Tim Conway, quirky comedian, leaves us with a smile.

Time, Tim.

Just days after the departure of Doris Day
Tim Conway has gone and gone the same way,
He’s done last his run, he’s taken his final bow,
He’ll be asking Saint Peter about any openings by now.

Who could ever forget
Tim cracking up Carol Burnett
And leaving the entire set
With cheeks and tidy-whities wet?

So Tim has sadly gone, and only God knows why-
Perhaps, these days, He feels He needs a funny guy?
Lordy, it’s not for us to question the likes of Thou
But he’s gone, and left, and it’s a sadder world now.

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The Premier League Football Show! Drama, farce, heart-rending finales! Or a cheap slipshod Horror Show. Direct from Manchester, we present-

Dribbling On.

I’ve been reduced to tears with what I’ve just sadly seen,
A bad Shakespearean tragedy, played out on the big screen,
I saw a dull first act, then a direr second half, ay, but the rub
Was seeing City outperform United, down at our neutral pub.

How those happy blue-clad lads scoffed and laughed
As I sobbed in the shadows, hand clenched to my Draught,
To drown my sorrows it’s swig, swallow, belch- then repeat;
But not even Boddingtons can dull the pain of this bitter defeat.

I rewound the game in my mind, I compared the teams,
My United looked all clapped-out at the Theatre of Dreams,
Especially statuesque Pogba, devoid of emotion- or motion;
The only thing to get him goin’ would be some Sennapod potion.

Our offence seemed content to quietly sit back
Hoping indolence would be the best form of attack,
The City midfield were all fleet of foot and quick of mind,
Ours gave chase, ran all over the place, always two feet behind.

But our backline stood tall and strong, stout and true,
They and the keeper conspired to keep out all- but two;
So all I can do is put on a smile and say ‘the best team won,’
I love Old Trafford, but Gunnar, there’s rebuildin’ to be done.

Walking woozily to the bar I recall when we were Best,
Now the froth has gone, up at the top are teams I detest,
It’s with tears in my beer I cry ‘Christ, how can life be so cruel?’
God above, my choice for Champion is down to City or Liverpool.

Manchester United V Everton; A tough to swallow result for us poor Devils.

Red-eyed And Blue. (Sorry Wilco, I appropriated your title.)

Manchester United versus Everton?
The trip to Goodison should be a good one;
This is one Scouse team the Devils can beat,
Ah, downing those Toffees will taste sooo sweet.

But the game did not go United or Ole’s way,
The Reds ‘play’ left Ole lookin’ old and grey,
This four goal loss leaves poor Ole ashen faced
And Red faced Mancunians with a bitter taste.

 

Notre Dame, you’ll be the ruination of me. Consider this a rather un-PC silly and frivolous french folly.

Merde Feu.

What a damnable shame,
Seeing grand old Notre Dame
Fired up and aflame.

Due to the fire
The ol’ Dame does require
A bigger better spire.

When the roof fell
It left Gods glorious citadel
Blazing like merry Hell.

With the roofs falling
The conflagration became, frankly appalling,
For the French, galling.

Above the gathering crowd
Arose a bitter Gauloises cloud-
Smoking oughtn’t be allowed.

One man, eyes a’stinging,
Amongst klaxons blaring, bells a’ringing,
Stands hunched, hands a’wringing.

The magical golden run of Crystal Palace Football Club in the FA Cup dries up at Watford. (Watford 2, Palace 1.)

Shake It Off.

I’m not saying I’m a religious man,
I’m more a godless Crystal Palace fan,
But trying to follow Hodgson’s odd squad
Leaves me believing there’s a devil, swear to God.

Off we went to Vicarage Road,
On the train up we drank- a load,
Arriving in a giddy state of inebriation,
But our loss meant ’twas premature celebration.

We’d gone into the Hornets nest and been sorely stung,
Now I stand, swaying, with heavy heart and head hung,
Thinking of how, again, our dreams of an FA Cup final
Swirl away, down the drain of a poxy Watford urinal.

Forty-nine people- people, not numbers, but people – dead in a mosque shooting in NZ and an Aussie raving loony politician has the answer! It’s all due to those migrants ?! Back under your rock, Fraser Anning.

Too Right, Cobber.

Thank you for your deep thoughts, Fraser Anning,
No thanks, for the Right wing flames you’re fanning,
He condemns all violence, yet his dry eye darkly gleams,
For him it’s only the Right who can be left to go to extremes.

He’s saddened by Mosque shootings but
It’s not time to keep his diplomatic gob shut,
He’ll illuminate us of what we’ve been blind to;
Words Fraser has long had half a mind to.

First his ‘final solution’ speech brought screeches of indignation
From even Pauline Hanson and her all-inclusive One Nation,
But stating the victims of a Mosque shooting are to blame
Guarantees Fraser strolls straight into the Hall of Shame.

 

Death and destruction comes to quiet little Christchurch. In peaceful New Zealand! Far far too close to home.

World Wide Web.

Out in our quiet corner in the South Pacific
In our far-flung little slice of paradise,
Where life is so slow and sleepy and soporific
It seems our dozing has come at a heavy price.

Here, war and strife happens in far off lands,
But the warlike world has intruded today,
And all we can do is throw up our hands
And wish the bloody world would go away.