Plenty More Fish

Plenty More Fish

‘Plenty more fish in the sea’ mother said

Well there’s something wrong with my line

I’ve been fishing for several years now

And I get it wrong every time.

My cosmic clock is ticking away

And I can’t seem to net me a prize

Perhaps I should alter the bait I use

Because nothing, it seems, gets a rise.

I’ve signed up to so many dating sites

My creel-limit’s right on the line

I’ve used Night Crawlers for some time now

And Red Wigglers seem to do fine.

But I need something much more exotic

To attract me an Apache Trout

They are listed as ‘endangered species’

So time could be running out.

The Buffalo-fish from Wigan

Was definitely a catch-and-release

I mistakenly foul-hooked his Anal-fin

Whilst attempting to stroke his cod-piece.

I’ve blind-casted for far too long now

Catching bottom-feeder, straggler and gnat

And Bucket-mouth Bass from Burnley

Let me tell you ‘You’re not all that!’

My honey hole’s almost dried up now

Can’t think when I was last in post-spawn

I’ve tried lipping and jigging and dipping

(and bumping, from dusk until dawn.)

The time has now come for a culling

No more Crappies, or Crayfish or Pike

Who are only concerned with my pectoral fin

You tail-spinners can all take a hike.

From now on I shall cast in clear waters

No more fishing with a slack line.

My Apache Trout?  He’s a keeper

And when I catch him, he’s MINE!

(Inspired by a friend of mine who shall remain nameless! This poem was chosen for inclusion in the Forward Press Regionals 2011 Collection.  The words in italics are fishing terms - just in case you thought I was being rude ;)



Ice Cream

I SCREAM

I scream if I’m dipped in sprinkles,

I scream if I’m shoved in a cone,

I scream if I’m left on the worktop

or in a cold freezer, alone.

I scream if I’m squashed between wafers,

or left to melt in a dish.

I scream if they call me ‘cookie dough’

or describe me as food for ‘phish’

I scream if I’m covered in raspberry sauce,

or smothered with horrid, crushed nuts.

I scream if I’m dropped on the pavement,

and swept up with the cigarette butts.

I scream if I’m cooked in the oven,

and announced as a ‘Baked Alaska.’

I scream very loudly when gulped down by kids,

who have been told ‘You must eat that faster!’

I scream when they call me a ‘Choc -Ice’

or   ‘Cornetto ‘ (I am not from Italy!)

I scream if I’m plonked on fruit crumble,

and feel that I must complain bitterly.

I scream for the fun of it really

my life can be so short you see,

and if I didn’t scream as much as I do,

then no-one would notice me!



Middle-Aged in Mexico

Middle-Aged in Mexico

I’m sat on a beach in Mexico

Feeling not half bad

For a  middle-aged woman of fifty four.

Maybe you think ‘that’s sad.’

The built in support in my swimsuit

Gives me a figure to which I aspire,

As long as I’m lying flat on a bed

And I’m sucking in my spare tyre.

I’m flanked by ladies of all shapes and sizes

But my eyes only focus on those

Whose fat doesn’t wobble, those skinny brown girls

Who cavort and pretend not to pose.

My husband says ‘Why not compare your-self

With women who are more your own age?

You’ve had your day; now they’re having theirs.’

I hold back the tears of outrage.

I wave at a passing beach waiter

‘A vodka and diet Sprite’

I can tell by the look on my husband’s face

That he knows, there’ll be no sex tonight!



NOT A FUNGHI

NOT A FUNGHI

Someone once told me that mushroom

Was a really funghi to know

But after spending time with him

I don't agree this is so.

I first met him at the greengrocers

This curious looking fellow,

He gave me his mobile number

And said he lived in Portobello.

I decided to call round at his house

But I can't say I was impressed,

He just sat there all night in the dark

And he kept things close to his chest.

I think he'd been eating garlic

Because his breath was very smelly,

He undid all the buttons on his shirt

And vegged out in front of the telly.

I said 'You need to get out more

Maybe run in the fields or the woods'

He replied 'I'd like to try that

But I don't think that I could.

I've eaten lots of stilton cheese

And I'm absolutely stuffed

If I were to have a Shitake attack

My doctor wouldn't be too chuffed.

Besides it's always raining

And I'd have to wear my cap

I think I'd be better off staying in

And having a quiet nap.'

So I made my excuses and left

This so-called funghi friend,

All hopes of having a wild time

Had reached their inevitable end.



Bah Humbug!

Bah Humbug!

 I’m the ghost of Christmas present,

 I come to haunt you each year.

 I’ve noticed  the lead up to Christmas

 doesn’t seem to fill you with cheer,

 when faced with the task of buying

 ideal gifts, for your loved ones, dear.

 Let’s start by drawing up a list

 of things we think they’d adore.

