How can the World’s End by in Chelsea ? Is Zone 2 beyond the pale ? Some claim that further Westwards is Fulham, But just cos we’ve got legs, there’s no need to pull ’em…. Clearly the whole world stops in Chelsea, Where only the fools and the buses sail – For who takes a trip past the Cemet’ry’s ridge ? Or dares to cross over the Stamford Bridge ? But wait…are there council tenants in Chelsea ? Have Thameside views been built at scale ? Is the King’s Road home to the oik and churl ? Now that truly is the end of the world…
I asked AI to have them looking up at the cathedral, but here i think they’ve just spotted a pigeon…
Albion Away
(A Tale from the 80s)
From teenage holidays in Spain, Back when they were the latest thing, To Saturdays on terraces, To sing-out for our lads. Three-nil, five-one, always winning, Charging down the wing – First the League, and then to conquer Europe, Further than our dads.
Rome in April, that was special, Even though we lost, And Bucharest, beyond the Iron Curtain – Why resist the pull ? For how else could we working-class boys Learn of santé, skål, and proost, And countless castles and bazaars In Bern, Zagreb, and Istanbul,
Our girlfriends likely had scant int’rest In our fate this season, Yet they’d sometimes come along to see The other-worldly show. And finding out the other fans were just like us Was always pleasing, Drinking with the Finns and Greeks From Sparta Rapid Dynamo.
I wasn’t sure about the title of this one – I didn’t want to suggest any specific team. I did consider Avalon Away, but that sounded awkward. And in the end, I can only think of two Albion teams, plus a couple of Scottish ones, and none of them one is exactly renowned for their European prowess…
The busy bees of Manchester Are busy hoverflies – They flit about the branches there, In black-and-gold disguise. Perhaps they’re all more working-class, Republicans in tile and glass, Who swing their clubs to earn their brass Across the smoky skies.
They may not make the honey, And they may not make the wax – But they pollinate the money, And they pay their aphid tax. They have no queens, they have no hives, They live their solitary lives – But close together, each one thrives On cotton, silk, and flax.
The Basel earthquake of 1356 by the ever-busy Anon
Timid Tectons
Britain sits at the heart of its plate, So far from the faultlines, far from volcanoes. Though Arthur’s Seat and the Giant’s Causeway celebrate How we once had those Britain sits where the crusts are thick, Though they used to bend, as the Great Glen shows. And Lincoln lost its cathedral spire, when a final kick Gave some glancing blows.
You won’t believe how many times I had to ask AI to genenrate this image before it managed to spell it right…
Head up West and See the Lights
The neon lights of old Piccadilly-dilly Used to be so bright and silly-silly, But the screens have sprung-up willy-nilly – Boringly displayed.
Now there’s nothing but advert-a-go-go, Shouting products from ho-hum to so-so. Art and style ? I’m afraid that’s a no-no – Over and over replayed.
Sell more junk food, flog more bling-bling, Scream more news, from Bronx to Beijing-zhing, Punching eyeballs, all for kerching-ching – The goods must be obeyed.
The hungry billboards are always on-on The Eiffel Tower needs a new Citroën-tron. Buy buy buy till the stuff’s all gone-gone – As long as the profits get made.
Working abroad in the Eighties, Those were strange December days – When the office was open as usual, And the Sun beat down in a haze. But a few of us Johnny Foreigners Exchanged a card and a smile – With a token string of tinsel about our desks, For the extra mile. We offered round choc’lates to hesitant colleagues And kept stopping work for a chat. Someone must have produced a cracker, For they wore a paper hat. We would have shared a tot or two, As we briefly engaged in hugs – Though booze was out of the question, of course, So we chinked our coffee mugs. The world was becoming more American, More awareness year-by-year – And so each time, another trapping of the season Would appear. We’d phone our fam’lies later, not yet, As the locals were called to pray – But we hummed a carol in the long afternoon, As the town got on with its day.
Land first drifted this far North In the Late Devoniun And life had caught a ride as well, Beneath the midnight sun. In hothouse times, the land was free Of frigid glacial scars, And life was thriving in the dark Beneath the midday stars. And the jungles circled round the top Right through the Pliocene – When the brownest bear was polar, And the Northern land was green. In a million years from now, they’ll marvel how Our current life clings on – But there we are, continuous, Since the Late Devonion.
“It isn’t the resident tenants that make a city ugly, but rather the absentee planners.”
The Blueprint Bugle
Vienna is bursting with tourists, While Croydon is thoroughly dead – We all know why the one has the more is, And one is a ghetto instead. One has buildings of beauty That people will pay to admire – The other is screaming out “Nuke me !, And raze all my ugly in fire.”
Oh sure, that intangible culture takes many a-century To embed and to reign – But if your town looks more like a penitentiary, Then you’re waiting in vain.
Venice is sinking in people, While Stevenage wallows in grime – We all know why the latter is feeble, And looks like the scene of a crime. One has buildings of grandeur, That travellers travel to see, The other is yelling-out slander With a nihilistic glee.
And it doesn’t take castles and squares and cathedrals To still have plenty of charms – But it does take some sense, and lack of upheavals From brutalists swinging their arms.
Paris is famous for beauty, And Slough is famous for bombs – We all know why the one is a cutie, And one won’t get asked to the prom. One has buildings for humans, That are sculpted, and tiled, and embossed. The other is built for consumers With the ornaments cut-out for cost.
We know it deep down in our footings, this concrete-clad craze Is simply so unrefined. If it ain’t Manhattan, then high-rise ain’t for the holidays, But for the daily grind.
Please note that for the rhythm to work in the second verse, ‘century’ needs to be given it’s full there syllables, and ‘penitentiary’ it’s full six.
Steadfast and pervasive, From its bases out of Cockney mouths, Across the South, and heading North, Until it’s passed the Firth of Forth. But out here in the town of Bath, A person’s class can’t half be grasped By how that very name is rasped – In the lingual aftermath. Though still it’s a disaster, lad, It’s bad, and sad, and maddening – Though gladdening that ays are stronger When the traps are sprung for longer. Slathering from out our lungs, A psalm to answer rank or shah – This split is cast upon our tongues, To dance the Mardi Gras.
The use of ‘ays’ in the poem is a reference to multiple copies of the first letter of the alphabet.
I notice that the London version of this vowel is steady taking over the West Country. Perhaps the decades of racist ridicule that its accent has suffered has subconsciously hot home ?
I know where we’re going, trust me, All the signs are showing thusly – Follow me, I have the knowing Of the way like nobody. For I know where the cows are lowing, I know where the crows are crowing, I know where no debts are owing, And the air is free.
Where the stream is flowing fleetly, Where the wind is blowing sweetly, And the strings are softly bowing – That is where we need to be. So nevermind how much it’s snowing, Soon we shall be warm and glowing – For, despite our to-and-fro-ing, Still our stars agree.
Though it seems we’re slowing quickly, And our path is growing prickly, Still we have to keep on rowing, Or we’ll wash back out to sea. So let’s keep on this line we’re toeing Let’s not think of overthrowing – Soon we’ll reap the steps we’re sowing, Home in time for tea.
Rhyming Couplets 