All that Cecil wanted Was a shiny yellow bike So he wrote to Father Christmas And he told him what he’d like A dozen gears Suspension spring A horn to honk A bell to ring.
Then little Cecil posted His missive in the box With a postscript at the bottom Saying “Please don’t bring me socks! A paint set’s fine Or Lego bricks A football shirt A box of tricks.”
But Cecil he insisted Whatever else he had He had to have a bicycle Or else he’d go quite mad He’d stamp his feet Or scream and shout He’d make a scene There was no doubt.
Yet Cecil had a problem Though he really didn’t know His parent’s impecunity Was something of a blow They had no cash To throw around He wouldn’t like What they had found.
And so on Christmas morning Young Cecil was bereft And he railed at Father Christmas For the rubbish that he’d left But he didn’t scream He didn’t shout He grabbed his coat And just went out.
Though Cecil went a-walking To heal his broken heart The lack of what he wanted Was tearing him apart He held back tears He wouldn’t cry His Christmas dream Was just a lie.
The hollow Christmas Story Was nothing but a joke If Santa wouldn’t help him Because his folks were broke It wasn’t fair It wasn’t right He made a plan He vowed to fight.
So Cecil took his chances Imagination fired He scanned the streets around him And stole what he desired The Christmas dream Became at best “Take what you want And sod the rest.”
The moral of this fable Is don’t just sit and moan If Santa doesn’t bring it Then go and get your own A sin, it’s true Maybe a vice You steal the bike And pay the price.
The price for our poor Cecil Was screaming in his head He wanted to be honest But he’d turned to crime instead A cost in pride A price in grief When conscience says “You’re just a thief.”
So Cecil took the cycle And made an honest stance He twice tried to return it But the owner said “No chance. My parent’s paid All that is true But it serves them right – I wanted blue…”
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; It should have been squeaking away at its wheel Not laying face down and stiff in its meal.
There’ll be tears in the morn’ when she comes with his bread And your dear little daughter discovers him dead, But still, do not worry, she will not stay sad When she spots, through the wrapping, that she’s got an i-pad.
The stockings we hung by the chimney with strings, Were not for all the extravagant things: For those they have hanging, at the end of their beds Two giant sacks with their names on instead.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, Whilst visions of smart phones danced in their heads And mummy and I, with an hour to kill, Were fearfully reading the credit card bill.
When out in the street arose such a din, ‘Cos the people next door were trying to get in, But the key they were trying was turning no more, Which wasn’t surprising – it wasn’t their door.
‘If you hadn’t guzzled that last Famous Grouse, You’d have known straight away that it wasn’t our house.’ Said the wobbling wife as she stumbled for home And was sick down the back of a small plastic gnome.
‘It’s four in the morning,’ an angry voice cried. ‘Just shut up your racket or I’m coming outside.’ Then all became silent, except, from afar The sound of a key down the side of their car.
As dry leaves start falling from autumnal trees, So snow began drifting along on the breeze And high in the sky at the reins of his sled, A white bearded man with a hat on his head.
‘Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen. On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen!’ He cried to the reindeer in tones slurred and merry, Having just swallowed his ten thousandth sherry.
And then, for a moment, I heard from the roof An outburst of language that seemed most uncouth, Then a flash by the window – a red and white blur Of fat man and white beard; of red felt and fur.
He knocked on the door when he’d climbed to his feet And adjusted his cloak ‘gainst the cold blinding sleet. ‘Just give me five minutes to sit by your fire And I’ll see that your children get all they desire.’
We gave him some tea and both patiently sat As he talked about this and he talked about that And then, having eaten the last hot mince pie He rose and he slapped on his red-trousered thigh.
He yawned – ‘I must return to my duty My sled is still packed with a mountain of booty.’ And then, as he turned to the door with a wave We reminded him of the promise he gave.
‘Of course, yes,’ he laughed, his jolly face beaming. ‘But quick now, while the kids are still dreaming. Here, look at this dolly with glass-beaded eyes And this wig and some glasses to make a disguise.’
‘A car made of tin and a train made of wood. This big Snakes & Ladders is really quite good. An orange, some nuts and a new, shiny penny.’ But electrical goods he hadn’t got any.
‘You conman,’ we cried. ‘You are not Santa Claus. If we’d known it we would have left you outdoors. The real Father Christmas would not carry such tat. We want top class products – and brand names at that.’
‘Our kids will go mad if we give them this shite: There are no soddin’ batteries and no gigabytes. They don’t give a monkeys about innocence lost; Just leave them a bill so they know what stuff costs.’
He turned to us now and his eyes filled with tears, ‘These presents have kept children happy for years.’ We looked at the list of the rubbish he’d got. ‘You silly old fool, you are losing the plot.’
