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!)
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.’
We took off on a big aluminium tube with silvery wing- (Far away from the Wright Bros cloth and string thing,) Exchanging long summer days for endless Scottish night, Oh, but to see the grandson would be my hearts delight.
Once there our Christmas Day was not a white one, A sprinkling of sleet glittered in the hard wintery sun, The seasonal snow fell nigh on a week later, however... Well, as they belatedly say, 'better later than never.'
I can't say I'm renowned for warm Christmush sentiment, But out pushing my grandson in the buggy I dutifully went, I'm a pragmatist, a realist, I'm not all gooey and mushy, We had to make tracks before the snow got too slushy.
But then, as the snow fell down and up at me he smiled, It released in this grizzled grumpy grinch the ol' inner child, I held his tiny hand in mine, my eyes welling up with wonder, That look will live with me long after I'm home, Down Under.
(Unashamedly soppy and sentimental. Hey, I do have a heart, lurking somewhere deep inside.)
Song for this one is 'My Darling,' Wilco. 'Grow up now, darling Please don't grow up too fast, And be sure, darling, To make all the good times last.'
I'd always felt you were out of reach, I was intrigued to find you felt the same, Now it's time to stop polishing my speech And go ask your Pop if you'll take my name.
I've already gone and asked your mother, She cracked open a magnum of champagne! We polished that off so she unpopped another! Two bottles of joy was more than I could contain.
Then it was off to convince the old patriarch... I knocked lightly on the polished door of his den, Cleared my dry throat, now in no hurry to embark On this proposal between, hopefully, two grown men.
He slowly looked up from polishing the shotgun, Said 'I hear you've knocked up my daughter, Son...'
Well, unbridled love has unforeseen consequences.
‘Of course, Sir, I believe family is everything.’ Not much choice really.
Song for this loving little Valentines Day offering, 'Dear Doctor,' the Rolling Stones. 'Pull your socks up, put your suit on, Comb your long hair down For you will be wed in the hour.'
Ah, to spend Christmas time abiding in Morningside, Oh, what memories the Christmas snow shall provide, I marvel at how the locals take the snowfalls all in stride, For me the quaint cobbled streets became a slip'n'slide.
Yep, if you want a trad Christmas there's a price to pay; We stepped into the gloomy place we'd paid well to stay, Oh, don't get me wrong, the place was perfect in every way, But six hours of wan sunshine is the highlight of every day.
In December here the days are damn damp, cold and short, So don't step out without first hearing the weather report, I soon regretted the cool chill branded clothes I'd brought, 'Specially the sodden Light As Air Nikes I so trendily sport.
But once in sync with Mother Nature up with Mr sun I'd rise To another thunderous wondrous day of lowering grey skies, What wonders will be revealed to these enquiring eyes When Mr Sun chases the darkness away? (Well, tries.)
(At home this night owl spends hours gazing up at the moon, Being up half the night with insomnia it's often my misfortune To lie awake knowing the early bird dawn chorus will start soon... Here In Scotland, I mightn't hear sparrows fart till after noon.)*
As eight in the morning approaches still blackness reigns, By nine the sun is trying, but darkness stubbornly remains, Between the snow and the sleet and the pestilential rains I've discovered in Scotland the sun also waxes and wanes.
So friends, heed a poor tourists heartfelt advice- If you pay a visit to Scotland, make the sacrifice, Pay your Travel Agency a pretty seasonable price, Come in touristy summertime, don't skate on thin ice.
Or... wrap up and go out for the day before Mr Sun shuts off, Because by half past three ya'll have frozen your butts off; Six hours of insipid sunlight before Mr Sun runs and cuts off His blood warming rays and leaves you freezing your nuts off.
* Sparrows fart. Australasian term for very early in the day: Sparrows fart, crack o' dawn.
Image, ironically from Stanley Kubrick's 'The Shining.'
(Song for this ice folly is ‘Dark Days Indeed,’ Jace Everett.)
