Prince Phillip falls, and just short of hitting his century.

Ninety-nine- A Fair Old Innings.

For good old Phil it's the end of the line,
Departing life's game stuck on ninety-nine,
What a long and Commowealthy life it's been
Standing mostly quietly in the shadow of his Queen.

The Duke was at his best standing square-jawed,
Stoic, as Liz spoke and the folk listened in, awed,
On the other hand, when asked to share a thought
Her speech writers advised Phil to just keep it short.

He's stood by, if not silently, steadfast and loyally,
On the odd occasion, dropped himself in it royally,
Liz's Phil has been known for many an un-PC remark
But then the Prince has been 'round as long as the ark.

Leaving just shy of a 100 must cause him some regret,
There's a letter from the Palace he didn't quite get,
After seventy years of living a rich and Royal life
Phil won't get a 100 Club Card from the wife.



Phil said the odd gaffe, spoke his mind, but he was one of a kind.

 

©Obbverse

Mary Wilson, Supreme’s singer, steps away from the mic.

Someday They'll Get Back Together.

Misses Ross, Wilson, Ballard and Birdsong?
How could a Motown fanboy not sing along?
Now a good half of those original Supremes
Have faded, like that young kid's old dreams.

Divine Diana Ross says she's she's sad and bereft,
Guess now there's two few Supreme voices left,
Better get the group together for a photo though-
And pronto, or Miss Ross might be singing solo.

Through all the petty squabbles, the hogging  of the spotlight, the Diva-like acting the good ol’ Motown music endures.

©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

Late breaking news- Larry King has broadcast his last.

All Said And Done.

Larry King has done with the chit-chat,
Larry's once lively repartee has fallen flat,
The celebrated interviewer of famous faces
Has packed in his colourful phrases and braces.

After fifty years of jive and live talking
Now his time has come to do the walking,
Please stand, be silent, such moments are rare,
He's said his piece, made his peace, he's off the air.

‘What, no last word?’

©Obbverse

Phil Spector; Time to lay down his last track.

The Hit Man Goeth.

It's the final sweet release for flaky Phil Spector,
Gun enthusiast and mad  genius musical director,
Hit after hit till, finally, one fine day
Fatefully and fatally he blew it all away;
Phil, put the safety on when you gun play.

Perfect within his 'wall of sound' but mentally unsound,
The slow slide from Top of the Pops to deep Underground,
Soft the muffled farewell bell rang,
A token sob from the mournful old gang;
Gone out with a whimper, not a bang.



(As is all too obvious, I'm a fan of his music, not the man.)
credit; Murray Webb.

©Obbverse.

Peter Green, first Fleetwood Mac guitarist, dies in his sleep. Music-wise, a sad sad loss; But it was a tragic loss fifty years ago when first he lost himself. (Sometimes you don’t do acid. Acid does you.)

Not Of This World.

I’ll say a sadly late farewell to Peter Green,
He’s gone from the dark place he’s long been,
This man who put his soul into Fleetwood Mac
Then went off on his detour, never to come back.

Peter took a little trip on the Cosmic Cab,
A one-way trip that deals out a heavy tab.

He yearned to soar high to that mystical place
Where the bound to Earth might see Gods face,
So, with enquiring open mind Lysergicly expanded
Pete saw Heaven knows what before he crash-landed.

So if its blissful enlightenment you’re tempted to find
Please- think of how poor lost Peter changed his mind.

 

©Obbverse

I’ve been reminded lately of those misty-eyed memories of innocent school days. Lets start the lesson, shall we?

Done Learning.

One thing you’ll do as you approach a certain age
Is to take more notice of the ‘Family Notices’ page,
Though todays tabloid lacks yesteryears broadsheet heft
It’s a morbid pleasure checkin’ out who you know has left.

I like to read the morning paper before the afternoon
So one morn I ordered brunch and opened the Tribune;
The usual ho-hum news, more plague, pestilence and war,
Then I fell upon some news that shook me to my souls core.

The sweet mochaccino suddenly took on a sour taste,
The ever sunny tan faded as I sat staring, chalk faced,
For there, amongst the fine print writ bold in gothic font
Was news of a loss so heavy I dropped my damn croissant!