He sprang to his sleigh crying ‘Sod this, I’m beat!’ And they all flew away to their Lapland retreat, But I heard him exclaim ‘They are never content. Now the thought doesn’t count – just the money you’ve spent.’
And so Christmas morning descended with gloom. The children both rose and they looked round the room At the i-phones, the i-pads, the Xbox and games And they pulled at the labels and picked out their names.
Then at last they had finished, all presents unwrapped, And we sat down for breakfast all energy sapped. ‘This is lame,’ they exclaimed. ‘This day is a bore.’ ‘We’ve only got what we asked Santa Claus for.’
Then they saw on the floor where the old man had stood A doll made of cloth and a train made of wood And happily, low-tech, they played all the day Whilst we packed all of their i-stuff away.
First published 22.12.2018
I have re-published this today for three reasons, 1) tonight is the night before christmas, 2) it is the first Christmas post I ever published on this platform and 3) six years on, I still rather like it.
I posted ‘The Wedding’ last week and mentioned that I also had this ‘poem’ prepared and, against all expectations, a few of you said that you would like to read it, so here goes…
The smoker’s bar at the Rat and Duck, Was where they all went on. The tables were all caked in muck And so was Uncle Ron. He’d tried, you see, to stand between Aunt Daisy and Aunt May And asked them not to cause a scene Just let the matter lay.
It seemed to work – to some extent They smiled with fond accord. And this he took for good intent; His optimism soared. They acted like they’d always been The very best of chums, But poor old Ron had just not seen The way that trouble comes.
It’s true, he felt a slight unease, It seemed a little weird That Aunty May fell to her knees While Daisy stroked his beard. “Is this all real?” Aunt Daisy quipped, Her mouth fixed in a grin. Then sudden fear, as both hands gripped The growth upon his chin.
“Who do you think you are?” she cried “To interfere like that.” And then with all her strength applied Her handbag round his hat. Then gave a mighty push and heave To where Aunt May was crawling. Without the merest by-your-leave They sent the poor man sprawling
Then when they had him on the floor His two demonic foes Both asked him if he ‘wanted more’ Whilst pounding on his nose. And so he tried to run away To leave them hell for leather He would have done so, had not May Tied both his shoes together.
He tried, but he could not escape, Nor find a place to hide. Salvation came in the awesome shape Of a gently blushing bride. “I’m doing the rounds of all the men And you’re the next,” she said. Before she latched on, there and then, Like a plunger to his head.
Poor Uncle Ron, he tried to breathe; He tried to pull away, But Jane just wouldn’t let him leave Until she’d had her way. He tried, in vain, to shake her free To get it over quick. He really didn’t mean to be So violently sick.
The bridegroom by this time had downed A dozen beers or more And, having fallen down, had found He liked it on the floor. He wouldn’t have to face his bride, To breath her strange aroma, Or feel her naked at his side If he was in a coma.
He tried to stand, to order more, His legs would not obey. He fell again to the sticky floor And there he thought he’d stay. But burning thirst now ruled his head “I think I’ll die quite soon, If I don’t get a drink,” he said, Whilst draining the spitoon.
The ‘breakfast*’ scoffed, the speeches made, The wine (and guests) all drunk, And from the plate where fruitcake laid The DJ grabbed a chunk “Now it’s time to spin the platters” He looked around, askance – They were all of them as mad as hatters – It was time for the First Dance.
So Jane ran over to the bar And hauled the groom upright. The barman saw the door ajar And attempted to take flight As all assembled took their place, The couple gently swayed With all the elegance and grace Of flies when sprayed with Raid.
Then all surrounding bundled in – Aunt Fanny did the splits – And Uncle Ronnie, tumbling in Fell face-first in her décolletage. Somehow he wound-up underneath, His yells were heard afar: The braces on his crooked teeth Got hooked up on her bra.
The men hauled on his laces, The women pulled her heels. There were many reddened faces And a multitude of squeals As excess wind was broken When the two were dragged apart And Ronnie left a token – A deadly, silent fart.
And so the evening ground along, Aunt Daisy got quite merry, Before they reached the final song She’d swallowed all the sherry, Some Cherry-B’s, a Babycham, A snowball and a gin, Been sick across a plate of ham And three times in a bin.
The happy couple slid away Before the night was through, They’d really quite enjoyed the day, And ‘the night’ was overdue: The bridegroom couldn’t stay awake, The bride was left frustrated, She tried her best for goodness sake, But left him half castrated.
His screams were heard across the town, His voice was loud and high As in her haste to ‘get them down’ She didn’t pull the fly, But raked, instead, his wherewithal With a thousand little teeth ‘Til the skin was barely there at all Nor what was underneath.
