a bit slap-dash, it won’t win any poetry prize
But this gutsy effort still brings tears to my eyes.

(This is as close to the edge of bad taste as I tread. And who wants to tread any deeper?)

Roseanne, late night entertainer, lacking just a touch of social grace.

Whacked On Ambien. (Apologies To John Mellencamp.)

Here’s a little ditty about tact and Roseanne,
‘Bout how she twitted her career right down the can,
Of how high she rated, and of how she’s fallen so far,
How now neither ABC nor her agent want a bar of Ms. Barr.

What damage to her ‘good name’ Roseanne is wreaking,
(Though her joke is shared by a few, conservatively speaking,)
Now she blames sleep deprivation and Ambien for her faux pas-
But it’s her own witterings on Twitter that launched this falling star.

Diplomacy 101. Careering towards a deal with North Korea. Yeah, right.

Round And Round, Round After Round.

Don wants to meet with Kim
And Kim wants to meet with him,
They plan to meet up in Singapore
Unless the plan proves to have a flaw.

With two massive egos in one place
What a conundrum they both face,
Which one of ’em will first blink?
Which one of ’em, do you think?

With this meeting of the minds
It’s fair to say it does take all kinds,
Now their meeting is off, then it’s on;
What party poopers are Kim and Don.

As warm relationships continue to sour,
Atmosphere’s cooling, hour by hour
‘Nobel’s resounding, like a bad joke
As our high hopes go up in smoke.

Allegations, indiscretions, gagging orders, the Presidents lawyer being looked at. Who knew a liaison between a player and a porn star could come -no pun intended- to this?

Getting The Clause Out.

Should Mr Cohen’s well-heeled client stray,
Forsake the vows stated on his wedding day,
Take the chance to combine both golf, and play,
Mr Cohen maintains what he’s been retained to say.

But Mr Cohen’s having to work for his pay,
Stormy’s accusations aren’t just blowing away,
Her tongue keeps wagging in a most malicious way,
His advice to the client is ‘assume the position, and pray.’

Our old beloved newspaper transitions to a new compact, easy to hold format. Not the news I wanted to see.

Press Pass.

I awaited the New Press with eager eyes,
They looked, downcast, at its meagre size,
I’d heard there’d be much content within;
That argument is most evidently paper thin.

Apart from yesterdays news or next weeks TV guide,
My purchase of the Press can no longer be justified,
Claiming ‘less is more’ does not jibe with this scribe;
This is a poor wee paper to which I cannot subscribe.

The weather is a’changing at this time of season and catches the best of us out at times. On the other hand, maybe I’m a bit of a wet blanket.

Bob Dylan Walking Talking Hypochondriac Blues.

I felt moved to put on the trainers today,
The autumnal sky a riot of grey upon grey,
To step out without a parka was tempting fate-
Next time I won’t be so unthinkingly precipitate.

I prefer to exorcise my thoughts on my own,
Soothed by iTunes, ear buds and the iPhone,
To put behind me ruminations of nuclear cataclysms,
Pounding the pavement is good for the biorythms.

I trundled along as a downloaded Dylan setlist played,
Bob mournfully sayin’ how far from home he’d strayed,
When I saw a flash of lightning, and after a moments pause
A thunder clap, then from Heavens above down she pours.

Four miles from home and soaked to the skin,
Without my parka ’twas quite the pickle I was in,
My nice new blue Nikes turning an execreble brown,
Pristine white socks bleeding blue as it pis  hissed down.

Four miles splashing home was a long hard haul,
Not helped by Bob’s jolly ‘A Hard Rains A-Gonna Fall’
After ‘Buckets Of Rain’ then ‘Shelter From The Storm’
A coolness towards Bob’s insights had begun to form.

All the way home the storm continued to rage,
It hadn’t rained like this since Noah’s Archaic age,
All my miserable way home the rains continued to lash,
Arrived freezing, sporting sodden shirt shorts and a rash.

So now I’m laid low in bed with a bad case of croup,
My wife offers no sympathy but a bowl of chicken soup,
With trembling hands and lips I croaked a pitiable ‘Thank you,’
She left for work, shaking her head, sniffily saying ‘Man Flu.’

But I knew I was sickening, convinced I was getting worse,
So I staggered to the Doctors, to be told to wait by the nurse,
Here I wait shivering, in anticipation some good Doctor shows up
Before this long suffering drip turns his chillblained toes up.