My old Deputy Headmaster of dear Hagleigh High- dead?
I raised my trembling hands up to hold my shaking head,
I thought of the lessons that Bertie had dutifully imparted,
How his role as leader was never less than whole-hearted.

I recalled the angles and planes of that indomitable face,
All those deep-seared lifelong lessons time cannot erase…
My concerned wife said I appeared to be the picture of grief,
She handed me some tissue, which I took with tearful relief.

The old Alma Mater had supplied a glowing obituary
For one most considered Hagleigh’s highest luminary,
The tale they told of this sainted man of the highest order
Compelled me to compile my thoughts on the Tribunes border.

In my day, at Hagleigh High the most I hoped to achieve
Was to gain School Certificate and honourably leave,
Unfortunately, to gain this certificate one had to pass
Both English and Mathematics- a step too far for me, alas.

To fail in either one meant one hadn’t made the grade,
You’d be cast off to the Armed Forces, or off to get a trade,
And the Deputy-Head taught my class Mathematics- of course!
One lousy week in his class saw him flogging this flagging horse.

I was made painfully aware I had deficiencies to overcome,
Not heeding screamed instructions? to him I’m deaf or dumb;
In my first month I knew mathematics could not be mastered
Thanks to a sneering confidence-sapping bat-crap crazy bastard.

I was left an an utter loss by Berties scrawlings on the board,
The answer I came up with was ‘shut up, pray to be ignored,’
Yet my English improbably improved with every word I wrote-
Penmanship forging ahead; I forged a most convincing sick note.

Pre-math class every morning you’d find me sitting, sweating
In the toilets, relieving myself of any chance of pants wetting,
Every other cubicle engaged by four-fifths of the Fifth Form,
Every coughing, wheezing weedy Kool kid smokin’ up a storm.

I do still recall those chill mornings, getting my knickers in a twist,
All I need is to roll the Rolex up, count the livid scars on my wrist.

So, to end my little bye bye Bertie story, I’m glad he’s gone to Glory,
But first, let’s hope, like me, he does three full years in Purgatory.

 

©Obbverse

Another Seventies Glam pop star now glimmers up high in the sky. Bye, Sweet Steve Priest.

Losing Our Sparkle.

Time has come to say goodbye to Steve Priest,
From this earthly contract he’s been released,
Bye,’Ballroom Blitz’ and ‘Fox On The Run,’
Finally Steve’s glitteringly Glam career is done.

Steve lays his heavy bass down at last,
Steve’s pounding beat is in the past,
Lets hope, as his Angel takes his spangly sleeve
He sweetly smiles and asks ‘are you ready, Steve?’

(So, yeah, okay, the last line makes more sense to the true Sweet fan.)

 

©Obbverse

Sadly it’s time to roll the end credits for Little Richard and Roy ‘Vegas’ Horn.

Two For The Show- A Two Part Obit.

A Bit About Roy.

At seventy-five the show’s over Siegfried’s Roy
He’s been escorted upstairs by Gods winged envoy,
His rough reviews could have ended many years ago
But his bloody big beastly tiger went and let him go.

A Little Bit About Little Richard.

So, the legendary Little Richard’s also done his dash,
That Tutti-Frutti guy with the pencil-thin moustache;
The mascaraed showman with that touch of panache
Has been booked by Saint Peter for one last big bash.

Pete, toss those harps and flowers off Mr Richard’s cloud,
Pete, get that Baby Grand from under it’s funereal shroud,
Little Richard’s gonna kick ass in this conservative crowd,
Lawdy, he’s playing that ‘ol Devil Music, proud and LOUD.

 

©Obbverse.

On April 25 Anzac Day dawns and it’s time to recall all those noble young lives sacrificed by warmongering old bastards. Peace is hard to come by.

Let’s Not Forget.

The great world powers had a Great big war,
The survivors prayed ‘one Big One, to end ’em all,’
But if One was great, let’s power up one more;
So, twice the names tacked up on the memorial wall.

As dying autumn leaves fall soft from the bough
Let’s remember old comrades who dutifully fought,
Ev’ry year leaves less to sadly gather in the here and now,
To recollect the fresh faced fallen, lives cut cruelly short.

In some sodding graveyard in some far-off land
In lush spring green fields flecked with poppy red
Soldiers untold lie silent while white crosses stand,
One war or Two, there’s no accounting for the dead.