An evening spent in A & E** Their married life began. A little stitch (or ninety three) To ensure he stayed a man. The honeymoon put back for weeks To allow for partial mending Another tale on which to peek But for now we’ve reached the ending.
*Why the after-wedding meal is known as a breakfast, I have no idea. **Accident & Emergency – the department at UK hospitals where you are taken to be ignored for several hours, if not days, before receiving treatment (a problem with the system and definitely not the wonderful, over-worked staff) for bodily damage and illness.
As I mentioned at the top of this piece, this ‘poem’ was ready to go – except that it wasn’t. I read it through to find that it didn’t always rhyme where it should and it didn’t always scan. Sorting these things out takes me forever – I cannot tell you how much I admire the likes of Obbverse who go through this pain regularly – each stanza is like a thorn under the fingernail and by the time I finish a poem, I really cannot stand it. I hope you are better disposed to this than I…
A few days off and nothing prepared, so another rifle through the archive. This ‘poem’ (I realise I am stretching a point here) has been in the file for blog posts since day one. I wrote it many years ago with the intention of reading it out in lieu of The Best Man’s speech at a wedding – hence the deliberately non-pc, ‘Carry On’ feel of the whole thing. Needless to say, I didn’t do it in the end – I am still talking to the groom, although not the bride, but then again, neither is he – but it only really works (really?) when read out aloud. Try it and see – but don’t blame me…
The story I relate today Is of my uncle’s wedding day: He married Jane, a last resort From one to ten, a certain nought.
It was really quite a rushed affair Some said he did it for a dare Some said he was too young a lad Some darkly hinted he was mad.
He hadn’t proposed and nor had she, She’d just demanded “Marry me!” And he accepted, voice quite calm Despite the fact she’d broke his arm.
And he was not the greatest catch – From athlete’s foot to thinning thatch – A body that had missed its best In nylon pants and grey string vest.
Still, time flew by, the church was booked My brother thought “Well I’ll be blowed. I never thought this day would come.” And slyly drank a tot of rum.
As both the families settled down All hats and frocks and coughs and frowns. All hankies tucked down in the ruffles To be brought out at the merest snuffle
And Aunty Jan gave Jim a boot For laughing at the bridegroom’s suit. Then all their eyes turned to the door And Uncle slid down to the floor.
The organ played ‘Here Comes The Bride’ The groom had thoughts of suicide. He turned to see his sweetheart, Jane, And decided he was quite insane.
She shuffled gaily down the aisle All bandy legs and grisly smile. A flower in her matted hair – The bridal gown from Mothercare.
The vicar looked down at his watch And slyly took a slug of scotch Whilst looking round the wooden pews He hated what he had to do:
To tie with matrimonial knot This woman and a stupid clot Who looked as bright as a slurry pit And smelled – he thought – of chicken manure.
“Dearly beloved” he began to say. “We are gathered here today To join in matrimonial bliss This couple who will shortly kiss
To finalise their wedding vow: A lifetime’s oath – at least for now – To be co-joined for ever more.” The vicar stared down at the floor.
And closed his eyes, the slightest pause To let someone find rightful cause Why they should never be permitted To ever let their genes be knitted.
The congregation then all rose And aunty May crushed Ivan’s toes. So Ivan, in retaliation, Ripped apart her pink carnation.
“You swine!” she yelled and kicked him hard Where he would least like to be scarred And falling down he screamed in pain As she kicked him very hard again.
“Don’t scream at me,” she said. “Take that!” And hit him with a prayer mat. “Now let us pray,” the vicar said As Aunty May kicked Ivan’s head.
“You make me sick,” Aunt Daisy spat. “You shouldn’t hurt the man like that.” Aunt May said “Just you keep it out.” And hit her with a hefty clout.
Then Daisy cried out, “Well I never.” And hit back with a rolled umbrella. So Aunty May, with temper flared, Ripped out a chunk of Daisy’s hair.
The vicar now was in a panic; The going’s-on were quite satanic. “Love your neighbours, please,” he cried And turned in terror to the bride.
He quickly grabbed the couples’ hands And asked them both if they would stand. The preacher, frightened for his life, Pronounced that they were man and wife.
The organist, in state of shock, Played madly to the gathered flock. The choir sang a verse or two While hiding down behind a pew
And as the punches flew each side The bridegroom leaned to kiss the bride But tripped and ripped her wedding gown And pulled her Marks & Spencer’s down.
The vicar, having taken oaths Was shocked to see her without clothes. The verger, made of sterner stuff Stared at this vision in the buff.
