Hawes

Fern Britton - An open letter

Well you big fat lying lard arsed cow! We believed in you Fern and you shit up our backs, in fact you shat on the doorstep of all of your fans, fat and thin.

So you used surgery to shift your considerable bulk whilst hoodwinking us, your adoring public, into believing you shed the pounds with eating less, cycling and walking the family dog. It’s all well and good you giving it the big one by saying that you owed no cunt an explanation about your helping hand from under the knife. I spent a small fortune on those wafer biscuits you were advertising. The fuckers stuck in my throat every fucking day, once for breakfast, once for tea, and all because I thought you were with me. “If Fern can eat these, I can eat these,”- I thought to myself.

Meanwhile that effeminate wee husband of yours, Vickery, was filling your restricted heinous fucking gut with all manner of goodies.

The strange thing is I’d have rode the hole clean off you Fern when you were a big un. You had an air of confidence about you Fern, the air of a women who was at ease with herself physically, spiritually and sexually. I bet you put a great turn on as well. I can imagine you looking at me over your shoulder, eyes wide and innocent, with index finger seductively placed between your lips.

But no, that wasn’t enough for you was it Fern, you had to keep pushing it didn’t you? I blame that cunt John Leslie, a poisoned chalice that bastard. You play with fire and you’ll end up getting burnt and from where I’m sat I can smell the pork crackling away

Go on Fern, get to fuck away from me whilst I decide where we go from here.

First Published in The Mudhutter 16, July 2008

Let it fry

The planet’s over heating
and I couldn’t give a shit
I’m sick of "don’t do that",
fed up of "must do this".

I’m tired of recycling
and your different fucking bins
"Don’t put it in that one,
separate the glass from tins".

"Turn your heating down",
fuck you I’ve turned mine up
and I’ve left on all my lighting
just to piss you off.

So save your fucking preaching
cause I’ve bigger fish to fry
The planets fine and so am I
fuck off, curl up and die.

Time gentlemen please

I’m trying lord I really am
I’m giving it my all,
giving it the best I can
determined not to fall.

Don’t know if I will make it,
or if my best is good enough
I can’t see the way forward
but behind is looking rough.

So I’m gonna keep on moving
gonna keep on moving on
Lord, oh just believe me
this time I’m really done.

The dark days I’ve discarded
the misery I’ve stopped
no more my love will see me
at this lonely bar I prop.

I’m trying lord I really am
I’m giving it my all,
giving it the best I can
please catch me if I fall.

Richard Madeley - An Open Letter

I’ve always hated you Madeley, right from the fucking word go. You sit there with that smug fucking grin on your face don’t you? Sitting there as if you think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you Madeley?

It was a black day on the 13th May 1956, wasn’t it Madeley? The day you entered the world. There was no need for forceps when you were delivered, I bet you fucking shot out you slimy wanker. I never could and never will be able to stomach Shakin’ Stevens, but how I applauded him when he had you in that headlock on the telly all those years ago. That was Shaky’s big chance if you ask me. If only he’d gone a step further and given you a proper fucking hiding he could have been a national treasure.

But he didn’t and you’re still here aren’t you Madeley? You and that gibbering wreck of a wife of yours, is it any wonder she shakes like a shitting dog living with you?

Fuck off Madeley, you make me fucking sick.

First Published in The Mudhutter 15, May 2008

7/7

Threw a lucky 7
and it blew you off your feet
who would have guessed two 7’s
wins a prize to God, to meet.

Such a fucking waste
such a fucking crime
such a pointless way to die
away ahead of time.

Just on the way to work
to earn an honest crust
now just a mere statistic
of politically spun dust.

Whatever happened to Johnny Look-Back?

Johnny paced the Earlestown streets
from the Vulcan to the Muckies,
through the Wargrave to the Common
never seen in pubs or bookies.

A long grey mac with shoulders slumped
and hands behind his back,
the kids he passed would scream his name
“Hey Johnny just look back!”

See Johnny Look-Back liked to look
he looked most everyday,
but poor old Johnny’s looking back
for his dog that ran away.

To all the kids it was a laugh
as Johnny crooked his neck,
a broken hearted lonely man
without his man’s best friend.

And then one day we realised
that Johnny had gone too,
but was old Johnny melted down
like his poor old dog for glue?