Airlines, please spend more than a little thought On those flying off to Scotland on a Kiwi passport, It don't matter if it's Air Qatar or Emirates It's quite the ordeal on our upholstered bits, The way Economy Class is being so meanly designed Means long haul comfort's been ergonomically left behind, After flying for thirty plus unending hours up in Cattle Class I'd say your cheap seats have left me half-feeling a numb ass.
It's tough going, be it by big Boeing or big-ass Airbus, Both brands of discomfiting seats don't sit well with us, On landing, then on unbuckling my seat belt I could not, in truth, complain about how I felt, On standing I felt Bupkis,* nothing to rightly speak of, Maybe just the slightest tingling, butt in the left cheek of? Oh, but when I stood before the probing eye of a Glaswegian Customs Officer I did feel a pucker of fear in my nether region.
* An older term for 'nothing.' Nada, niente, diddly squat, sod all, zilch.
'Fold yourself into our expanding selection of lower end priced seats'
Song track to this accompany todays travelogue is 'Tired Of Getting My Butt Kicked,' the Bellamy Brothers.
(Back to New Zild and our midsummer after a pleasing month away; ah, the simple pleasure and joy of seeing our bonny ruddy faced grandson in bonny but bloody freezing Scotland. It has really been a lovely trip- there's nothing like seeing the world through the eyes of a nigh-on two year toddler to make you appreciate life. However: As usual I'm more likely to share a few of the lesser moments, as seen through the eyes of a more seasoned world wearier grandparent. Hey, even at the best of times I see things through a half-empty glass. And I do have this gloomy Gus reputation to play up to.)
Rudolph The Rabid Reindeer/A Fairly Gory Fairy Story. Part Three. (Spoiler alert; includes wide ranging travel, sports, sex, drugs and alcohol references.)
Santa's adherence to Christmas spirit few can fault, Santa sat at The Desk, nursing a double single malt, His 'deer gazed through a frosty window pane- It's like the Dew Drop Inn, deja vu all over again! Vixen told Santa to get off his well padded seat, 'Fat boy, you've a world of work yet to complete, A frikken' sled-load out here to fu- fully unload!' So Santa got weaving- after one more for the road.*
Zigzagging across the Great States from East to West Pressed for time, Saint Nick rode like a man possessed, North to South the sled dashed, Nick lashing the herd on, Vixen dealt with each welt, knowing Rudy felt spurred on.
Over the Eagles Lincoln Field our satiated Santa soars, The verdant green and snowy white below he studiously ignores- He holds a cold consuming resentment that never ever thaws, 'Cause he's a hard-core 49ers fan, is our red suited Santa Claus.
Down from Washington, Oregon, Arizona, following Route 66, Where Santa pulls off at a township wayyyy out in the sticks, The regular reindeer are always relieved when Kingman appears, See (and smell) how it's been their pit-stop for too many years?
Looking down upon Ash Fork he feels a rising dread, Say's 'Oh no, I don't think so,' and flies past instead, 'The best li'l Town In Arizona?' I'd hate to see the worst; Viewing this dry dusty desert 'burg reignites a raging thirst.
But not cool clear H2O, Santa spits at defrosted snow, Santa Claus has always favoured Drinks distilled and warm flavoured.
Entering Williams Santa stops, knocks 'pon a scarlet door, Coming here for years you'd think he'd not blush anymore, Putting in once a year, still a valued member of the clientele, 'The Red Garter' welcomes Santa, someone will ring his bell....
...Santa finds himself upstairs, 'neath the mistletoe, He's in a compromising position inside a bordello, He's a happily married man, that ol' goat Kris Kringle, But once a year he 'forgets' he's no longer single....
...Let's draw the curtain on that scene for a wee while... Santa pulls on his boots with a secret Santa smile, The comely courtesan loves Santa but holy guacamole! After a long hard year must Christmas come so slowly?
But the rules of the house she had to honour, So though the idea weighed heavily on her Told him of the Xtra special Christmas Eve price, If he wants, Eve could be naughty and nice twice?
Twenty years previous he'd have given it a try, But time marches on, tonight it fairly zips- flies by, And the thought came to Eve once Santa had gone, 'No time to take off his long johns- he's no ordinary John.'
