The first blush of blooming Summer and I’m left looking and feeling like a shrinking violet.

Sun Block.

Today my calendar reveals to me that summer's here,
If so, then my eyes do deceive me, that much is clear,
No blue sky day, it's a cold grim gloomy blankety grey,
No strutting 'round in skimpy Speedo this dismal day.

I lifted up the pool cover and dipped a tentative toe in,
A bolt from the blue ran through my goosebumping skin,
Today is no day for lying drowsily, basting in the heat,
Today is the day to recount the toes left on my feet.

I want the sun to shine, I don't wish to chill in the shade,
I desire a real deep tan, not a fake one that's sprayed,
I wanna dive in the warm water of some tropical paradise,
Not be the first to take a running jump and break the ice.

I'd love to show off my Australian Crawl at the public pool
But with winter clinging on I can feel the ol' ardour cool, 
And before I venture out in public I'd best work on my tan;
Winter's left me the living embodiment of Caucasian man. 

I love the summer, walking 'round, bronzed and buffed,
A vision of swim-suited splendour,
Toned and trim, tight new Speedo on show, chest puffed,
Briefs strained to conceal any hidden agenda,
On those long torpid summery days I can stand taut
Tall and confident,*
Shrivelling bitter cold days like these leave me just short
Of utter embarrassment.

* TBF, maybe a few decades ago; Nowadays I stand more well-rounded physically. But if I do suck in the gut and don't breathe for two minutes I might glimpse a little bit of my old sylph like self.

'Our Southern Hemisphere Summer is off to a less than warm and welcoming start.'

Song for this one is rather obscure, 'Charles Atlas,' Wagbeard. Just 'coz I like it. (If Dave reads this, maybe he knows more of them?)

©Obbverse.

Just when our turkey trots out of the fowl house breathing a sigh of relief…

Postponing Thanksgiving.

We don't celebrate any Thanksgiving
Here in our green and ph pleasant land,
Our turkey remains in the land of the living,
Blissfully ignorant of upcoming Christmas and
What that fateful date means for our bird in hand.

On the 25th of December our turkey is history,
Well plucked, well stuffed, browned and basted,
Or crisply and evenly goin' round on the rotisserie;
No turkey should feel their noble sacrifice is wasted
If we're left thankful for the finest fowl we ever tasted.

‘I may be one dumb turkey but I smell a rat in this all too perfect picture.’

Song for this one is an uplifting holiday tale by that ever cheery ever happy chappy Loudon Wainwright, ‘Thanksgiving.’

©Obbverse.

Armistice Day leaves many still conflicted.

War Of Attrition.

This would be the war to end all wars,
Not a mere short term respite,
A lasting settlement, all old scores
Finally and forever put right.

The Army recruiters breezed into town,
Asked 'who'll take the Kings shilling?
Who'll stand up to take the Hun down?'
The boys lined up, all ready and willing.

Our menfolk signed on for God and King
As good Lord Kitchener exhorted 'em to,
Loud did his patriotic clarion call ring,
For men (then more men) bold and true.

Our lads walked down the High Street
Revelling in the cheers o' the crowd,
Not one thought given to loss or defeat,
These boys will do the home town proud!

As they crowded aboard their troopship,
All good pals and jolly good Company,
As excited as boys on their first boat trip,
'Twas a bright new world they were set to see.

Stood in the trenches, gun hands steady,
Waiting for the word to go over the top...
The massed ranks rose up, guns at the ready...
The Grim Reaper, most pleased with his first crop.

Back in the trenches the lesser ranks stood,
Gravely looking out at a bloody muddy Hell,
So many good pals from our neighbourhood
Left crying, loudly dying, till a still silence fell.

What think now the brave volunteers
Looking around at their depleted stocks?
They sob near silent tears as their end nears
Knowing they'll be lucky to end up in a box.

Come Armistice and the last hurrahs
And silently home a pitiful few boys return,
Sporting pained aged faces and lasting scars,
They so know what we still have yet to learn.

The old boys are glad to be and see home again,
Though the old town won't ever look the same,
Of the good Company that left but four remain;
The head case, the glass-eyed, the deaf, the lame.

Did the Great War put an end to war?
I see no end of crosses, gleaming white,
Have we learned from what went before?
No more will we wage war? Yeah, right.

