"Post Match Chill"

I'm in a pub full of Dulwich fans
And I'm really bored to tears
We're here to watch the football
And knock back a few beers.
Well all apart from me
Got to stick to the soft drink
I don't need alcohol for my buzz
I've got my boys in Blue and Pink.
For my heroes Dulwich Hamlet
Have just won at Harrow Borough
Doing so quite professionally
Three one being rather thorough.
It's always nice to socialise
A group of us in the pub
But truth be told I don't watch telly football
And therein lies the rub.
I popped out to the local shop
Bought my Lottery to fuel the dream
Just because I love my football
Things aren't what they seem.
If I was rich I'd dip into top flight
But not on my current wage
I'm not totally against the Premiership
But high costs make me rage.
It's Arsenal against Man. United
I dread to think the price
If I could get to a live game
I wouldn't need to think twice.
Watching this match on the telly
It's not the same as being there
No matter the glamour of Premier League
If it's on the box I don't care.
You think you're oh so loyal
As you sit there nursing your half
Without any dream of going to the ground
You're really having a laugh.
Content to sit on the sofa
Down your local boozer
Never in a hundred years a football fan
You're such fake football loser!
You've never known the magic of the terrace
Bouncing as one up and down
As you spout your pub talk nonsense
Articulating like a clown.
I'd rather watch local county league
Down at the nearest park
Than get worked up by televised fantasy
Where the contrast couldn't be more stark.
Give me the honest graft of non-league
Over millionaire prima-donnas anyday
Seeing it 'live' on the box
Can't compare with Harrow Borough away
So I'll sit here chilling out writing this poem
Rather than watch this armchair caper
Warming to the contemplation
Of the report in tomorrow's 'Non League Paper'.

Dulwich Poet 22nd November 2014

(I wrote this in a pub, with a group of fellow Dulwich Hamlet fans, after having seen The Hamlet win 3-1 at Harrow Borough. This isn't about them, it's about my lack of interest in televised football, and my distain for so many people, who have no interest in ever going to a match,as opposed to those who can't afford to, having been priced ou] but are football experts in pubs. Arsenal versus Manchester United was a 5.30pm kick off. )

"Reality Friends"

Ged the Giraffe's a blow-up
I know he's 'only a toy'
But at least he's a real mate
Dulwich Hamlet man and boy.
Then along came two cats
Who want to befriend me cos of their name
Yet they've never been to Champion Hill
Have they really got no shame?
Do you think being called Gavin Rose-Desmond
Will make me loved up and smitten?
At the end of the day you're just a moggie
And I've never been into cuddly kitten.
I've nothing against pussy
Only it's not for me
So please stop requesting
And listen to this Facebook plea:
I don't mind I've not met you
I'm happy to look and chat
But we can't have a keyboard rabbit
'Cos you're just a fucking cat!

Dulwich Poet 22nd November 2014

(This is about a Facebook friendship 'request' from two of my Dulwich Hamlet supporting friends cats! I am a FB friend with their inflatable giraffe, Ged...but Ged goes to games!)

"Time To Gloat"

We like to be friends and neighbours
But underneath you're full of hate
Oh you got to feel sorry for Scotland
They had everything on a plate.
But you blew your chance of independence
When you voted 'No' to stay
Now you'll forever be our
Downtrodden part of the U.K.
Last night you could have gone back to dream world
Pretending you're the best
But you couldn't beat our average football team
Hardly the toughest test.
No matter how bad we are
We're not as shit as you
All your pretence of being superior
Went flushing down the Celtic Park loo.
Our overpaid big time Charlies
Overwhelmed the tame Bravehearts in your shirt
You might laugh it off as a friendly
But deep down it must have hurt.
How does it feel to be roundly beaten
By the run-of-the mill Three Lions on our chest
Our least hyped up crop for generations
And still you're second best!
I think by now I've made my point
And I won't rub it in anymore
It just payback time for your digs
Och aye, you know the score.
On the condition next time I go up to Glasgow
I don't have to put up with your anti-English jokes
Cos underneath we're actually all the same
A bunch of half-decent blokes.

Dulwich Poet 19th November 2014

(I wrote this, only partly tongue-in-cheek, the day after England beat Scotland in a friendly match, which had been hyped up as a 'battle' by their old players & the press. All too easy!)

