It can’t be bloody xmas!
My skin is still all white
Its only 4:15 and already it’s gone night.
There’s no cricket on the airwaves yet
no girls in shorts, no volley net.
It can’t be bloody xmas
There's not one sniff of barbeque,
No sight of presents left in view...
No white wine sparkling in the sun,
No kids in speedos screaming fun.
It can’t be bloody xmas
I’m sitting here in ugg boots
that come up to my knees.
I should be seeking shade
and hunting up a breeze.
It can’t be bloody xmas
All the Santas should reek of sweat
And when I’m sitting down for lunch
my bathers should be wet.
It will only feel like xmas
When the bird is carved and cold
And laid out next to salad
with a glass of amber Gold.
It can’t be bloody xmas,
Its cold, damp, dark and bleak
A quick trip back to paradise
would take a bloody week.
It will only feel like xmas
When the barbie's grilling prawn,
the girls lay barebacked on the lawn,
and mates relax and have a yawn,
while grandmas on their children fawn.
But here,,,,
There is food, and friends, like twenty.
A pretty wife, and years a-plenty
to spend in love and warmth together
no matter in the world, wherever.
It kind of feels like Christmas..
I suppose I could be told,
but still, by any measure,
its far too bloody cold.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Hope Hurts
Some of you may have been made aware of the fact I was voted into the top ten writers in a recent Yorkshire ghost story competition.
It is hard to capture in words the all-encompassing feeling of elation and self-worth, the justification, happiness and pride that swelled up inside when I heard the message on my home phone answering machine. The lovely motherly voice was recorded matter-of-factly, telling me all about the competition , where the final judging was to be and how I could reserve a seat if I wanted to go to the judging night…..
IF I WANTED TO GO!? Of course I wanted to go!
I wanted to take everyone I knew.
The top 10? Me?
I hugged the wife and chortled a bit then I emailed family and friends, the ones who know I write a bit now and then….
I was on facebook when I discovered that Pete had also been nominated. I was amazed. How a-bloody-mazing was that!? That I knew someone else who had been chosen too, then almost immediately I got a little deflated that I was not so special. But in a flash I was happy again that two of us from the Leeds Savage writers group got chosen.
It only took another second for me to think, I wonder how tough the competition was,,, if we both got a mention in the top 10?
I discounted that, Harrogate is renown for it’s great writers and competitive literature competitions. The caliber would be high..
Surely.
There would have been lots of submissions…..
Then Pete wrote that there were 'over 40 respondents', so I felt a bit crap about that, still, at least I was better than 30 other writers……
Oh, bugger it.
I remembered the candidates could be anyone over the age of 15 .....
What if Pete and I were only competing against Miss Prudence’s pock-faced, third form, remedial English class.
But maybe not , the Library competition competitors would be from Harrogate’s wider intelligent demographic.
It will be an interesting night out.
Heck, it’s not every day I’d go to something like this.
Then I thought, it’s a bit of a shit that Pete and I are both in the same boat .
I want to win .
I suppose I don’t care that much if I don’t, but I’d feel a bit weird if Pete won.
But I don’t want Pete not to win.
You know, it would be a bastard either way.
If Pete wins I’ll be pleased for him but I’d wonder if there wouldn’t be some sort of, kind of, discomfort, between us.
If I win I’ll be so chuffed, I know I’ll be a smug pain in the arse.
I’ll try not to be, but, well,,,,
So then I thought, probably best if neither of us win, then we can have a few drinks and dump shit on the competition and judges and share pint or two.
That would be absolutely the best end to the judging night.
So considering all angles, I really hope that,
on the night, that…
I win by a gi-bloody-normous margin,
And Pete doesn’t.
Fuck it, he’ll get over it.
It is hard to capture in words the all-encompassing feeling of elation and self-worth, the justification, happiness and pride that swelled up inside when I heard the message on my home phone answering machine. The lovely motherly voice was recorded matter-of-factly, telling me all about the competition , where the final judging was to be and how I could reserve a seat if I wanted to go to the judging night…..
IF I WANTED TO GO!? Of course I wanted to go!
I wanted to take everyone I knew.
The top 10? Me?
I hugged the wife and chortled a bit then I emailed family and friends, the ones who know I write a bit now and then….
I was on facebook when I discovered that Pete had also been nominated. I was amazed. How a-bloody-mazing was that!? That I knew someone else who had been chosen too, then almost immediately I got a little deflated that I was not so special. But in a flash I was happy again that two of us from the Leeds Savage writers group got chosen.
It only took another second for me to think, I wonder how tough the competition was,,, if we both got a mention in the top 10?
I discounted that, Harrogate is renown for it’s great writers and competitive literature competitions. The caliber would be high..
Surely.
There would have been lots of submissions…..
Then Pete wrote that there were 'over 40 respondents', so I felt a bit crap about that, still, at least I was better than 30 other writers……
Oh, bugger it.
