SEASIDE PEER

I've just been down to Brighton,

I went there to play bridge.

It was peeing down with rain

And colder than a fridge.

Despite the dreadful weather

It's a very lovely place.

I got to my hotel room 

And then unpacked my case.

I looked out of the window

But saw no sand or sea

Just the lady in the next door flat.

Who was staring back at me.

I quickly turned my back on her,

Went out and locked the door.

Though we'd had some food an hour ago

I fancied a bit more.

Later, having had my fill

Of chips and battered plaice,

I went back to my bedroom, 

Brushed my teeth and washed my face.

Then, having eaten all that food

I sat upon the loo,

Adopting the position

For what I had to do.

Given my situation,

Imagine my surprise, 

When I looked up, across the room

To see that lady's eyes.

The moral of this sorry tale

Is very plain to see

Make sure you draw the curtains

When you sit to poo or wee.

WINNING THOUGHTS

I went to watch a football match today. My team lost.

I know how they feel. I've been losing my darts matches a lot lately. I'm getting better but often just when I think I might win the thought occurs to me 'But then again I might lose this'. And so I often do.

The trick is to believe. To be positive. To think:
 'I could win. I should win. I will win.'

Walter D. Wintle put it beautifully:

The Man Who Thinks He Can

 

If you think you are beaten, you are;

If you think you dare not, you don't;

If you'd like to win, but think you can't,

It's almost a cinch you won't.

If you think you'll lose, you're lost,

For out in the word we find

Success begins with a fellow's will,

It's all in the state of mind.

If you think you're outcasted, you are;

You've got to think high to rise.

You've got to be sure of yourself before

You can ever win a prize.

Life's battles don't always go

To the stronger or faster man;

But soon or late the man who wins

Is the man who thinks he can. 

We needed Walter playing on the pitch today.

Image courtesy of [Stuart Miles] / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

OLLY WREATH (Oliver with a twist)

T'was the night before Christmas

and in the workhouse,

Little Olly was chatting

To his favourite mouse.

As he told him his dreams

and ridiculous schemes,

the mouse caught a passing woodlouse.

The mouse had heard it all before

and had to stifle a yawn

as Olly coughed his lungs up

and spoke 'til the first light of dawn.

He was wracked with consumption

and I'm sorry to mention

was doomed from the day he'd been born.

T'was Christmas day in the workhouse,

little Olly was sweeping the floor.

Of all the jobs they gave him,

this was his favourite chore.

As he pushed the broom

round the echoing room,

his coughing sounds bounced off the door.

He dreamed he was up in Heaven

where brushing the floors was a treat,

and was pushing his gold-plated broomstick

asking angels to please lift their feet.

There were chocolates galore

in piles on the floor

and he could have all he could eat.

T'was now the day after Christmas

and Olly had finished his coughing.

A pauper's grave was his destiny -

no hearse to carry him off in.

His broom lay at rest,

he was dressed in his best,

laid out in a rather small coffin.

In heaven the angels were singing.

Their prayers had been answered it seems.

Little Olly was sweeping around them

having finally realised his dreams.

He flew round the room

with a gilt-covered broom

and his mouth full of strawberry creams.

           

  

DRINK PROBLEM

Apparently I don't drink enough. Now if you'd seen me last Saturday night after I'd consumed the best part of two bottles of Merlot unaided, you would question this statement. However, here I am being literal. I do not consume enough fluid.

How do I know this? Because I am blessed to have people around me who care about the state of my health and who regularly nag me about it. Recently, the nagging with regards to my failure to quaff several litres of water per day has come from at least three different people and so in order to attempt to silence my critics, I have succumbed.

I know that going everywhere with a plastic bottle of water clutched in your hand has almost become a fashion statement but I am clearly not in the vanguard of fashion where drinking is concerned. I simply try desperately to remember to drink a glass or two - sometimes instead of my beloved coffee. There I've said it. You now realise how serious an issue this is for me.

Once again I turn to my late grandfather for help and he duly obliges with this poem which I believe to have been penned by him.

"Pure water is the best of drinks

that man to man can bring.

But who am I that I should have

the best of everything?

Let Princes revel at the pump,

Peers with the pond make free -

But whisky, wine or even beer

Are good enough for me."

