Category Archives: tears

Shlock mock horror! That old classic, ‘The Bride of Frankenstein’ re-reviewed. Or: Romance really is dead.

Dr Frankenstein could no longer pretend;
His experiments had come to a dead end,
He railed at the thunderstorm, he cursed his luck
Till came a puff of smoke as a lightning bolt struck.

Slowly from the slab his prized creature rose,
In those coal black eyes something darkly glows,
There’s a sad recognition that he is one butt-ugly soul,
A melange of random bits and pieces making up a whole.

He saw he looked like a reject from the Twilight Zone,
He had no wish to spend his second life all on his own,
He gently sat the the Doc down, told him what was on his mind,
Strongly impressing on him how he felt being but one of a kind.

The monster requested the Doc make him a mate,
Toss in a few X chromosomes into the ol’ template,
Reluctantly, the Doctor took up needle and thread-
His second stitch-up left his first darn effort for dead!

For the good Doctor had learnt a great deal,
Now he could spend time on aesthetic appeal,
That original prototype did look desperately grim,
Rugged and rough-hewn would best describe him.

Working both night and day-
All bloody work and no play-
In a week he’d put her together-
Time to wait- for stormy weather.

Finally came a thunderous storm,
Lightning lit her wondrous form,
Impatiently the monster waited
As his beauty became animated.

The Doc had fashioned her such a pretty face,
The creature felt his second-hand heart race,
And his beastly heart was completely captured,
The Docs fine body of work left him enraptured.

But his bride-to-be was less than impressed,
She saw him and nearly had a cardiac arrest,
From her sweet lips came a long ululating scream;
The Doctor knew they’d never make a dream team.

After hearing her shrill dismissive shriek
The monster flounces off in a fit of pique,
How that poor forsaken brutes broken heart aches,
And all the Doc says is ‘oh well, we all make mistakes.’

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.

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.

Premier League letdowns; Tough times for the dogged, game but toothless Terriers of poor Huddersfield Town. Commiserations- of a kind- from a Crystal Palace fan.

Down In Hudddersfield Town.

Huddersfield Town’s future, so bright last June
Finally faded at Crystal Palace this dull afternoon,
It’s bound to be a silent, sad, sombre- and sober- coach trip
As the Terriers head back up North, down to the Championship.

By Xmas, Town knew it was gonna be tough at the top
But it’s a lot rougher when you’re the first team to drop,
To survive in the Premier League is a simple numbers game;
When Town tote up their losses all it amounts to is a crying shame.

If only Huddersfield’s brittle defence had been stronger
Or if their busy goalkeepers arms had been a little longer,
Or if they had a striker- or two- to pop in an occasional winner
The Terriers season mightn’t be finishing up a total dogs dinner.

Luke Perry leaves. An obit, of sorts. Not being a fan of 90210, maybe I’m not as upset as I should be. But hey, as the man himself said, ‘everyone’s a critic.’

Spoiler Alert.

Sorry, Luke Perry, for you, at 52, it’s time to go,
Yep, your number’s up, it’s Forest Lawn, not 90210,
Your final role is an unrehearsed and tragic one,
You’ve played your bit part, now the play is done.

E’en now, once teenage girls cry into their bouquets,
Pining, remembering a Dylan back in his salad days,
Still, Luke won’t have to see a slow sad decline,
To face his once-fresh face settle on another line.

Off to his reward Cardinal Pell disgracefully goes, his pleas of innocence falling on deaf ears. Well, maybe his God may help him. Given considerable time.

Bad Faith.

Sorrowfully sitting in his cell
Is new inmate ex-Cardinal Pell,
Publicly his innocence he still professes,
Though to his God he quietly confesses,
‘Lord, it was only the occasional lap lapse;
Lord, hoping for celibacy is all well and good
But there’s little or nun of that in the priesthood.’

But from above, if He heard
There’s not been one little word,
He would have thought one-
The Father or His blessed son-
Or that ethereal wraith-
Would speak to a man of faith,
But yet, not one uplifting sound;
How loud Gods silence doth resound.

Now that Mr Pell has been solitarily confined
He has time to, unmolested, scour his mind,
One day is an eternity in this Hellish place,
Though being banged up in solitary is his saving grace,
George has gone from shooting the papal bull
To hearing a cardinals word is not indisputable,
And what he saw as an innocent Church affair
Is turning into his worst unfrocking nightmare.

Not much help, being a blubber-mouth when a strong voice is required. Words can fail me sometimes, but my family never does.

In My Eye.

I sat misty eyed all through the eulogy,
Fine words heard makes it hard to see,
When my daughter rose I went to her side,
To stand strong, some comfort to provide.

If she faltered with her words I’d said
I’d take on the recitation in her stead,
But when I stood forth, as if to speak
Well, damn my eyes, they began to leak.

I had said I would speak up without a quaver
But on looking down the words began to waver,
So I stood by, mournfully manfully staunching my eye,
Ah, but my daughter spoke far more eloquently than I.