I remembered the candidates could be anyone over the age of 15 .....
What if Pete and I were only competing against Miss Prudence’s pock-faced, third form, remedial English class.
But maybe not , the Library competition competitors would be from Harrogate’s wider intelligent demographic.
It will be an interesting night out.
Heck, it’s not every day I’d go to something like this.
Then I thought, it’s a bit of a shit that Pete and I are both in the same boat .
I want to win .
I suppose I don’t care that much if I don’t, but I’d feel a bit weird if Pete won.
But I don’t want Pete not to win.
You know, it would be a bastard either way.
If Pete wins I’ll be pleased for him but I’d wonder if there wouldn’t be some sort of, kind of, discomfort, between us.
If I win I’ll be so chuffed, I know I’ll be a smug pain in the arse.
I’ll try not to be, but, well,,,,
So then I thought, probably best if neither of us win, then we can have a few drinks and dump shit on the competition and judges and share pint or two.
That would be absolutely the best end to the judging night.
So considering all angles, I really hope that,
on the night, that…
I win by a gi-bloody-normous margin,
And Pete doesn’t.
Fuck it, he’ll get over it.
Pigeon Spit
On understanding the fairer race. ( and using pigeon spit as part of a task)
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally right,
it sings like a choir and pulses with the passion of an orchestra at crescendo. A harmonious choral symphony.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally wrong, a dichotomy grating grates like shit-encrusted swine forcing their intent on nectar-scented hummingbirds.
I was reminded of the disparate nature of long term relationships by a neighbour who dropped in for a coffee and a quick chat.
Okay, to be honest I invited him in and he was too polite to refuse.
This afternoon we fell to talking about his plans for a recent home extension the council had refused….
He went on to discuss the alternative which was to add a window in the existing room, get his wife to move her collection of blue and white, place a small table and make the otherwise dead space usable. He thought however that moving the blue and white was going to be harder than getting council permissions.
A knowing chuckle.
I proposed he remove an internal wall but immediately retracted that as I recalled his wife wanted the separate room provided by that very wall.
“How did you know that? he asked,
“She told me last time we were there. Hadn’t you two talked about that?”
“Well of course we have, but she never said, no.” he mused, “You know, they don’t do they. They allude to agreeing, but in a tone that is not quite totally agreeing. We have to decipher if that means, ‘Perhaps’, or, ‘While I think it’s a reasonable idea I am not wholly convinced about it, so, sure, go ahead and try, its nothing to do with me.' ”
We laughed conspiratorially.
I reflected that I truly understood his dilemma. Many times a week I have to decide if a yes is a ‘Yes’, or if its a... ‘yes – If that’s what you want, dear’, or a... ‘yes – But realise it is your decision and I’ll tell you immediately if its not perfect’, or simply if its a... ‘yes as in NO!’
I, despite years of practice, remain completely without the skill set to determine a yes correctly or if my entreaties or approaches, my cajoling and humour are ever going to be appropriate to her mood from one minute to the next.
I am sure it is a genetic code that makes the female completely unaware that she is constantly sending out totally inconsistent messages. Not just on different days but within sentences, within glances and between breaths.
I do understand that it is the male’s role to allow for mood changes and decipher implied levels of agreement. I understand how, after so many years trying to do that it could logically expected, once in a while at least, I should get it right.
I also understand that when I wrongly interpret a yes, one that she has delivered in a moment of emotive transience, it is entirely my fault.
What I don’t understand is how this delicate, luscious flower-like, creature can instantly become so devastatingly fatal and powerfully demeaning in vitriol, glares and actions.
I mean, really.
Just as well I have a thick skin, coarse hair and smell a bit.
And it is also well that I do not suffer alone, that there is a local pub or place nearby where I can sit and talk with other coarse, smelly, bemused and bewildered lesser life forms. I think there is as much chance of bottling pigeon spit as there is of finding a bloke who has solved the yes conundrum.
Spending time with other smelly Shreks gives a level of balance, a vague surety to life and brings a renewed strength to the tragic male desire. The desire to return to smell the sweet essences of our partners and to try again to elicit the sparkling giggles, the sumptuous embraces and the caring words that make the whole confusion bearable. Dare I say, delightful.
But I doubt if I’ll ever know if she agrees.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally right,
it sings like a choir and pulses with the passion of an orchestra at crescendo. A harmonious choral symphony.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally wrong, a dichotomy grating grates like shit-encrusted swine forcing their intent on nectar-scented hummingbirds.
I was reminded of the disparate nature of long term relationships by a neighbour who dropped in for a coffee and a quick chat.
Okay, to be honest I invited him in and he was too polite to refuse.
This afternoon we fell to talking about his plans for a recent home extension the council had refused….
He went on to discuss the alternative which was to add a window in the existing room, get his wife to move her collection of blue and white, place a small table and make the otherwise dead space usable. He thought however that moving the blue and white was going to be harder than getting council permissions.
A knowing chuckle.