"Out of my Comfort Zone"

I don't quite feel uneasy
But I'm well out of place
Arriving a little too early
Desperate for a friendly poetry face.
'The Verge' bar in Shoreditch
Definately not my cup of tea
A place whose doors I'd never darken
Not the sort of bar for me.
To make it worse I don't drink
Dunno if that makes me a loser
But even though I'd stay sober
I'd be more at home in a traditional
Back street boozer.
I should've done my 'usual'
And gone to 'Poetry Unplugged' up town
Instead of sitting in this poncy gaff
Winding myself up with a frown.
I'm sure once it all starts
I'll be gein to feel ok
As I'm growing to love poetry
Morning, night and day.
Could it be my preconception
Of poetry being  for the educated crowd
Time for me to ignore that
And plough on unbowed.
Turns out my worries were over nothing
They seemed to really enjoy my two
About time I stopped judging people
If I'm going to see this poetry through.
I'm now at that stage of performing
Where I genuinely appreciate what others think
The fact they seem to like me
Leaves me tickled pink.
As the evening wore on
I even got used to the bar
You can't beat a good round of applause
To make you feel like a star!
I know I'll never be able to
But I need to stop hating the middle class
I'm not saying they're 'all' decent
But I'm talking half out of my arse.
Because if they can stop and listen
And enjoy what I have to say
Surely I can do the decent thing-
Do the same and meet halfway.

Dulwich Poet 18th November 2014

( I went to 'Spoken', a spoken word & music night, in Shoreditch, on the corner of Brick Lane. It was in a bar I would never go into, as it's not my type of place. Perhaps this poem was about my nervousness & insecurity at being in such a bar, but once the poetry started I calmed down and enjoyed the evening.)

"Up and Coming"

Some things will never change
Peckham represents every nation
Don't believe all you hear
About this so-called gentrification.
We've still got our untold Irish
Nigerians, Vietnamese galore
And a ton of Council flats
Populated by the poor.
In fact the only thing bringing down the area,
What I'd call 'Upmarket Blight'
Is the weirdy beardy tosspot middle class hipsters
Who invade on a Friday & Saturday night.
If you venture down Rye Lane
You can't have a pint in a pub
All turned into posh flats or a bookies
So you're left with an 'edgy club'.
I'm not getting any younger
With age I thought I'd seen it all
But a mate took me in a place
Fuck me...did my jaw fall!
Don't get me wrong
I can accept change
But what kind of mug do you take me for
At that price range?
My 'new football friends'
Are ok but branded the 'student type'
Then we walk into London's only 'arcade bar'
Magnet for the genuine hipster cunt type.
Overpriced craft beers
Being ripped off just to be hip
Is it any wonder on my working class shoulder
I've got such a huge fucking chip?
The only black bloke there
Was the bouncer on the door
Economic apartheid
No entry for Peckham's poor.
They all call SE15 'edgy'
Scared of bumping into a 'Gangsta' with a gun
But still take the risk of coming here
Because an old shooting game is fun.
I'm not advocating violence
Though I'd love to give this crowd a rocket
In my head wishing I had
A hand grenade in my pocket.
To be fair I wouldn't know a 'hipster'
If one hit me in the face
But if one of them did that
He soon know his fucking place!
I just wish they'd piss off back to the station
And get back on their Overground
Away from a Rye Lane I know longer know
Bugger off home Shoreditch and Dalston bound.

Dulwich Poet 16th November 2014

(On the way home from football on Saturday, I stayed with a few mates, and we went into Peckham. We went into 'The Four Quarters' on Rye Lane..something called an 'arcade bar'!)

"Down By The Riverside"

The Festival Hall
In the heart of London
The most cosmopolitan
City in the world.
Sat here on a Sunday
Surrounded by Suburbia
For their funday;
Trumpets, Tombones
Light, catchy jazz for free.
A brief respite before
Their dreary nine to five Monday.
A magnet for middle class hordes
And the just passing through
Working class me.
Entertaining, uplifting
Smiles galore
Taking away the world pain
Of Press Photos up on the same floor.
Death and destruction
From all over the world
Horrors and injustice
Dramatically unfurled.
A quick glimpse
And then it's gone
Don't want to spoil the day
Time to move on.
The last thing they want
Is horror to intrude on their life
We don't to upset
The 2.2 kids and wife.
Blood and pain
Death galore
Thinking 'oh how terrible'
And they 'must do more'
With no concern
For the London poor.
Got no time to stop
For that 'Big Issue' on sale
Got to dash home
Got a taxi to hail.
No need to cook later on
'Cos you've been fleeced
At the pop-up world food stall
That has got it all.
How wonderful this foreign food tastes
Doing your bit for ethnicity and race
Making sure your belly's full
While stuffing your comfortable face.
Go back to your complacent bubble
Of Surbiton, Sutton or Pinner
Catch up on today's 'Mail on Sunday'
And decide UKIP's a winner.
Vote to crush those people
Who escaped those photos you saw
Having to doss on our streets
You quickly forget behind your door.
I know I'm generalising
And shouldn't hate the posh
Realising left-wing rhetoric
Can be total tosh.
But at heart I'll always be a
'Gaw Blimey grew up on a Council Estate' bloke
And I can't stand those posh types who play
Mockney-Cockney common-as-muck folk.
What I'm trying to say is
We can't just blame corporate bankers
Time to turn closer to home
And attack some middle class wankers!