‘Peace and quiet doesn’t seem to come easy to those afflicted with a military mind.’

Song for this late but not last post might as well be Simon And Garfunkel, 'The Seven O'clock News.' 

©Obbverse.

The Sky’s the limit when you want to see the beautiful game.

Watch And Weep.

It's no fun watching free to view TV these days,
It's all ugly reality shows, most deserve to be cut,
Who cares what Stallone mumbles or Kloe says?
And who can bear the sight of Kim's latest big butt?

So now we're going to expand our viewing horizons,
We're getting the Sports And Movies Sky Big Deal-
Now I'll see something I can keep my jaded eyes on,
Seeing top class football live at last held huge appeal.

When we had the Sky Sporting Package installed
'The beautiful game's our Premium Product' they said,
Bloody boring and yawn inducing it should be called-
After watching yesterdays 'game' I'm left brain dead.

I'd glazedly seen the Palace versus Forest game,
It proved to be an interminably long hard watch,
If riveting live entertainment was Sky's high aim,
What I saw was bargain basement, not top notch.

Both teams drudged away, all to lose, little to gain,
All I saw was 90 minutes of dour defensive tedium,
90 long minutes out of my life I won't see again,
Sky's Premier Show is now my unhappy medium.

(For what its worth, a nil-all draw- and that flattered both teams. I'd grade it a Z-)

Song for another (hopefully entertaining) lament is Wilco 'Sky Blue Sky.'

©Obbverse.

Crystal Palace FC, the bargain basement club- where no money is the object.

Mucked Up.

We've come to the bitter end of Transfer day...
Steve Parish has tucked his Buxton wallet away,*
Today Steve chose to be penny wise and not invest,
Spending cautiously is in his the clubs best interest.

Steve takes all the unspent cash back into the vault,
Steve takes all the fans criticism with a grain of salt,
Steve cares not if the fans voice their discontent,
What leaves Steve bereft is seeing money spent.

Steve can't bear to part with the club's transfer fund,
If he has to pay for progress he'd rather stay moribund,
He won't be pressed to buy, won't have his arm twisted,
Steve stays aloof, cool as ice, calm headed, tight-fisted.

Doesn't matter that we need reinforcements up in Attack,
Steve perceives a bargain, buys a cheap Arse Centre Back!**
We need to push Forward- we get Bargain Bob Rob Holding!
Who else foresees another year of defensive lapses unfolding?

                     _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Though our two Strikers have both(!) struck a purple patch
Scoring and ably assisting well in the Wolverhampton match-
Time (and their past record) will show when the goals dry up
Might not Steve regret he didn't cough up the cash and buy up?

Then when the Palace fans troop into the ol' home ground
Might not they wonder where the rare goal will be found?
And as we draw yet another blank, rue our Strikers lack of luck
It's a win, and money in the bank for Steve 'Scrooge McDuck.' 

* Steve Parish, Chairman and de facto paymaster of Palace.
** Arse = Arsenal Football Club. 

Song for this one is 'St Stephen,' the Grateful Dead.

 

©Obbverse.

Crystal Palace Football Club play cheap-to-get in the Premier transfer market again.

(Posting this as the madness of the last-minute scramble for new players, the desire to bag a bargain just before the last window of opportunity is about to slam shut. Talk about panic buying!)

Mucking About.

As the summer transfer season grinds to its end
Palace's reasoning remains hard to comprehend,
Our offense remains poor, woefully thin and threadbare,
But don't beg to Management- we'll get no change there.
 
We need a striker, an upgrade on Eddie Edouard,
Someone who doesn't make scoring look so hard,
Eddie gives it his very best, but he's no goal-getter,
But anything's better than second-string JP Mateta.

We need a new winger, with close control, fast and fleet,
Someone who can chip over a ball, not trip over their feet,
We need two more offensive players, or one who can score,
So what welcome addition is this, walking through the door?

Why, it's Dean Henderson, our new back-up goal keeper!
A decent Number Two- but couldn't we get one cheaper?
Buying a spare 'keeper makes sense to rich Manchester City
But here at Palace a Twenty mill 'keeper empties the kitty. 

So, what is in store for the long-suffering fans in the stands?
Another year of the asses in the Boardroom sitting on their hands?
Making do with a bare-bones squad, being run on the dirt cheap?
The bosses laughing it up in their suite as the fans stand and weep.

