THE COCKLERS FROM CATHAY
6 February, 2004
Published in response to the tragic deaths of 19 mostly Chinese in Morecambe Bay. See related news story. On the same day, Alan overheard a woman in a shop decry "say "They've no business being here, not speaking English and nicking ower coffins." The mind boggles.

On Hyndburn Close I pause to look aloft,
Then stand in silence, my old, black hat doffed,
As whirly bird flies in from Morecambe Bay,
Bears corpses of the cocklers from Cathay.
At 4 am I'd thought it rather queer
At such an hour the rotor blades to hear,
At 7 am on local radio
The sickening news, a gruesome tale of woe:
Two miles from land, trapped by the rising tide,
A cockling gang in trouble,some had died.
And now,as some grieve, others mouthe their scorn,
As darkness falls on Warton Sands forlorn,
The burning question is: just how and why
Some greedy madmen sent them out to die?

BLADDERWRECKED
I've peed in many places in my time,
Stinking park bog or Eiffel Tower sublime,
In dreams I've quaked at R.S.M.'s loud rants
And woken up with piss-wet khaki pants.
A squaddy mate gave way to bladder's plea,
Come morning found his boots were full of pee.
In Swansea, Mumbles-crawls on student spree
Would often end with pees into the sea,
Landlady's garden watered from floor three.
In French school I'd hear howls of Gallic woe:
"Défense de pisser dans le lavabo!"
In Rochdale once, I to the Ladies strayed
And found myself with mare's huge brolly flayed.
When stuck in bladder-strangling M6 crawl
I've peed on the hard shoulder, baring all,
Even been sorely tempted to fill up,
Empty my "tank" into a plastic cup.
For me, the greatest place to pee of all:
The splendid Gents in Stockport's fine town hall,
The grandest spot proud "Percy" to unfurl,
The marble halls of Balfe's "Bohemian Girl".

MORECAMBE MEDITATION
The Bubble's burst, fairground a heap of rubble,
Poor Morecambe's future looks to be in trouble,
The Winter Gardens, symbol of an age,
Now silent, where Dame Thora was the rage,
The piers long gone where children played their games,
These same kids now grey grans on zimmer frames,
Pay their respects to Eric, this town's pride,
Then on the jetty take a tottering stride.
Is Morecambe dying?
Some predict its fate
Is to become a spread of real estate,
In contemplation I these thoughts peruse,
As resident, not visitor I muse.
This peaceful, tranquil day revives in me,
The visions conjured up of Galilee
In Sunday school where Jesus meek and mild
Spoke peace to many a Hitler-haunted child,
And, on a day like this would it seem strange,
To see Christ walking o'er the waves from Grange,
Or find among its list of tempting dishes,
The chic Bow Window serving loaves and fishes?

THE WOULD-BE BLOOD DONOR
(For Karen Livermore)

Fit as a flea at sixty-three,
Do aught you care to mention,
Too young a 'bus pass bid to be,
Or draw the old age pension.

I used to give blood without fear,
On voluntary basis,
But when we moved to Rochdale drear
Of me they lost all traces.

Now I've retired to Morecambe's shore,
The Visitor prints my verse,
Could any poet ask for more,
Old age is in reverse.

So when I read the other day
That blood donors were needed,
Down to The Platform straight away
Their urgent call I heeded.

I walked in feeling young and bold,
They took down my particulars,
But when they said I was TOO OLD!
I thought this was ridiculous!

They said I could still sup their brew,
I fears began to dredge,
From murky depths conclusion drew:
The thin end of the wedge!

At Asda's one day, blythe and jolly,
They'll whee1 me to the tip,
Real life Ken Barlow trolley-dolly
Dump me in Sait Ayre skip.

Or one day I'11 ring up Crewe's ground
To book my season ticket,
They'll say "You're too old, I'll be bound,
Why don't you watch the cricket?"

So I’ll go down to Christie Park,
Morecambe's answer to Wembly,
But be shut outside in the dark,
A crumbly, old and trembly.

From Rainbow Centre I'll be thrown,
Clutching a double-blank,
On Heysham ferry I'll be shown
The way to walk the plank.

The final straw will come one day:
From Lubin's I'll be barred,
To Morecambe South Beach borne away,
To bury this old bard.

Or on a spritely Jetty stroll
To sample tasty dishes,
They'll wrap me in a hot bread roll
And feed me to the fishes!

So must I cave in to despair,
Is there no ray of hope?
These past few weeks I've found a way
To beat the slippery slope.

At Salt Ayre Gym where "Keep fit Kaz"
Makes old crocks dance and skip,
I'll n’er be grape-vined out the door
Or horseshoed to the tip!