Dulwich Poet 16th November 2014

( I was changing my books at the Poetry Libray, which is based at the Royal Festival Hall, by the River Thames, on the South Bank.  There was a weekend long jazz festival there, with some free events, so it was very busy. There was also a free photographic exhibition, which is there every year, for the World Press Awards.)

"Turning The Page"

Visiting the Poetry Library's
Very hit and miss
Some books are a delight
Others worse than this.
As a Born Again Atheist
Dear oh dear
This one I'll skim
I'll get no cheer.
For my religion's football
My God is Edgar Kail
Dulwich Hamlet's greatest player
Is the one I spiritually hail.
For I don't care whether you're
Christian, jew, muslim, sikh
I want no part of
Your religious clique.
I enjoy perusing poems
As much as I can read
For entertainment and inspiration
Planting an idea from a seed.
It's poetry that helps me
Not any god squad faith
I don't need your religions
To help keep me safe.
I use my rhyme
To keep me calm
Don't need your beliefs
To protect me from harm.
For me it was just bad luck
Picking up your book
More than one mention of your god
Was all that it took.
Don't get me wrong
You're entitled to preach
Just don't want it near me
Keep it out of my reach.
The only 'pleasure' I got
Was the first datestamp on your label
It seems nobody else has been interested
In your religious fable.
If it takes another twenty four years
For you to be read
I'll see if you were right
As I'll almost certainly be dead!
If I'm standing outside heaven
At St. Peter's door
And he doesn't welcome me
I don't want to be there for sure.
Truth is no-one knows
If there's heaven or hell
Despite religious brainwashing
It's impossible to tell.
While I'm breathing on earth
With life I'll muddle on and cope
I don't need strange men in white dog collars
To give me false hope.
All we really need is
One mantra of "Be nice!"
Enough to end all wars and hate
Surely that should suffice?

Dulwich Poet 14th November 2014

(I am not religious at all. When I choose books from the Poetry Library, it's usually judged by the blurb on the cover, with a quick flick at one inside. Sometimes the book I choose isn't for me...certainly not when they contain religious poems. This is about choosing one of those...& I scribbled this down, after trying to read it, while sitting in a hospital waiting room.)

"On The Buses"

When 176's were Routemasters
The bus home from school wasn't complete
If we didn't pile upstairs to the front
Pretending to drive and stamp our feet.
We'd make the driver scream and shout below
Our stomping was hurting his head
Scared he would rush up to us
With that slap schoolboys dread.
For adults could do what they liked
These were pre-Childline days
Traditional clips-round-the-ear were the norm
Leaving us not so innocent brats in a daze.
The bus fare home was three p
A penny off for the stop before
So if you braved climbing Dog Kennel Hill
You'd ruin your dinner for sure.
For a portion of chips was just a penny
That's how cheap the Seventies had been
Steaming hot with salt and vinegar
Feast fit for a king and queen.
The buses were our gateway to freedom
Thanks to the Red Bus Rover
Spending no more than ten bob
They'd take us all over.
The world was our oyster
Long before those cards were made
Anywhere in London
That was how we played.
A 37 from Peckham to Hounslow
If we fancied a long trip west
But the number 12 to Oxford Street
For shoplifting that was best.
The long gone tourist ticket
Was our passport to things we could never afford
And thanks to half-term strength in numbers
Tealeafing success was assured.
Going back South of the River
With our jumpers and sweets we'd holler
Writing this with adult hindsight
Lucky there were no Old Bill to feel our collar.
We must have been a nightmare
When the Routemaster was a proper bus
Jumping on and off like crazy
Creating such a fuss.
Holding onto the pole at the back
Feet flying in the air
It was probably quite dangerous
But as kids we didn't care.
Now I've reached middle age
I'm just happy to get a seat
One with a view by the window
That's my simple day trip treat.
When I was a little kid
It was double deckers to the christmas lights
Charging upstairs was a nightmare
The dash for the front seat causing fights.
That was as 'artistic' as it ever got
Well right up until this time
I honestly thought I'd never share
A big red bus with poets who rhyme.