The bridegroom saw what he was taking And all at once he started shaking. He looked at her in consternation And dreaded the thought of consummation.
Still, that was that, his fate was sealed As in the tower the church bells pealed. They walked outside into the air And a pigeon dropped one in his hair.
His face turned up towards the sky And it dropped another in his eye. “You wait!” he yelled, his voice was strained As pigeons flapped and droppings rained.
The photographer, a redundant hosier Had once been arrested for over-expos-i-er But now he stood and shook his head “Come on now boys and girls,” he said
And Uncle Jim gave his biggest smile, Which baffled everyone for a while ‘Cos he’d put his teeth in back to front He looked a sight, the silly fool.
The cameras flashed and so did Jane And Uncle swallowed hard again. Then all was done, confetti gone The pigeon dropped another one.
The couple climbed into the car And sped towards the local bar Where the party raged in all its glory, But that I’m afraid is another story…
…which I also have on file, so behave, or I may publish that as well!
The short-sighted rhinoceros Is known to try and charge a bus. If you were driving, would you dare To ask a rhino for his fare?
A short nonsense rhyme again this week about a rhinoceros because, well… you see I was watching a television programme about fish. The fish were blind cave tetra, and they were being introduced into a zoo’s aquarium. These little chaps wile their lives away in pitch-black caves where eyesight is of no value to them at all, so evolution has equipped them instead, with what is more or less, a highly tuned sonar system and a sense of smell that could detect a Stilton cheese in the Sahara. In return, it has taken their eyes. Now, the tank which was to become their new home was nicely dressed, very cave-like, except for one distinctly incongruous feature: in order that the fish were visible to the glass-tapping multitudes, it was very brightly lit (not, of course, that the fish would have known it). Well, it just occurred to me, if they were kept in such conditions for long enough – year after year, generation after generation, eon after eon – would evolution give them their eyes back? Is evolution reversible? Moreover I wondered, if this poor benighted planet of ours should survive long enough with us on it, would evolution start mitigating our effects on other species? Would it, perhaps, rob the elephant of its tusks given that tuskless elephants were much more likely to survive to old age without becoming part of a piano? Would it rob the sharks of their fins, because on balance, what was lost in agility might be gained in stealth (eg not being spotted off the beach by troubled town sheriffs) and the liability not to wind up in noodle soup? Would whales cease to be slaughtered by the Japanese if they could monitor their own stocks? Could the leopard change its spots? Would rhinos evolve without horns; shorn of the fearsome ability to charge, but far less likely to be consumed by some ancient idiot with erectile dysfunction? Could the human race begin to realise that it is merely part of a whole, and not the entire reason for its being? I’m not sure, but I shall keep a very close eye on the tetra…
Nature executes her duties, Fills the world with savage beauties Sharp of tooth and fierce of claw – Mighty is the carnivore.
Creatures which are most beguiling Merely furnish stomach-lining: Nothing in the world as edgy As animals both small and veggie.
This earth was never meant to be A place of equanimity: Reality, it seems, is bleak The strong will always eat the weak
Might and muscle, fast and sleek, Feast on fluffy, cute and meek. Fortunate the favoured few Nature paints in vivid hue.
Red provides a broad suggestion, ‘Eating me gives indigestion’ – Always saved a savage mauling Anything that tastes appalling.
Hunters know that prey dressed kitschy At very best will leave them itchy And those that wear a peacock suit Are seldom worthy of pursuit
Creatures written most prosaic Merely join this earth’s mosaic Fate and future clearly wrote; Listed under Table d’hote.
A few double entendres and a scattering of preposterous rhymes. I look out of my window as I type this and the countryside is currently beyond beautiful. Everything is in full leaf, most is in colourful bloom; everything that bloomed in early spring is full of fast-ripening fruit. Nature provides the most stunning backdrop to the most gruesome of fates…
The Unicorn was no bright spark, He missed his place on Noah’s Ark While looking at his own reflection, Trying to find some imperfection In the flawless beauty he Supposed that he was meant to be.
Admiring each and every feature, Mother Nature’s favourite creature Buffed his horn and groomed his coat….. Sad to say, he missed the boat. Perhaps if he had been less vain, We might have seen his kind again.
(The moral of this story’s simple: Don’t get worried by a pimple. You should always view with scorn The story of the Unicorn. He worried over every flaw And now, alas, he is no more. So, if you have to be like him Perhaps you ought to learn to swim.)
Another poem aimed directly at children and at my two granddaughters in particular, but this time with a slightly more melancholic air. As I know that patience has a limit, this will probably be the last mythical creature to find a place in my zoo, which is anyway nearing closure. The unicorn had to be male because my granddaughters know that no girl would be so vain…
Getting On 