Parenting in the 21st Century : Volume I

Fat kids
fat prams
gormless dads
clueless mams
maladaptive coping plans
the future's looking bright.

First Published in The Mudhutter 15, May 2008

Ask your Grannie

Grannies are great aren’t they? Well maybe not. My Grannie, or Nan as she preferred to be called, was an absolute tyrant of a woman. A woman so evil in fact that she wouldn’t have looked out of place sat in the company of the worlds most feared dictators. If she wasn’t knitting me jumpers that were designed with one thing in mind, to strangle me, then she was making me eat her homemade cooking. The cracks around the head were also memorable as well, and reminiscing about the violence still fills my heart with joy on those balmy summer evenings of thoughtful meanderings.


In between her attempts at prematurely ending my young life she seemed intent on using me as a guinea pig for a variety of experiments. I have to admit to being
impressed with her in-depth knowledge of every non-medical remedy known under the sun, and quite possibly beyond.

Her vast knowledge and life experience also lent itself to beauty tips, gardening and plethora of handy hints. She was in fact a walking of Bella, Woman’s Own and Home & Garden rolled into one. So, with that in mind here are a few of Grannies, sorry Nan’s pointers for a wholesome and fulfilling life.

Bacon in a stocking - Placed around the neck for a sore throat (what a waste of food and lingerie)

Cabbage leaves in your bra - To keep breast’s cool in summer (I’ve got no tits, maybe she thought I was one)

Potatoes in your pockets - To help ease arthritis (Bag of crisp would be easier)

Bathing feet in a bucket of piss - A cure for athlete’s foot (Erotic pissing? Not for me Nan)

Butter - For a bang on the head (Where she had hit me AGAIN!)

Salt Bath - To clear infections (Fart and burn your ring piece)

Tea leaves - Good for plants (Even special herb gardens in the loft)

Spicy food - Induces labour (I’m just big boned)

Crusts - Curly hair (I don’t want a free Chris Waddle)

Buttercup under chin - To see if I liked butter (Just ask me Nan)

Tea bags - Used for fake tan when she’d used up all her wrinkled stockings to help cure my sore throat (See No 1)

Dry biscuits - Hangover cure (You drank too much anyway, didn’t you, GRANNIE)

First Published in The Mudhutter 3, February 2005

It's a question of taste

The beauty of being able to understand and appreciate the written word is an often underestimated art in our twin turbo, go faster stripes world we live in. Why take the time to develop an interpretation of something, when you can have it served up to you in a one size fits all fashion that requires little thought at all. Think Cheeky Girls and you'll understand where I'm coming from.

The prosecution will now provide evidence that flies in the face of the usual literary shite dished up. Thus proving categorically, that the written word is still King.

The Cure - Faith

catch me if i fall
i'm losing hold
i can't just carry on this way
and every time
i turn away
lose another blind game
the idea of perfection holds me...
suddenly i see you change
everything at once
the same
but the mountain never moves...

rape me like a child
christened in blood
painted like an unknown saint
there's nothing left but hope...
your voice is dead
and old
and always empty
trust in me through closing years
perfect moments wait...
if only we could stay
please
say the right words
or cry like the stone white clown
and stand
lost forever in a happy crowd...

no-one lifts their hands
no-one lifts their eyes
justified with empty words
the party just gets better and better...

i went away alone
with nothing left
but faith


As a written piece it's pure poetry. Set to it's music the words take on another dimension. Especially with Smith's voice gliding softly, but deliberately over the stark arrangement. 1989 seems a long time ago and my trip down to the Wembley Arena to see the last two nights of The Cure's European Tour seems a distant memory. The make-up that was painted onto my young drunken face never did seem to be completely rinsed away and the words remain embossed on my mind forever.

The prosecution rests.

Once upon a time in Spring

What’s the point
in looking back
at memories
and photographs.
When I can
sing
dance
and laugh,
making memories
with you.

April in Autumn

Ten little fingers
ten little toes,
an ocean spray
of love cascades,
to bathe my waiting soul.

May all of your hopes
and all of your dreams
flow endlessly,
relentlessly,
like the deepest
summer stream.

April in autumn,
my summer, winter, spring
fill my heart with love
with all the joy you bring.