Santa still stopped at the house of each well-mannered kid Drifting the sleigh to the chimney with an inch perfect skid, Santa would grab his sack, down the chimney he'd scoot- Santa worked up one Hell of a sweat in his crimson suit.
Rudolph's nose incandescently glowed Like Chernobyl's reactor about to explode, He ran with an energy he could not sustain, As if he knew he wouldn't run ever again.
Then all at once his race was run, Systemic nervous failure had begun, Now he could barely raise a trot, His fetid breath volcanically hot.
The other reindeer took up the slack And soon the schedule was back on track As Rudolph stumbled along Santa thought 'Is it a cold- or worse- Covid we've caught?'
Then Santa felt his first involuntary chill- But he had toys to give, stockings to fill, Now every chimney climbed was an ordeal, For our sick Santa this job had lost its appeal.
All the little children slumbering on Christmas Eve Dreamily a'wonderin' of what Santa might leave, But what he left wasn't what they'd anticipated, A trail of milk and cookies, sourly regurgitated.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his mitt, Like Forest Gump his bum burnt when he'd sit, His pantaloons stretched taught, about to split, His buttocks ballooned as that infection bit.
The ol' bloke felt flushed and hot, despite the cold And as the secondary symptoms took hold In his baby blues a fevered light appeared, And flecks of foam festooned his beard.
Like wildfire, through the herd the virus spread, Rudolph's eyes, nose and throat glowed fiery red, And through the dark skies trailed Santa's sleigh In an increasingly wayward spastic spasmodic way.
The sled trundled along high in the firmament As prioritised delivery times came and went, With words and whip Saint Nick drove them on, But at last, for Rudolph- that thrill had gone.
Santas legs had turned to jelly, He'd lost 10 inches off his belly, Now he flew high o'er every town, Picked a chimney and chucked toys down.
(For three bad boys from Gepps Cross, Adelaide, It's been tough luck in gift getting for years I'm afraid, We bros learned hi-jacking Santa comes at a cost, Santa listed our address, and it's double crossed.)
Rudolph was 200 pounds of dead weight, Stout heart beating at a frantic rate, Barely able to expel a bucket of vomit Out into the slipstream- and on to Comet.
Santa decided it would be for the best To make use of the on-board medical chest, No doubting Santa's sense of duty and dedication But even he shouldn't give out his own medication.
He looked at the pills piled in his palm, The green and purples should keep him calm, But the pretty pink and the Pfizer diamond blue? Well, down the hatch- what harm wood would they do?
From Pole to Equator Santa's sled would appear, Slipping 'tween North and Southern Hemisphere, Time and Space mean nothing in the magic realm, 'Specially with a psychedelicized Santa at the helm.
Santa Clause had really lost his grip Reached for a flask of rum, began to sip, Supped till he licked the last drop from his lip Nothing left but to enjoy this last long strange trip.
*Get weaving- a Commonwealth way of saying 'get going.'
(There is a last parting shot, Part Four. Yes I agree, it is an epic folly but doing this as a One Parter would be nigh on torturously overkill.)
'Deliveries have taken a downturn due to a suspected virus corrupting the system.'
Rudolph The Rabid Reindeer; The Fairly Gory Fairy Store Shudders On.
Now that Donner has left an empty presence Who'll help Santa haul them hefty presents? Who will Saint Nick bring up from the reserves? Will his young hot shot get the shot he deserves? Can Rudolph carry out his promotion to perfection? Or will he merely carry along his low level infection? Henceforth the unendeering plot and snot thickens, Gentle reader, this is where the story truly sickens.
Donner's replacement would be Rudy, Rudolph, ill-disposed and turning moody, Why Santa chose Rudy, Heaven knows? Perhaps 'cause they both have a red nose?
Rudolph was a good natured beast, (Well, normally he was at least,) 'Twas a decision Santa would regret, But he's a folk legend, not a vet.
Then, on the evening of December twenty-third (When the state of his mind was disturbed,) Rudolph gave passing Santa a vicious bite- Alas, Santa's fate was sealed that night.