I proposed he remove an internal wall but immediately retracted that as I recalled his wife wanted the separate room provided by that very wall.
“How did you know that? he asked,
“She told me last time we were there. Hadn’t you two talked about that?”
“Well of course we have, but she never said, no.” he mused, “You know, they don’t do they. They allude to agreeing, but in a tone that is not quite totally agreeing. We have to decipher if that means, ‘Perhaps’, or, ‘While I think it’s a reasonable idea I am not wholly convinced about it, so, sure, go ahead and try, its nothing to do with me.' ”
We laughed conspiratorially.
I reflected that I truly understood his dilemma. Many times a week I have to decide if a yes is a ‘Yes’, or if its a... ‘yes – If that’s what you want, dear’, or a... ‘yes – But realise it is your decision and I’ll tell you immediately if its not perfect’, or simply if its a... ‘yes as in NO!’
I, despite years of practice, remain completely without the skill set to determine a yes correctly or if my entreaties or approaches, my cajoling and humour are ever going to be appropriate to her mood from one minute to the next.
I am sure it is a genetic code that makes the female completely unaware that she is constantly sending out totally inconsistent messages. Not just on different days but within sentences, within glances and between breaths.
I do understand that it is the male’s role to allow for mood changes and decipher implied levels of agreement. I understand how, after so many years trying to do that it could logically expected, once in a while at least, I should get it right.
I also understand that when I wrongly interpret a yes, one that she has delivered in a moment of emotive transience, it is entirely my fault.
What I don’t understand is how this delicate, luscious flower-like, creature can instantly become so devastatingly fatal and powerfully demeaning in vitriol, glares and actions.
I mean, really.
Just as well I have a thick skin, coarse hair and smell a bit.
And it is also well that I do not suffer alone, that there is a local pub or place nearby where I can sit and talk with other coarse, smelly, bemused and bewildered lesser life forms. I think there is as much chance of bottling pigeon spit as there is of finding a bloke who has solved the yes conundrum.
Spending time with other smelly Shreks gives a level of balance, a vague surety to life and brings a renewed strength to the tragic male desire. The desire to return to smell the sweet essences of our partners and to try again to elicit the sparkling giggles, the sumptuous embraces and the caring words that make the whole confusion bearable. Dare I say, delightful.
But I doubt if I’ll ever know if she agrees.
yorkshire passion
Yet another competition I entered, in November, describe Yorkshire passion in 200 words..... yeah, right. I didn't get a call.
Yorkshire day.
It starts as a seaside sunrise picks the colours from buildings and cliffs ‘round Staiths.
Behind the Hole of Horcum a steam train chuffs revelers to Whitby
and gliders chase clouds over Sutton Bank.
There rises the sound of furniture formed by the hands of Kilburn carvers.
Heather glows in dales en route to scoffing fat rascals in Bettys
and we jump the clints and grykes at Malham.
From the Hepburns and Moors at YSP
they head to Wensleydale creamery and on towards the brews of Masham .
We smile, a poddy lamb is yet again shooed from Tan Hill’s highest bar
and we recall Bardsey still boasts Britain’s oldest Inn.
Afternoon sunlight blings off Ripley’s classic cars as
famous ice cream melts over lovers’ fingers.
Kids leap the stones at Bolton priory
while grandma sups a Devonshire Arms high tea.
Then a smoky lunch in an ancient pub in Appletreewick,
our dogs lying spent at foot.
That evening, townsfolk chat, singers sing and artists endure
japes from revelers half way through Wetherby’s ten pub crawl.
Finally, city Leeds, come midnight,
the hugs and giggles escape merrily
from theme clad students
stumbling from pubs, to clubs, to dorms,
to bed.
Yorkshire day.
It starts as a seaside sunrise picks the colours from buildings and cliffs ‘round Staiths.
Behind the Hole of Horcum a steam train chuffs revelers to Whitby
and gliders chase clouds over Sutton Bank.
There rises the sound of furniture formed by the hands of Kilburn carvers.
Heather glows in dales en route to scoffing fat rascals in Bettys
and we jump the clints and grykes at Malham.
From the Hepburns and Moors at YSP
they head to Wensleydale creamery and on towards the brews of Masham .
We smile, a poddy lamb is yet again shooed from Tan Hill’s highest bar
and we recall Bardsey still boasts Britain’s oldest Inn.
Afternoon sunlight blings off Ripley’s classic cars as
famous ice cream melts over lovers’ fingers.
Kids leap the stones at Bolton priory
while grandma sups a Devonshire Arms high tea.
Then a smoky lunch in an ancient pub in Appletreewick,
our dogs lying spent at foot.
That evening, townsfolk chat, singers sing and artists endure
japes from revelers half way through Wetherby’s ten pub crawl.
Finally, city Leeds, come midnight,
the hugs and giggles escape merrily
from theme clad students
stumbling from pubs, to clubs, to dorms,
to bed.
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