Rue Britannia

scouse britannia
A supporter from the Nelson Memorial in Liverpool, sculpted by Richard Westmacott.

Rue Britannia

The trouble with lefties is cultural cringe –
The feeling that England and Englishness
Are suspect, colonial, Tory in dress,
And bearing the taint of the hooligan fringe.

I swear, that there’s many a comrade I know
Who just longs for our country to go down the gutter –
So while we’re all queuing for teabags and butter,
At least they can tell us they so told us so…

We know all the customs, yet scarcely believe them,
We laugh at the toffs and the pomp and regalia,
Meet with them rarely, yet long for their failure –
We just see the wigs, not the justice beneath them.

However we came here, we’re on the same side,
So don’t be ashamed of the marks that distinguish –
We’re caring, and hopeful, and diverse, and English !
For aren’t we the ones who are all about Pride ?

And St George’s banner – why must we destroy it ?
Let’s demystify it, but love the old flag.
So wave it, or don’t – but it’s only a rag –
It’s not gonna kills us if others enjoy it.

And yes, it is shame about God Save the Queen
With its sentiments we’re ill-at-ease to endorse –
But with national anthems, that’s par for the course –
It hardly excuses our virtuous spleen.

Ignore all the words, and just hum to the tune –
A dirgy tune, sure, but the one that we’ve got.
And at least we all know it – let’s give it a shot,
It’s only a minute, it’s all over soon.

There’s bad in our past, but those times were withstood –
Let’s learn from our worst-selves, and never forget,
And sing out our best side, and build on it yet –
The odd bit of bunting might do us some good –

Don’t think that old England is not worth the fuss,
For we’re all a big part of the way she turns out –
Let’s change her for better, not whimper and pout !
Be proud of our nation, for this land is us !

Why did those Feet…?

jesus & other joseph
banner from Pilton church, showing Jesus & Joseph of Arimathea on holiday in Glastonbury

Why did those Feet…?

I’ve often found it fairly odd,
The way the English always had
To borrow someone else’s god,
And rush to join the latest fad –

From Mother Earth to Father Woden,
Merlin and Sir Galahad,
Until at last, through constant goading,
So we fell for Jesus, bad !

But what was the attraction
In a bunch of desert-nomad tales ?
The sarabands that blew their action
Don’t translate to English gales –

I guess we want to get along –
A thousand martyrs can’t be wrong !
When cult’ral cringe is at its height,
The chariots are burning bright !


So Adam loves his country Garden
(Never naked, always blond),
But once he’s out, why would he harden
In a world so green beyond ?

And Noah’s rain is not a threat
To those who never felt a thirst,
And Moses needn’t raise a sweat
When native plagues of gnats are worse !

And Jesus, what about the lad ?
Politely yet at-length ignored,
Where nobody would call him mad,
Yet nobody would call him Lord.

“He’s far too foreign”, they would say,
“And far too showy – not our way.”
Yet
somehow (why, though, isn’t clear)
Jerusalem was builded here.

Endless Rolling Fields

landscape
The Harvest Field, with Church Spire in the Distance by Peter de Wint

Endless Rolling Fields

All my growing years were spent
In villages and country lanes,
Alas !  For I was always meant
For city streets and busy trains
And all those years against my will
Would only serve to stoke my dream –
They stole my time and served me ill,
Depriving me of smoke and steam.
My parents thought it best for me
To live in rural peace,
But I was sick of cows and geese,
And waited for my destiny.

And so I suffered Summer days
With nothing doing but the bees –
I’d wander through the wooded ways
And couldn’t even name the trees.
Some had burrs to ruin jumpers,
Some I’d climb or hang a swing –
Some were conkers, some were scrumpers,
Some had dandruff in the Spring.
But otherwise they were the bars
Around my rural cage,
Their green and brown forever beige,
Their fruits forever trapped in jars.

But now and then, I got a taste
Of glamour, in the local towns –
But oh, it hurt to see what waste
My life had been upon the downs.
For here were markets for exploring,
Full of wonderments to buy !
And here were buildings, gleaming, soaring,
One, two, three, no four floors high !
And that was when those shining stones
Broke through my rural hold.
I knew the streets weren’t paved with gold,
But granite flags and herringbones !

It wasn’t till I finished school
That I was finished with the sticks
I mustered all my pent-up fuel,
And then I ran – I ran to bricks.
I left my folks upon the green,
For we could not be reconciled.
They love their world so small and clean –
I’m surely an adopted child !
But I still visit, for all I knock it,
Back to their rural lot
Just as long as I know that I’ve got
A return stub safe in my pocket.

Sluff

slough

Sluff

The friendly weeds are rambling over
The concrete desert flats.
Dandelions, rich as clover,
Are cracking through the slats.
And people too, with dogs and cats,
And lawns and privet hedges,
Have made a world for noisy brats
To soften brutal edges.

But certain sniffy poets would
Look down on all this life,
And cannot see the neighbourhood
Within the urban strife.
And yes, the ugliness is rife
Compared to York or Kent,
But here a working man and wife
Can still afford the rent.

