Tag Archives: humour

St Annes, Nottingham


Age 20


six pm, early start

for those who aren’t

faint of heart.

wait for service at the bar,

bloody desperate for a jar,

listening through

the hum and hiss

of conversations

hit and miss,

the girl with eyes lined in kohl,

black as coal

and just as dirty,

looks so old…

must be twenty five at least!

“two pints of cider and two Pernods please…

in the same glass…”

barman glances aside


witnesses needed,

he catches our eye,

focus as yet unimpeded

by excess

“this’ll blow her tits off!”

laughter follows

and warnings…

never heeded.


we catch the night bus,


on the move,

all the groovers

intent on proving

this night above all others

will be the night

for us,

and we troop,

sheep like in our aim,

following the crowds,

finding our way home

as does half of Nottingham.


word’s got round

bloody quickly

through the crowds

that gather thickly

on the stairs,

across the balcony,

pissed to shit

popping and eeeeeezing,

there’s no way of getting through.

“God… I need a… pee.”

“this party’s great… they’re my mates.”

“I should have locked the fucking door

and sent out invites!”

what seemed like a good idea

is by the minute

becoming less appealing,

as every drunk revealing

his true colours,

declares undying friendship.

“God… I need… a tea.”

“where are the police when you want them?

surely we’re causing an obstruction?”


twelve hours after we began

our first foray in party plan

and playing host,

we find it most


manners laxing,

we step over

life’s malingerers,

find our way to


mop up eggs, bacon, tea and toast,

lick our fingers,

manners forgotten.


eager to feast

on life’s every morsel,

certain we’ll all die immortal,

never realising


will one day be our castle,

complete with moat

dug and overflowing

with life’s dreary flotsam,

anarchistic student dreams

long forgotten.







Every morning, freshly burst explosions

litter my once green and pleasant grass.

This warzone, reeling from each fresh incursion

needs help, we summon Moleman to kick arse.

He sets his traps which leave me feeling guilty,

as morning dawns I creep outside to look.

My foolish wish for death doled out humanely

is scuppered as I witness his rebuke.


He should be wearing tiny elf-made jerkin,

horn-rimmed specs and tweedy green plus-fours;

his fingers, better suited playing Chopin

than subterranean muddy midnight chores,

I stroke his nose, discover caviar eyes…

Oh how I wish we’d made some compromise.




For The Two Henrys…

The small blue eggs


in the black wire basket


like the white of an eye


a mesh of black


surrounded by ordinary



Broken open

fat vermillion


a zillion times brighter

than other pasty


usually served up

as eggs.


Joe says

all the fat is in the


I disagree.

We google it.

I’m right.


Tacey says

they are space eggs.

Inside each is a small alien


in slow motion,

tiny limbs curtailed

by gloopy glue of sticky



We eat the space eggs


with bacon and black pudding.

They are delicious.

Good looking,

tasty and nutritious…

Bloody amazing.





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