A
six hundred and fifty word snapshot from a very long poem.
BUBBLY
AS CHAMPAGNE
The
day drags on, drinking pint for pint with Peter the pissed up painter
Artistic
as Cézanne, sober as a hanging judge, nowhere to run
When
nightfall comes we stagger to another bar for cocktails at eight
Outside
and up there somewhere planets collide, new worlds are formed by
thought
You
know what thought did don’t you? I think he just thought he did
what he did
Satellites
are falling from the skies back down to earth like lead balloons
But
the cranes are still going up to build more towers to scrape the
skies
Bent
as a plastic fiver, crooked as the Chesterfield church spire
More
backhanders than a tennis bat, one racket after another
Everything’s
computerised, what will people do when the power fails?
The
Millennials and the generation before them have no clue
The
three day working week, no electricity, and candles for light
It
gets addictive; starving yourself for more than three days is not
cool
The
self congratulatory society annual big ball
And
guess who turns up? All the grabbers, all of the tramps, and all the
thieves
The
old Jersey lighthouse looks magnificent, standing there in the rain
The
Grand National at Aintree will never be quite the same again
Runners
and riders jockey for pole position at the Tartan Bar
We
watch the international at the Corbiere Pavilion
It’s
Scotland v England and they beat us 2-1 we buy all their beer
Only
the year before we thrashed the Scots at Wembley five goals to one
I
used to drink in the Trafalgar and the Tenby at St Aubins
All
the pubs were open from nine am until eleven pm
Some
hotel bars were open all night and the beer was as cheap as chips
I
worked at the Royal Yacht Hotel in Saint Helier for a while
And
later at the Parade Bar where I met some crazy Jersey Beans
The
head waiter at one place was a window cleaner from Wythenshawe
Deluded,
waiting for the frost to thaw on a sunny summers day
Funny
as a rocking horse rider on steroids, racing round the house
Bubbly
as Champagne, fizzy as Cava, mad for it down in Dijon
Keen
as mustard, fit as a butchers bitch on heat, fired up for the fight
Tooled
up to the elbows, dressed up to the nines, if only looks could kill
Is
commercialisation an imitation of reality?
The
newscaster announces the capture of another terrorist
He
says he is acting alone, but the devastation is so vast
A
dozen organisations or so claim he was working with them
The
flags remain at half mast as the president makes an announcement
‘The
ceasefire is well and truly over, we will resume bombing soon’
The
pilots scramble, and the ground crews kick start the jet engines over
The
rebels, the terrorists, and the government troops blame each other
The
superpowers can’t resist throwing in the Wellington for fun
Manipulating
life, death, and eternity to win brownie points
Obnoxious
as Baden Powell, with his Wolf Cubs, and the Boy Scout movement
I
was the last Tawny Sixer and the First Red Sixer at Eleventh Sale
Saint Joseph’s
Frightening
as the Hitler Youth was, we would have beat them at football
Me
and my street could have played for England, we trained outside every
night
Five-a-side,
seven-a-side, in the hockey nets at the tennis club
In
nineteen sixty-six we beat North Korea at Worthington park
At
Saint Aidan’s school we played football every day with a tennis
ball
Two
of the names I recall are, Antonio Bibby, and Chris Cain
I
was a milk monitor, handing out the little bottles with straws
Mrs
Harrison was the only shopkeeper open on Sundays
We
would always stop to buy cream cheese, pickled gherkins, and kiełbasa
But
the thing I liked the best was the cold milk machine outside the shop
UNFINISHED...