Could, should our Board do something rare... and play fair?
Gamble on picking up a Diamond Ace, or even a lousy pair?
But if they hold their hand and we can't even take on a loan*
I bet the Club base will be wanting blood from hearts of stone.

So, another year of too few goals scored and muddling through,
Another regrettable year of Mateta, Eddie, and, fitfully, Ayew?**
When might the tight-fisted ownershit ship at Palace learn
That being relegated to the Chumpionship is a poor return?***

*A loan- lending a player signed to another club for half or a full season.
**Jordan Ayew; once a goal-scorer, now a hard working drone- but painfully goal shy.
***Championship- down a level from the Premiership. 

 Song for this unsporting kick to the head- or the ass, or the nuts of the tightwads who head    
up Palace- is the Pretenders, 'Brass In Pocket.'

©Obbverse.

When you reach for the stars, but then it all falls apart.

'Kremlin, We Have A Problem.'

Russia will show us who's best,
Vladimir's going to show the West.

Up up and up into outer space
Vladimir's rocket from Russia went,
Though fifty years late in the Space Race
It's well worth the roubles and the trouble spent...
    Has to be worth every last red cent.

Vladimir, he keeps a keen interest;
Hope and pray Luna 25 passes the test.

Aimed to land on the Moon's pale face
The red rocket jets began their lunar descent,
All the Kremlin craft lacked was controlled grace-
And the Luna 25 landing turned into a seismic event...
    'Sorry 'bout that, Mr President.' 

Song that loosely ties in with this is the Fountaines D.C., 'Rocket To Russia.'  
(Nope, not the Ramones, but close.)

 

©Obbverse

Hey, I’m playing catch-up as fast as I can!

Identity Crisis.

I've strived to be Woke but I must admit
Saying I'm lost for words ain't the half of it,
I don't want to be seen as a stupid ol' fu- twit
So, now if I call you something that doesn't fit-
Hey, I'm as confused as the next guy- gal- oh shit.

It matters not to me if you be Bi, Trans or Gay
But with such sexual  diversity is everyone 'they?'
Things are different than back in my so simple day
So, if you see me looking at you in a confused way
Please excuse me, I really don't know what to say.

My daughter tries hard to educate me,
And I'm happy she's trying to update me,
And I don't want her hip friends to berate me,
But when I say the wrong thing, must they hate me?
Cut off my words, conversationally castrate me?

On being introduced to new young friends 
I find my old customary words now oft offends,
Is 'partners' a term Wokepedia still recommends?
Seems I'm trailing in the wake of the latest trends-
Can't make heads nor tails of what 'say 'they" sends.

What crazy kind of world is this
When saying 'Mrs, Ms, Mr or Miss'
Means you've said something amiss?
Some way too Woke folk are taking the piss;
What's the term for 'asexually androgynous?'

I find I'm struggling to make much sense
Of a lot of this/their self titled reverence,
Yes, I'm stuck verbally in the past tense ,
So sorry, if I upset any ladies or gents-
Shit! That's bound to cause offence.
  

                   'Whaaat? I misspoke again?'

(I am trying, damned diligently, to speak right
But change has arrived it seems, like, overnight,
So sorry young 'uns, but I need
A little time to get up to speed,
And so if I make a mistake, speak out of turn,
Most y'all agree us Boomers are slow to learn.)


Song for this would seem to be the Eels, 'Nowadays.'

©Obbverse.

A genuine great goes off on the last journey. See you in a better place, Robbie Robertson.

Peace In The Valley.

Robbie Robertson was one of the true greats,
Wrote songs steeped in American atmosphere,
Yes, he was blessed to play with great bandmates,
Whoever sung his songs, Robbie's words you'd hear,
But now only deep silence awaits.

Those long-ago endless days have passed so soon?
As twilight falls darkly do I feel a cold deathly shiver?
To Eternity's long slow march no-one stands immune,
Surely, I'll follow on, somewhere down the Crazy River.
But, I pray, none too soon.

The last line is an attempt at a touch of levity on a pretty sad bleak miserable day.

Songs for Robbie's passing are 'Somewhere Down The Crazy River' and 'The Shape I'm In.'

©Obbverse.

House and home can look a lot prettier when looking back.

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. 

©Obbverse.