BURTON SHOW
In August heat-haze shimmers Morecambe Bay,
This green field now a blaze of colour, for
This day is held proud Burton's Annual Show.
From dawn till dusk, a constant to-and-fro
Of people, produce, horses, sheep and kine.
These Borwick's bacon-burgers taste divine!
Nearby, a bulging beer-tent slakes our thirst.
In matters agricultural, well-versed,
Posh-suited farmers hob-nob with their mates.
Young kids sell programmes at the entrance gates
To earn quick cash for fairground's swirling joys,
As painted cars whirl wild- eyed girls and boys.
A silver band puffs out a merry tune,
The melodies which grandma' used to croon.
Within the produce-tent, serene and calm,
Huge onions, leeks stretch longer than your arm.
With shining paintwork, bumpers all aglow,
A line of cars from forty years ago,
The Wolsleys, Singers,which we made with pride,
Before cheap imports set us on the slide.
Even our cows were shipped in from abroad
And Danish bacon swept aside home-cured.
All day in the main-ring proud beasts compete,
The well-groomed cattle, Shires with huge feet,
Sheep, ducks are penned by dog and shepherd's skill,
Before the hunt parades, horns blowing shrill.
Then well-fed, well-bred wrestlers grunt and heave.
At last, prize-winners line up to receive
Their cups and trophies in the Grand Parade,
And when the closing speeches have been made,
The show puts on a final comic face,
As someone tries to run a terrier-race.
Now sheep and llamas trundle home to bed
While we quaff Mitchell's in The Eagle's Head.

DOCTOR WHO
Shrill Daleks gliding through time's gate:
"Exterminate!Exterminate!"
The Doctor was their deadliest foe
And brought them naught but pain and woe.
Their Ogron slaves with little brain
He slaughtered time and time again.
On Telos trapped the Cybermen,
Entombed them in an icy pen,
Crushed Cybermats, a kind of droid.
"This Doctor, he must be destroyed!"
And when Silurians woke from sleep,
Sea-Devils from the briny deep,
Both laying claim to our Earth fair,
Their schemes brought naught but death's despair.
The Master, keen for cosmic rule,
Our wily Doctor could nter fool.
Slug Sil, foul mollusc, drunk with power,
Was finally made to cringe and cower.
But, even passing through death's gate,
The Doctor could regenerate.
Grumpy Bill Hartnell changed to clown
When Troughton shambled into town.
Just memories now his great escapes
The Beeb lost nearly all his tapes!
Then dear Jon Pertwee thrilled us all,
No shambling scarecrow, handsome, tall.
And when his TARDIS could not fly,
In Bessie he drove proudly by.
Then long Tom Baker took the role,
Mysterious, but with humour drole.
The longest serving Doc.of all,
From Jodrell Bank he took a fall.
He then turned into Peter D.
A sporty type, quite fancy-free.
He put all enemies to flight
Till killed by Androzani's blight.
Then Colin Baker took the lead,
A very quirky Doc. indeed!
Though master of the actor's art,
He grew too heavy for the part.
His TARDIS couldn't leave the ground –
A slim replacement must be found.
A dapper Scot called Sly.McCoy
Gave us our final years of joy.
In '89 the show was chopped,
Down to a swirling black-hole dropped.
But Sarah Jane, Victoria, Jo,
On UK Gold and video
Help us the golden years relive,
As K9 barks"Affirmitive!"
The lovely Peri, fair of face,
Still makes the blood of old men race,
And Ace, a teenage Cockney sprite,
Makes bombs with nitro, gelegnite.
In '96, one Paul McGann,
Portrayed a Doc. American.
For me this film does not ring true
And proves the point that Doctor Who
Is really British through and through.
Though he is Gallifreyan born,
Imagine him on croquet lawn
Or chatting with the vicar's wife,
Recovering from galactic strife!

THE THATCHER STATUE

Though Mag no longer holds the reins of power,
She still is causing trouble at this hour,
No longer making miners look like fools,
Or fiddling OAPs by changing rules,
No longer saying "NO" to Pierre and Fritz,
Acting as if we still were in the Blitz.
Though in the public eye but rarely seen,
Some still believe she should be crowned as queen.
They've even carved a statue, with handbag,
The problem is where to erect the hag!
The right place -- Westminster with her great peers,
But only when she's been dead for five years
Can iron lady stand with Winnie, Clem,
And try to nag the pin-striped pants off them.
Perhaps at Heathrow she could take her stand,
But foreign tourists would refuse to land,
Perhaps a Scottish home, but then I think
The Gordons, Campbells all would turn to drink,
Maybe in Wales a watchful eye she'd keep,
But would the Taffys start abusing sheep?
In Northern Ireland surely she'd look swell,
But watch old Paisley raising merry hell!
Perhaps on Morecambe Prom. be placed in style,
But Eric then would quickly lose his smile,
Maybe on Heysham Head she'd guard our shore,
But fish would die of fright and swim no more.
We'll stick her on the tip, down at Salt Ayre,
Let seagulls shower apt tributes on her there!