MEN AT WORK

Now I know you'll find this hard to believe but I winge a lot. One of my eternal gripes is the constant road works which we seem to get on the stretch of motorway near us and this seems to have spread to smaller roads which are closer still.

Thumbing through Grampa's book, 'Pierrot's Album', which I introduced you to in my post called simply,'Pierrot', I discover that my affliction is clearly hereditary. I was born in 59 Tanworth Lane, Shirley and Grampa lived two doors away in 55.

He wrote this little poem in 1931 - 78 years ago! This was the year he moved into his house and it was before the road had been surfaced. The poem was published in the local paper and as you will see, proves that "there is nothing new under the sun".

INFRA DIG

In Shirley's heard a sweet refrain

"Let's go and dig up Tanworth Lane".

Builders, sewermen, gas-men too,

All dig holes to obscure our view.

They dig a deep hole for a drain

And then they cover it up again.

The gas-man then he doth appear

Saying "Come on Bill, our course is clear,

We really must have a hole down here".

Saturdays, Sundays there's no rest,

They dig and dig with added zest.

We take much mud into our houses

And Oh! you should see poor Pa's "trousis!".

When Father Xmas comes by heck!

He'll fall and break his poor old neck.

.........................

Perhaps some day our good surveyor

Will send his men with tarmac layer

And thus rejoice the poor ratepayer.

FUNGAL FUN

You may recall dear reader, that a while ago, I published a post called 'Pierrot' which introduced you to my grandfather's college yearbook. The book was put together between 1904 and 1907 and 'Grampa' (Herbert Pearce) continued to add to it throughout his life.

I love the thought that I am able to keep these jottings alive by reproducing them here. He was a lovely man and would no doubt have been astonished to be told that his notes would survive and make it into cyberspace in the form of the internet!

I promised that we would return to Pierrot's album and so I present you with a poem written by Herbert in August, 1944. This was about 4 months after my parents married. It tells the salutary tale of the boy who assisted the milkman in the days when milk was delivered to your doorstep in glass bottles. The illustration was drawn by Grampa too.

Please enjoy the tale of:

The Mushroom

A mushroom grew in the early dawn
On a small, trim, green suburban lawn.

The lawn's fat owner smiled with joy -
He took small heed of the milkman's boy.

Damp and warmth and the week wore on -
A child's cry - 'Father! The mushroom's gone!'


The fat man's wife at the garden gate -
Why is the milkman's boy so late?

The milkboy rests 'neath funeral pall.
It was not a mushroom after all.

PIERROT

Between 1904 and 1907, my paternal grandfather trained as a schoolmaster at St. Paul's College, Cheltenham. During that time he acquired the nickname of 'Pierrot'. As you may know, Pierrot is a white faced clown as shown in the picture on the cover of 'Pierrot's album' which is a sort of college yearbook containing anecdotes, drawings and poems written by my Grandpa and his college friends. He continued to add his thoughts in the book, throughout his life.

There is an inscription inside the front cover which reads 'For Anthony some day'. In fact I didn't receive the book until 1963, eight years after Pierrot's death. My Grandpa and his book have inspired me through the years and I shall return to it in future posts. For now though, I want to share with you a poem which he wrote in the album. It is called:

When I die
What a nuisance then will be, all that shall remain of me!
Shelves of books I've often read, piles of notes undocketed,
Shaving brushes, razors, strops; bottles that have lost their tops,
Boxes full of odds and ends, letters from departed friends.
Faded ties and broken braces, tucked away in secret places.
Baggy trousers, ragged coats, stacks of ancient lesson notes -
and that ghostliest of shows - boots and shoes in horrid rows.

Though they are of cheerful mind, my family whom I leave behind,
when they find these in my stead will be sorry I am dead.

Burn the papers, sell the books! Clear out all the pestered nooks...
And when you have done away with all that is of yesterday -
if you feel a thrill of pain - master it and start again.

and here's my response written in February 1963 when I was first given the book:

Dear Grandpa - it was as you said, for not long after you were dead,
The papers were burned, the books were sold, and gone was all the dust of old.
Forgive us - but forget not too, that this was nothing, you are you.
It's you we want to meet above, it isn't boots or shoes we love!