 This task you’ll find is much easier

 and becomes far less of a bore

 if, before you start writing, you swig

 a bottle of Le Piat Dor!

 So it’s off to the shops next day

 armed with your plastic card stash.

 Paying for Christmas seems painless

 if you don’t have to part with hard cash.

 Hours later the list is abandoned

 and you’re buying any old trash!

Back home you’re surrounded with labels

and paper in all different hues.

There are so many presents all over

you can’t think whose is whose,

and the Bing Crosby tape in the background

is beginning to give you the blues.

The bottle of Baileys is empty

The wrapping was actually a farce,

No-one made you a cup of tea

And offers of help were sparse,

You’re beginning to sound like Jim Royle,

with mumbles of  ‘Christmas my arse!’

The presents are wrapped and under the tree

the countdown to the big day’s begun.

Although I don’t think you’d agree with me

 our time together was fun.

I’ll be back to haunt you again next year,

but for now, my work here is done.

Missing The Point

Missing The Point

She’s ‘gone off salmon’ she said                                                                                                                              

‘Not eaten it since your father died

And that was in seventy three.’

‘Well, it’s news to me.’

‘I went to the market, Friday.’

‘But you can’t stand  markets’ I protest.

‘I go every week  with Trevor.’

‘Well  - I never!’

‘I’ve got a really bad chest infection

but I’m allergic to that penicillin

and Benylin doesn’t relieve it.’

Allergic? You? I can’t believe it.’

‘Those M & S pants I bought are too long

I thought the ‘L’ on the ticket meant large,

They’ll need altering in length.’

                                ‘God, give me strength.’

‘Marjorie’s daughter sends her flowers,

Every week without fail.  Fancy,

 they come all that way from Australia.’

                                                ‘I’m such a failure!’

 ‘Peggy next door’s going away tomorrow,

Lucky thing - nice to have company on holiday.

Her son’s got a villa in Spain.

                                ‘Emotional blackmail again.’

‘When you’re shopping at Tesco tomorrow

Can you fetch my prescription from the chemist?

Teatime will do – there’s no rush.’

                                ‘ I think I’m having a hot flush.’

‘Our Norman came and fixed my gate,

He’d fell out with Joan, so he stayed for his tea,

He’s such a thoughtful lad.’

                                ‘Now, I’m getting really mad!

‘Anyway, I’d best be on my way, I’ve things to do,

I can’t sit here talking all day, much as you’d like

me to.  I’ll see you on Sunday at ten.

                                                ‘Forever, and ever,  A–bloody-men!’

Inspired by my mother-in-law and her mother Phyllis, God bless her :)

The lonely Meatball

Why does no-one like me?

I so wish I could be

A tasty Big Mac burger

Or a delicious K.F.C.

There’s no drive-in MacMeatballs

I just don’t go with fries

“Oh Yuck it’s minging meatballs”

I hear their spiteful cries.

I’ve rolled myself in H.P. sauce

I still don’t look quite right

It’s no wonder kids don’t like me,

I’m such an awful sight.

I’d love to hear those magic words

“A double MacMeatball please

No, make it two with gherkins on

And cover them with cheese!”

But no, I’m plain old Meatball

The one kids love to hate,

I’ll end up binned with my mate sprout

I guess that’s just our fate.



To The Girl I've Left Behind

 To The Girl I’ve Left Behind

I can barely remember now the girl I’ve left behind

She was of another time.  I wish I could rewind

And see her run and watch her play

And hear her laughter ringing out

And feel her lack of any doubt

That she was loved.

I can barely remember now the girl I’ve left behind

She was of another time.  I wish I could rewind

And see her dance away the night

And hear the band that played till light

And feel the arms that held her tight

When she was loved.

I can barely remember now the girl I’ve left behind

She was of another time.  I wish I could rewind

And see the tears in his eyes

When he first heard their daughter’s cries

And feel the depth of her surprise

At how much she loved.

I can barely remember now the girl I’ve left behind

She was of another time.  I wish I could rewind

And see the smile on his face

And hear the voice that time’s erased

And feel the final warm embrace

That said ‘you were loved.’

I can barely remember now the girl I’ve left behind

She was of another time.  I wish I could rewind

And live the days they lived, the hours,

And sing the songs, and smell the flowers

And feel again the joy that ours

Was ‘forever loved.’



Hobnobs and Haribos

Hobnobs and Haribos have been my downfall

Towards losing the weight that has plagued me

for so many years now, that I’m a lost cause,

But this time I mean it – well maybe!

‘You must avoid carbs’ says all the advice

If you want to shed pounds  in a dash,

My friends this is easier said than done,

When you’re  a fan of white bread and mash.

I’ve tried Weightwatchers and Slimming World,

To try and banish the blubber,

And Rosemary Conley’s low fat cheese

Had the texture and taste of old rubber.

