Hello world

This is the post excerpt.

This is my very first post.  At this stage there is no plan. No structure. No idea where this is going!  I am not a natural or gifted writer but for some reason I often get the urge to write.  I’ve never shared any of it before but now, perhaps it is time!



the spaceship
the shelter

Stitches in a head wound, the most money I’d ever spent.
There’s a spaceship in the window of the corner shop.
I’ll buy it one day.
There’s an oak tree over a concrete bus stop,
I’ll climb it one day.

The car chased by the cousin’s dog. Fighting in a garage. Football on the pitch. It wasn’t a pitch.
It’s all true.


the folks who say was when it

should be were

then the ones who say their when it should be there

or the crowd that write where when it should be were

and those trying to write were but end up with we’re

They’re over there with their auto correct not auto correcting them

you’re right to point their mistakes out but it is non of your business

anyway not as bad as the people who say innit



I’m a worrier by nature, a non believer.

I remember growing up never quite believing what the teacher was saying. I’m not sure if that makes me a smart free thinker or a twat! Probably the latter.

I remember watching Mark splattering the white lab coats of the engineering instructors in Crewe works and thinking; that’s not right!

But I still laughed. Does that make me a bad person?


So when I see the idiots not complying with the ever so simple rules of “Stay at Home” , is it the same?


Because when Mark splattered his fountain pen on the back of the white coated teacher, – Nobody was going to die as a consequence!

I still worried! I still couldn’t believe it!

Stay at Home !

Lock down bollox

inequitable inequality of life bears down on poor souls who can’t go to town to rid themselves of stress in pubs or cafes. Oh what a mess.

those with gardens can de stress, videoing copies of celebrities doing stuff no less

kicking balls into bins or playing music and singing

non the less

The time has come to confess

This virus is winning and to to deny that is sinning

where’s god when you need him?

Fantasy Football

alphabet soup

Corona Virus
Mexican keeper started out in the lower leagues in China before a successful move to Italy and finally a lucrative transfer to the UK – Never popular in fact he divides people.

Dai Trying
Young lad from the Valleys who runs through walls for his team mates. Failed rugby player – bit thick to be honest.

Eliezer Bit
Son of the famous Brazilian Moses but pretends he comes from Israel and knows Donald Trump

Faustian Pact
Erudite German with delusions of grandeur. Likes a good night club VIP room.

Greta Cheese
Scandinavian centre half who takes no prisoners but refuses to fly for away games. Nickname- Babybel

Happy Tuesday
Zimbabwean son of a former dancer. Fast feet and a penchant for class A drugs

Isabelle Necessary
Full trans in a man’s world – Takes no shit from feminists and misogynists alike.

John Johnson
Tall Scottish lad from a long line of Johnson’s who always call their first born son John. French wife, two kids called John and Jean

Karl de Police
Dutch father German mother, takes penalties and liberties on team nights out.

Lawrence Faq Known as Lol.
Millennial, speaks fluent text and has double opposable thumbs.

Mustapha Biggun
Youngest nephew of 1980’s pop legend Ivor, frequently the focus of changing room banter because of the nominal lie.


Wannabe brothers who really really wannabe themselves.

None of these people are connected to Frank Lampard in any way!

Talking tales

She talks a lot

she tells stories

there are characters and drama

there is jeopardy and karma

people win people lose

there is always booze

She talks a lot

spoken allegories

there are plot lines and images

there are idiots and villages

People win people lose

some choose the booze

Life Drawing

Fat bodies betrayed by the poor choices of the poor, steak bakes, happy meal deals, lager and more.

Betting shop reeking of desperation disguised as hope,

a poverty trap play pen where mostly men’s dreams ride on a dog or a horse. A football accumulator never-land, never wins of course.

Machines offer undeniable friendship coded to strip them monetarily naked whilst leaving them certain they can beat the odds. The poor sods leave the arena skint and numb, believing they were unlucky, instead of sad with a hint of dumb.

Vape shop to pastie shop to betting shop,

daily routines of Britain’s next crop

of benefit beneficiaries, the entitled poor,

tory hating, nationalist; racist for sure.

Adidas street warriors, social media zombies.

Ironic tracksuits and pyjama onesies.

An nhs timebomb built on misspent youth,

sucking up extreme opinion delivered as truth

Pub culture

I like going to proper pubs. Manly pubs, this may sound sexist, but isn’t.
I like pubs with men in – young men, old men, quiet types, noisy types.
Men and beer – maybe a television but not with the volume turned up, unless the match is on. Half carpet half tiled floor.
I like having a pint and nursing it whilst watching the men in the pub.
Just to clarify about not being sexist. The pubs I like usually don’t have women in them because women don’t like going in them – simple – they’re not barred but these pubs are men’s dens, old school pubs.

Recently I was in central Liverpool sitting in one of these pubs. Cricket on the silent television and men chatting in pairs or threes – men stuff. Important stuff. How shit England were the other night and how the Women’s world cup isn’t that bad. How the lad WAS offside and how VAR is shite because it proved the lad WASN’T offside.

I couldn’t hear the two old boys at the bar. It might have been horses or something equally important; births, deaths, marriages, the only thing I could tell is it was serious. By contrast at the other end of the bar three younger fellas were laughing. It seems all at the expense of one of the lads who had some kind of semi romantic interaction the previous night. The word semi featured a lot! A lone man fed the flashing machine in the corner and once again realised how unlucky he always is.

I took the last swig of my pint and looked out of the window. The sun was reflecting an etched word on the glass! This was a tough area of town but who vandalises windows with graffiti? I was trying to read it and was just realising it was done from the outside, because the word was backwards, when my eyes auto focussed onto the hardest looking fella in the world looking back at me. He was having a fag and wondering why the fat tourist in the corner was staring at him!

His male pattern baldness had forced a crew cut. Let’s say he had either done it himself or got his money’s worth at the barbers! Thin lips matched thin ears and a solid jaw finished by a salt and pepper chin A sledgehammer forehead finished over his eyes with sharp eyebrows. I saw a tattoo peeking above his collar line, not disclosing itself but staring back at anyone who noticed. His snooker ball cheekbones shone below piercing blue eyes.

Like many a tough guy his nose was unremarkable. I often think this is the difference in real hard men unlike the softer hard men whose noses resemble that of a boxer, the pugilist not the canine. But sometimes both. His teeth were perfect.

He came back into the pub and walked towards my table. I braced myself but all he said was “same again pal?” and picked up my empty glass.

You see in proper pubs you have proper landlords and you can be their pal!


Paris in the sunshine of early June is a lovely place. Sitting on the pavement terrace of a cafe / restaurant and every time the metro train passes underneath the ground shakes a little! There are many nationalities in this city – mostly tourists; but also lots of the service workers seem to be from elsewhere. There’s a Chinese man drinking cafe latte with a spoon! Two elderly German ladies are arguing (or maybe not, it is hard to tell). Hybrid Buses, cars, taxis and middle aged men on electric scooters go past on the road, stopping and starting with the rhythm of the lights. The pavement is equally busy as lunchtime approaches and Parisians must be fed.

I ponder what this street and terrace and cafe would have been like 75 years ago in early June when the Germans would have been young men hearing rumours of an Allied invasion. I’m sure even then Paris, in the sunshine, was a lovely place!