Hannah Without the Haitches

beads
Turquoise Beads by Arsen Kurbanov

Hannah Without the Haitches

Anna…
Anna with an accent,
A European accent –
So she could be from anywhere…
(Well, anywhere but France.)

I’m no good guessing accents
Much beyond ‘North of the Trent’ –
Though ‘Eastern European’,
That must put me in with half a chance.

(In France she would be Anne, see,
With an ‘e’, is what I meant.)
But Anna’s international,
And how those borders love to dance…

But hang on…wait…she’s Ana,
One ‘n’ Ana !  Oh, that’s different !
There’s less and fewer Anas
And so suddenly my odds advance.

Except…there’s Spain…and Portugal…
The Balkans…half the continent !
And yet, I just can’t make those fit,
And I dismiss them at a glance.

Perhaps she’s Anastasia…
She must be Greek or Russian sent !
And Greek ?  I just don’t think she’s Greek –
There’s something Slavic in her stance…

So Russian.  Nazdarovya !
Though by way of cockney Kent,
Where London adds its subtle spice
Into her journeyman’s romance.

In truth, I only know she’s Ana
Maybe Moscow, maybe Ghent.
One day I might just ask her where,
But not today – why break the trance ?

Everything from Shells

coccolithophores
Various species of coccolithophores.  Each is a single-celled alga surrounded by plates.

Everything from Shells

Downs go up and downs go down,
As wave on wave of frozen ocean
Built each ridge and vale and crown
With ev’ry ancient tide in motion.
Tiny creatures swarmed the sea
And dropped their tiny plates all over,
From Stonehenge to Normandy
As deeply as the Cliffs of Dover.

Singular alga sounds all wrong, as if the term has become strictly a mass noun.

Desert Island Diss

on the beach

Desert Island Diss

Eight songs ?  Just eight songs ?
Then how will I even survive ?
Eight thousand is nearer the mark
To keep my spirits alive.

Eight song played back-to-back
That’s half-an-hour-ish, tops.
Just half-an-hour of paradise
Until salvation stops.

Washed ashore with a gramophone –
The wind-up kind, I’m guessing.
You’ll need a bigger bribe than that
To get me to confessing.

It always sounds such agony,
This torpid, tropical clime –
I’ll take the grimy, busy rain
Of cities ev’ry time.

There’s Bill and the Bible, as well, of course,
So that’s the loo-roll sorted,
But for my pick of luxury,
I’d like to be deported.

Eight songs ?  Just eight songs ?
Is that all you’ll allow ?
If music is so rare and cruel,
I beg, please drown me now…

Berlingo

several gift cards
Photo by Markus Spiske temporausch.com on Pexels.com

Berlingo

Berlin – City of the english Language,
All Thanks to Hollywood and Touristdollars –
With bilingual Signs to ease our Angst and Anguish,
And fluent Secondtonguers and subconscious Scholars.
From Burntborough Square to Prince Elector Way
Welcome to Berlinnington-on-Spray.

White Rose, Red Leicester

tomb

White Rose, Red Leicester

A long-dead king has gained a sponsor,
As he gets re-buried in state
A tyrant, if not quite the monster
That the Tudors would create.

But wait –
We’re missing the beauty here,
Amid the pomp and lack of debate:
It’s not in the marble, or toady veneer,
In a minster of the second rate.

So a long-lost king was dug out of the ground –
So what ?
But how do we know whose bones we’ve found
Despite long centuries years of rot ?
That is the beauty we’re missing, I say –
The beauty of DNA !

It shows us just who’s our forebear or grandson –
And surely that’s all worth a king’s ransom !
And where were such secrets first teased from their source ?
Why, right here in Leicester, of course !

Talk Like a Pirate

Long John Silver
Long John Silver by Robert Ingpen

Talk Like a Pirate

“Ever since Robert Newton played Long John Silver in 1950, pirates have all spoken with the same accent.”

– The Dorchester Echo

Curse ye, Robbie Newton !
Curse yer lily-lubbered hide !
For thanks to ye, all pirates be
The yokels o’ the crimson sea !
We used-a hail from Luton,
Or Nidderdale, or Morningside –
But now it’s said we’re born an’ bred
In Lynmouth, Lyme an’ Lizard Head.

From the Needle to the Scilly,
Round the Bill and up Goonhilly,
Fowey to Zoyland, thar we blow
From Durdle Door to Westward Ho !

Ye scurvy-livered, timber-shivered blaggard, Robbie Newton !
Ye turned us to a joke, to a’ the folk that we be lootin’ !
Ye’d have us be a parody o’ bushy-bearded mutiny,
A pantomime upon the sea, jus’ pussycats freebootin’ –
We should be briny soldiers, but who could fear our bands
Wi’ these parrots on our shoulders and these hooks upon our hands ?
Ye’ve decked us in a strange disguise, wi’ peggy-leg an’ lock-o’-dread,
An’ always wi’ the patchy-eyes fore’er a-lookin’ ’skance.
We used-a be the buccaneers o’ Buckin’ham an’ Birkenhead,
But now we’re jus’ the poxy-pillaged pirates o’ Penzance.

From Portishead to Plymouth Hoe,
We’ll drag yer name to ten below.
From Brizzle Dock to Davey Jones,
We curse your skull an’ cross your bones !