Category Archives: Travel

Off on holiday, off on vacation, doing the Route 66 thing. Ah, the romance of finding a hidden gem somewhere off the beaten track. True story.

Burn Out On Route 66.

After a hundred desert miles in a hot Mustang rag-top
Near Kingman we turned into a quiet deserted rest-stop,
At 100 decibels AC/DCs intro to ‘Thunderstruck’ was roaring
Unhappily rousing an indignnt down-and-out from his snoring.

He sat up, bloodshot eyes blinking,
Looking much the worse for drinking.

He stumbled out from his refuge of dark concrete
Then his steps syncopated with the pounding beat,
In his long-lost eyes a spark of recognition had flared
As from the rumbling Mustang ‘Thunderstruck’ blared.

He felt a trembling in his shoes-
And not from the DTs from the booze.

The hands he’d balled into fists uncurled,
His bright eyes looked into another world
As far from earthly care as the farthest star
As he began to sway and play his air guitar.

Hungover and down on his luck
But he was all over ‘Thunderstruck.’

Satriani, Slash, Stevie Ray, Page nor Hendrix
Could never hope to replicate those licks,
Whatever had washed through that sodden mind
A flash, a trace of rare talent had been left behind.

He’d had to have led an ass-kicking band-
Before the elbow raising got out of hand.

As the thunder begun to come to a close
On that animated face puzzlement rose,
After a few pyrotechnic moments in the light
Those bright eyes fade and darken, dead as night.

We left behind a man lost, unsung and unstrung,
A sobering warning to any wannabe Angus Young.

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Getting wet and wild on your holiday/honeymoon. A bit of a cautionary tale.

Taken, With A Dose Of Salt.

The summer sun was dazzling bright,
The sea a’sparkling in the sunlight,
Not one solitary cooling cloud in sight
For honeymooners on the Great Australian Bight.

Up on deck after a hot ardourous night
Still this couple are feeling set to ignite,
Where, where to escape 100-degrees Fahrenheit?
The sea offers a cool promise of respite.

Skinny dipping is a sheer naked delight,
The seas ebb and flow sure to primordially excite,
But bare bodies are also sure to whet the appetite
Of Tiger, Tigers, Basking, a bloody Great White.

In Ireland it looks like blasphemy is being taken off the books. That’s the latest word.

A Touch Of The Blarney.

In Ireland the Church has long held sway,
It’s been ”listen to Father’ for forever and a day,
Eternally, paternally told to watch what you say,
To blaspheme means you’ve Hell to pay.

Or at least a spell in Purgatory.

But now it’s influence is on the wane,
Soon it will not be a crime to profane,
Though many Fathers will dogmatically remain
Convinced it’s a sin to take Gods name in vain,

And to say so deserves a stint in the reformatory.

Father McEvedy kneels in despair,
He’s been praying hard to Him up There,
But his cassock and faith are getting threadbare;
Christ, what happened to the power of prayer?

Perhaps He’s deaf to old fashioned oratory?

Soon, I swear, you’ll be able to say your piece
And not be forced to confess to the priest and police,
When a quiet oath is not heard as a breach of the peace;
In Ireland, miracles and wonders will never cease.
 
If you believe the old old story.

A change for the better in the old monarchy of Swaziland. But better for who? Or whom? Who knows?

Ruling The Changes.

The good King of Swaziland
With one sweep of his hand-
Not to mention a Kingly decree-
Now reigns over the Kingdom of eSwatini.

For the Kingdoms King
It has a less colonial ring,
Old British tethers, now unbound;
His Majesty’s reasoning sounds sound.

Map makers the whole world through
Are left with reams of work to do, and undo,
The Kingdoms King revels in the change of name,
For his poor but loyal subjects life goes on the same.

Who can get by without a phone these days? Well, if you have your phone insured, the loss is borne by them. That’s the bottom line…

Don’t Call Us.

When your iPhone takes a swim
Chances of it working are pretty slim,
Water sure does take its toll
On an Apple bobbing in the bowl.

The insurance company took the call,
They heard the story of your iPhones fall,
Though insurance is so damned expensive
It sure do pay off when it’s comprehensive.

The cheque for a replacement is in the mail,
Ah, but hold on, this isn’t the end of this tale;
Your tenure with the new Samsung was all too brief
Due to the gall of some light-fingered French thief.

The insurance company took the call, again,
Second time around the loss was easier to explain,
The first one might have taken quite the while
But this time the details were fresh on file.

Then came another whirlwind dash to the continent
Where crashing to the terrazzo the Samsung went,
Another call is made on a phone that’s literally cracking up;
My, aren’t the numbers on these new phones backing up?

Another cheque arrives, with a covering letter
Advising one to look after ones new phone better,
With thanks for making full use of your comprehensive claim
But asking you to please- please not renew it, if its all the same.

Back to the land of the ice and snow, Where there’s sod all sun and the cold winds blow. (Apologies to Led Zeppelin and the Immigrant Song.)

Home And Away.

Oh, to be back in the sceptred isle on a sepulchral January day,
No, there’s no place like home the old folks unfailingly say,
The rain paints the streets a shade of an all too familiar grey,
Hmm, whatever possessed me to go rather than jolly well stay?

Now I’m thinking of MY home as I trudge through the spray,
Where the rain gently but rarely falls on the sun crazed clay,
That welcoming sun’s calling me back, and no more will I stray,
I’m going home, getting my old Spurs scarf and giving it away.

Paris, city of romance, where love blows through and clings to every corner of the city’s richly historical air.

High Expectations.

Of Paris’ Bohemian quarter Lonely Planet has enlightengly writ
Even in it’s darkest corner it’s denizens look well lit,
This is one part of Paris they highly recommend you hit.
(Not recommended if you can’t face a toxicology kit.)

Low Expectorations.

Outside the Cafe Rouge we found a place to sit;
Parisiennes are a passionate people we’ll readily admit,
Young lovers stroll by, clasping hands, or tit,
Sucking face and Gauloises wherever they see fit,
Here, french kissing doesn’t mean you have to quit.

Then, when they come up for air, they breath, smile and spit!
Their aimless nonchalance does Parissiens little credit,
All this phlegmy frenchness is begining to wear, a bit,
Ah, the French have style and culture, who could doubt it?
But as I wipe my sleeve, I believe I could do without it.