There’s only so many eggs  one can stand

When following the Atkins diet,

And the Cabbage Soup Plan resulted in wind

And the neighbours shouting ‘BE QUIET!’

The Dukan was fine, for a very short time

But I fainted whilst shopping in Asda

Imagine the shame of being driven home

In the Trolley Collector’s old Mazda!

I’ve counted  points and totted up  Syns,

Exercised portion control (of a fashion)

But you’re onto a loser when faced with the fact

That pudding and chips is your passion.

The scales are calling and the weekend looms

And I promise ‘The diet starts Monday’

But  it’s sausage and mash for tea tonight

And Hobnobs and Haribos on Sunday!


(dedicated to all my fellow fat friends out there - you know who you are!  xx)

From A Pea's Point Of View

I’m a little Garden Pea

Sat on a dinner plate,

As the fork comes down towards me

I contemplate my fate.

Phew! The fork’s just missed me

And gone right for my brother,

I roll across the dinner plate

And shuffle up to mother.

I’m drowning in the gravy!

Oh dear, I cannot swim,

An avalanche of mash falls down

My future’s looking dim.

The fork hunts round the dinner plate

I hear its muffled scraping,

My future’s looking very glum,

It seems there’s no escaping.

I have a really good idea

But I don’t know if I’m able;

I swerve around the dishes

And jump straight off the table.

I roll across the floor tiles

In one I find a crack,

And that’s where I shall hide

In my shower-proof green mac.

Negative Reaction

Negative Reaction

I lay the fading photograph before her

Search for a glint of recognition in her eyes

I see her happiness on her wedding day

She sees three strangers, she doesn’t recognise.

Uncle Jim’s on the right, the proudest best man

My father, the groom, stands handsome and tall

My beautiful mother in the midst of them

All locked in a memory; she cannot recall.

The yellowed, lace dress still hangs in the loft

A treasured memento of her special day

A bloom from her flowers, though dried, still survives

But her memory has faded away...

Where Can A Mango?

Where can a Mango?

Where can a Mango that a lady can't?

Is a question that I've often pondered.

Should gentlemen's clubs, in this day be allowed?

This is something that I've always wondered.



Does a Mango to a ladies' hairdressers,

or a dress shop or handbag boutique?

Does he stick to sports shops and barbers?

(in case one should think him a freak.)



Would a Mango hug you and snog you,

Or instead shake you by the hand?

Would he join an all girls’ karaoke?

Or play guitar in a punk rock band?



Do Mangoes play football and rugby?

Do they like rolling round in the mud?

Or do they play hockey and croquet,

as only real ladies would?



Would a Mango eat cucumber sandwiches

and drink tea, or sip pink champagne?

Or does he prefer a chip butty,

washed down with a coke, in the rain?



Does a Mango buy Valentines cards?

Is he willing to lay his soul bare?

Does he text and say he's 'not boverred'

Or go on Facebook and say 'I don't care'?



Does a Mango care where it lives,

maybe in Hackney or Watford or Putney?

Does it want to end its days in a sorbet

or pickled and spiced in a chutney?

The Menopox

The Menopox

‘Twas her fifties and her bloated shape

Did make her look rectangular

All brittle were her hair and nails

And her heartbeat was irregular.

‘Beware the Menopox my girl

The nights that sweat, the moods that swing

Beware the loss of libido

and shun the itch and tingling.’

She took her HRT in hand

Long time this blasted foe she’d fought,

She puffed a fag by the gum-gum tree

And stood for a while in thought.

And as in huffish thought she stood

The Menopox with fires of flame

Came flushing through her chest and head

And drove her half insane!

One Two! One Two! And through and through

She stuck the patches on her belly

She heard it shriek.  Ha! It was weak,

                                                             She’d killed this Machiavelli!

‘And hast thou slain the Menopox?’

Come to my bed, my almost-ex

Oh fabulous day, Wahoo! Hurray!

Does this mean I’ll get sex?’

Runner Beans Are Frauds

Runner beans are not really runners

They just laze around on your plate

I've often watched them relaxing

 Lying there, still and prostrate

Butter beans are not made from butter

Or even from cheap margarine

The way they misrepresent themselves

To me seems almost obscene

Kidney beans don’t possess kidneys

or a heart or lungs or a brain

They don’t have a nervous system

A kidney bean never felt pain

Black-eyed beans do not have eyes

Not black, or green, or bright blue

If I saw a bean with a black eye

I'd think he'd been fighting - would you?

A Broad bean is hardly very broad

In fact, I’d describe them as slim

Broad beans are probably fitness freaks

And spend most of their time at the gym.

I've come to the final conclusion

That all beans are frauds; it transpires

They give themselves names they don't deserve.

Beans are frauds and compulsive little liars!