Santa had chugged back the odd beer- Sober, he'd not walk near excitable reindeer, 'Cause the invitation is crystal clear- 'Let's Sample Santa's ample rear.'
Vixen, with whom Rudy was smitten Feared that even she might be bitten, With his nervous tics and constant mumbling Was our enlightened reindeer's mind a'crumbling?
All of the other reindeer Shied away when he came near, Hydrophobia's a virulent disease, And Rudy had begun to sneeze...
On Christmas Eve the reindeer assembled, Santa saw not how Rudolph trembled, Perhaps he was reviewing his list? Perhaps he was still slightly pissed?
He failed to notice Rudolph's phlegmy cough And how he kept away from the water trough, But Santa had more pressing things on his mind, He'd had hangovers before- but not this kind.
Oh, how he wished he could've stayed in bed, Every sound seemed to be amplified in his head, He'd opened his eyes a crack and stifled a scream, The light had seemed as bright as a laser beam.
Every teeny-tiny noise would grow and swell, Like a jack-hammer striking the Devils bell, In his skull that bell clanged, clanked and resounded, The racket escalated, reverberated, pounded... pounded... Pounded.
After what seemed a decade the pain slowly passed, Then came around again, even worse than the last, Might this be no mere hangover, more some kind of virus? He never thought he'd hear anything worse than Miley Cyrus.
His face bore the raddled look of one too far gone, The waxen skin of one facing imminent oblivion, Those eyes peering out mirrored one tortured soul, The price of a brain that's marinated in pure alcohol.
Santa's nose was running and his throat itched As onto the sleigh eight reindeer he hitched, Wounds and welts had appeared on Rudy's hide; (Only Vixen knew Rudolph possessed a kinky side.)
With all the good children's toys tossed aboard Up out of the barn that slaloming sled soared, Santa cracked his whip and awayyy they flew! Even Rudolph pulled hard- after a lash or two.
Vixen glared at Saint Nick as the whip fell, Tears of rage and frustration began to well, 'Cause in all the games she and Rudy would play She was always his Mistress- in every way.
Santa soon had them cruising along, Started singing some old Christmassy song, Smoke trailing from his pipe (sorry, his bong,) Thinking all was hunky-dory- boy, was he wrong.
Alaska was first to benefit from Santa's largesse (Sadly he must have forgotten the Palin's address,) How'd Sarah wind up on Saint Nick's list of sinners? Guess the cold hard truth is we cain't all be winners.
Now Rudolph felt invigorated by the Arctic cold, Took the lead, set the tempo, like the Donner of old, Into Canada they ran harmoniously, hooves syncopated, Rude's nose shone like pink neon in a face sadly emaciated.
Through Coal Harbour, on past the paper mill at Port Alice, Where Boss and worker co-exist without ill-will or malice(?) Campbell River, Courtenay, Port Alberni, on to Nanaimo Rudolph rabidly ran as if there would be no tomorrow!
Run, run Rudolph, as Chuck Berry said, Run, run Rudolph, towards Victoria he sped, Run run Rudolph, haul that heavy sled, Run run Rudolph, till you drop down dead.
The traffic cop outside Parkview simply waved Santa through, This he'd done since booking Santa for speeding back in '02, Santa has diplomatic immunity and so Santa declined the ticket, Gave it back to the cop, told him where he jolly well could stick it.
Up and over Don's border walls direct to Washington he flew, First stop every trip must be 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Where it really don't matter what President is in residence- Since Reagan Big Red's been the go-to for global surveillance.
Santa Clause hadn't wanted to become an Imperialist spy, Didn't wanna be a falling star, shot down from some Arab arid sky, But the FBI said he could choose to while his retirement away On a tropical beach in Hawaii- or beautiful Guantanamo Bay.
Each year the Pentagon asks if Santa 'should chance to see Any nuclear proliferation in what we deem "hostile territory," On the Prez's polished desk he presents his glowing report, Staying apolitical has proved to be harder than he'd thought.
Santa's mantra's always been "tis better to give than to receive,' So a card wishing for 'peace and goodwill to all' Santa will leave, A perk is to sit at the desk, enjoy a smoke, raid the Presidents bar- But not since Bill's entertaining days here does he take a free cigar.
