Death by Daytime

Being off sick is bad enough, but watching daytime TV won’t make you feel better

Vets in itchy tweed. Doctors in white coats
Cousins in tracksuits at each other’s throats
Diamond geezers wave a double-barrelled
History hour. One in the eye for Harold
Blokes from Accounts are laying gravel paths
A former weatherman flogs walk-in baths
Comics in golf gear telling cracker jokes
Three-bed terraces for auction in Stoke
Washed-up bands reunite to do covers
‘Uncle’ tells audience he’s your brother
Cops in visor helmets putting in doors
Housewives mopping S’s in sparkling floors
Shouty DJs trekking charity miles
Freckle-faced kids with glinting gleaming smiles
Posh pricks rowing oceans in a bathtub
Perfect wives with perfect lives who don’t scrub
Bundles of cheap data to stalk your ex
Car park doggers talk multi-storey sex
A tattoo parlour with leftfield designs
Bailiffs in boots collecting unpaid fines
Baking Victoria sponge, tasting hock
Gameshows at teatime with a ticking clock
You could turn it off but they’d only frown
Mind’s playing tricks, no such thing as Closedown

Sunday at the Garden Centre

I’ve too often succumbed to the killing time option of a browse around the shortbread and weedkiller at my local garden centre. Sundays eh? 

After a lie-in and soon bored
Go for a drive to Garden World
See tinned travel sweets, fishing gnomes
Porcelain mice in rustic homes
Hear doorbells play Beethoven’s Fifth
Buy surname scrolls, sold out for Smith
Birdhouses, benches and wind chimes
Toadstools playing nursery rhymes
Sunday. This was your decision
A pot plant kind of religion
Rest awhile on that patio chair
Tell me: You’d rather be elsewhere 

Primetime Serial Killer

There are so many serial killers on TV these days I thought I’d write a poem about them….

I’m the serial killer that haunts your dreams
Child of a derivative scriptwriting team
I was eight when Finch held me, flushed my head in the bog
And Spence stole my pants, made me bark like a dog
I was bullied at school, but settled the score
I cut Finch’s brakes, Spence is under my floor
I speak six languages, grandmaster at chess
There’s bleach in my briefcase to clean up the mess
My face is on posters, the most wanted man
Preferring the scalpel to the frying pan
Humiliating me will make me stammer
I choose poison in place of the lump hammer
I read the Bible. I must never falter
I’m naked, spread-eagled, before an altar
Tattoos on my back depict my chilling crimes
Screened between bathroom ads only at peak times
In top hat and gloves, hopelessly archaic
I taunt police, writing clues in Aramaic
Still living with my mother, well technically
She’s taped up in the loft by the Christmas tree aa

No Perving

Went swimming and had a flashback of a suspect individual from the 1980s. I can’t name him for legal reasons, but he’s hopefully long since left the deep end. He inspired this poem. As you will read there was retribution….

Mouth-breather, middle lane
His goggles never mist
Breast-stroker without shame
He’s got to take the risk  
Freeze-framing underwater
Bums and tums and thighs and breasts
Mick’s girl and Pete’s daughter
Preyed on by a perving pest
At his desk, sniffing at his skin
A chlorine tang that takes him back
Closes his eyes, he’s diving in
His chosen aphrodisiac
His desk drawer is crammed with trophies
The leisure centre fetishist
Nose-pegs, whistles and locker keys
A swimmer’s cap he can’t resist
When it’s quiet in the office
He’ll be wearing what arouses
Verruca socks that reach the knee
They’re hidden inside his trousers
Mick and Pete wait in the deep
Pull off his trunks and hold him there
‘We’ve done it for the ladies, creep’
Now it’s everyone else’s turn to stare

Love and Joy

I met her online hoping she might be the one. But there was no room for anyone else except Jesus in her heart.

She promised me Love and Joy in the Trees
We met online. She sent sat nav, kisses
Since Kay, there’d been no hits, only misses
I found her by a Scot’s Pine, on her knees

Praying among crosses dangling on string
‘I’m Joy,’ she said. ‘And Love is all around.’
She plucked her guitar and patted the ground
Leaves fell. Kum Ba Yah, she started to sing

The Mechanic’s Calendar

This is dedicated to those out-of-favour calendars which once adorned garage walls. Once they were everywhere, now they’re frowned upon, forgotten, sad.

She rolls in silvery sand, a Bounty ad
Droplets of saltwater, scantily clad
One a tropical beach, sun beating down
She brightens our days, so why do we frown?

A Bond girl among spark plugs and bald tyres
Vent for a hundred mechanics’ desires
Tea rings on her thigh, biroed football scores
Miss Feb ’84 on her chipboard door

We don’t look anymore, that seems rotten
Even the mechanics have forgotten
Is fantasy so wrong, dreaming naughty?
It’s sad she’s hid with the WD40

Photos in a barbershop

I had to go and get my haircut and, as the new barbers (with the little hospital bed type-TVs showing Monster trucks on the Discovery channel) was rammed I went ‘old-school.’ Yes, I went to Ted’s for a short-back-and-sides and was delighted to see little had changed. Even the photos showcasing haircuts I’d never seen Ted give still had pride of place on the woodchip walls.

Spiky and wet-look and demi-wave
Tight perms and mullets, towel for a shave
Models in chinos wearing white vests
Distant stares, they’re the spit of Go West

Take your pick if you’re in the market
Punk, flat top or a Morten Harket
Framed on the wall, they’re the chosen few
Unloved and unchanged since ‘92