'For Santa Claus and his team things are taking a turn for the worse.'
(There is yet another part of this body of work to dredge out of the vaults for those brave enough. Maybe tomorrow, if I can stitch it together.)
Song for this has to be 'Run Run Rudolph,' the old Chuck Berry number; and in the context of this literal crime against Christmas Literature, 'Chuck' sounds about right.
Forget Memory Lane.
I took a nostalgic walk down my old back street a few days back,
Now it's hard to see if it's still the same cracked pot-holed track,
There's cars parked up, jam-packed on both sides of the alleyway,
Far more than the miserable lot left out on display back in my day.
No car for us then- Pop trundled off to work peddling his Schwinn.
Outside Mrs Dutton's sat her Grey and Damson Austin A55,
For Mrs Dutton was non too keen on reversing down her drive
Or swervily backing up it, after a few too many Monday Tuesday Wed Friday drinks,
So it stewed out in the street, by Mr Brown's White Hillman Minx.
The Minx redolent of Brown Ale, the Austin of Beefeater Gin.
Housepainter Moody was next in lane, with his Morris Minor van,
None can recall the primary colour of the van of the painter man,
Mr moody saw it as a travelling palette, showing shades of all kind,
I saw it as an eyesore, a sign that Moody bastard was colour blind.
It looked like something Jackson Pollock had madly dashed about in.
Then came Mr Hollier, with a growing family to fill the big Chevrolet,
Good Catholic man, but no family plan- wife again in the family way,
Then wheezing Ol' Man Schemanski's antediluvian Glade Green V8,
Their smoking coughs soon to send both off to a dusty or rusty fate.
Puff fifty Lucky Strikes a day, soon 'nough Lady Luck will pull the pin.
Next was Mr Cotter's once prized but now parked big Cream Rover,
Getting whiter, due to a flock of homing pigeons regularly flying over,
No common car deserved to be left out there, much less a Rover Coupe,
A classic car was hidden deep down, under ten years of pigeon poop.
But trying to polish that heap would wear any Saint's patience thin.
Then, wee Mrs Martin who ran a mini-scule Fiat Bambina, in Delft Blue,
A car so compact even Midge was hard pushed to concertina herself into ,
Finally to dead end where Tom Gilroy clogged the whole end of the street,
Footpath, kerb and roadway crowded out by Gilroy's entire trucking fleet.
But complain to contrary Tom- he'd clip your chin, make your head spin.
I stopped outside the ol' house I'd grown up in, felt tears fill my eyes,
The gate hung awry, the long lawn a bloom of dandelions on the rise,
The cold house in the back street I'd once viewed with warm affection
Was, like the crumbling Kia parked out front, well beyond resurrection.
Forget the past, bring on the wrecking ball, let the slum clearance begin.
In the quaint old street of my youth time keeps on a'rolling... downhill.
Song for this far too close to home reality check is 'Dead End Street' by Tip Toe Topic,
or the old original by the Kinks.
Today's Take Away.
There's a store deep in quiet Connecticut,
They make baked comestibles of high renown,
Dreamy cupcakes; caramel, sweet créme, coconut,
Tempting travellers to stop'n'shop in li'l ol' Avon town.
All blessed by a sweet tooth swing by,
But yesterday came an atypical example,
A rarely seen local stepped in, but not to buy,
Keen to get his massive mitts on a free sample.
He brazenly ambled in from the loading bay-
'Twas one peckish bear with a taste for frosting,
No way was the owner temped to make him pay-
No clawing back on that debt, whatever it's costing.
Back to the forest the bear beat his retreat,
There to devour his honey-glazed baked goods,
So, if you're up Avon way and crave a sweet treat
Pray the shop's big-assed fan stays sat in the woods.
'It's my nicked pic-a-nic.'
Song to accompany the post is Edward Bear, 'The Last Song.' (If you have the stomach for it, it's pretty treacly.) Sorry, but there ain't many palatable songs about bears.
Obbverse 