Dulwich Poet 13th November 2014

(Tonight I went over to east London to get on a 242 bus, from Hackney to central London, an on-board poetry night!. It was an open public event, on an ordinary bus service, where poets took over the upper deck, and three feature poets performed, then some open Mic, which continued at the end of the route, when we found a sopt to read at Covent Garden. I forgot my 'poetry folder' at home, so I wrote this earlier in the day, to read for my Open Mic piece.)

"Field of Red"

I am the King of the road
Majestic in my boredom
Sat high above
Not your stream of poppies
Celebrated at the Tower
But red specks
As far as the eye can see.
Crawling along
Ahead of me
On the road down to Maidstone.
My thoughts turn to the players
Who went on their adventure
And never returned to board
The matchday charabanc again.
Awayday drudgery
From the luxury
Of a seat on the team coach
A hundred years on.

Dulwich Poet 12th November 2014

( I wrote this sitting on the coach to Maidstone United away. It was the day after Armistice Day, when the field of red poppies at the Tower of London was in the news. The rear red lights of motors in front of us reminded me of poppies.)

"Lost & Found"

Ecstacy is not a drug
Neither is winning the FA Cup
Ecstacy is kissing
And carressing the cover
Of your poetry notebook.
Squeezing it tightly
To your chest
Holding it up
To your heart
As it it were
Your very first lover.
(Not that I know
What they are
Which is why
I write poetry.)
But I digress...
Like your first love
Once it's gone
It's gone forever.
Scraps of ideas
LOST
Even if they
Weren't too clever.
I thought I'd lost you
Starting to get distraught
Knowing I'd NEVER
Be able to recall
Whatever once held
My train of thought.
This poetry bug's bitten me
Worse than being punched in the face
And left lying in the dirt.
My stomach was churning
Creative butterfly fears
All I have are my pens
And distant ideas.
Germs of a poem
I'll never remember...
Until I get home!
And I'm through the door
There it is!
Lying on the floor.
Standing in my front room
I don't need any drugs
Though I do wish
I had someone
To share a few hugs.
But I mustn't be greedy
For I've just discovered
The true meaning of the word
I began with at the start.
Writing poetry is MY ecstacy
Words from the heart.

Dulwich Poet 12th November 2014

(I thought I had lost my notebook, which I write down scraps of ideas in my head, for future poems. I was really annoyed, because, those thoughts will never come back to me, but I found it when I got home, I hadn't packed it in my bag after all...)

"How Could They..."

I looked at the calendar
I had to double check:
I was correct-
Today IS the day
But not a peep!
Am I the only one?
Did they all die in vain?
All 2,996 of them.
Maybe it's been overshadowed today
By Remembrance Sunday.
Understandable I suppose...
What with today being 9/11.

Dulwich Poet 9th November 2014.

(A short one, a play on Americans reading dates on the calendar month first.)

"Featuring..."

It's just something I do for fun
I'm not a 'Proper Poet'
But deep down I know that's what I am
Just too scared to show it.
I've grown to love my nights out
Doing lots of Open Mic
But if you suggested I might 'feature'
I'd say get on your bike!
Taking to various stages
Making lots of friends
Thoroughly enjoying what I do
I hope it never ends.
Now I've been asked to "feature"
A fancy term for a longer set
Despite it really being nothing special
It's the best thing that's happened yet.
But this poem's not about me
Though I'm really made up
I doubt if I could be more thrilled
If The Hamlet won the Cup!
I'd like to thank the strangers
Who've grown into 'proper poetry friends'
Too many to name them all
Scared to leave someone out
This is turning into a 'Luvvie'
Oscar winning shout.
There's Niall from 'Unplugged'
My first ever Open Mic host
Real 'proper poets' like Sean
Who encouraged me most
Strangers Like Tom Bland
Who were anything but
And all of those poets
Who refused to tut.
Real performance talent like David
Same as me Sarf Lunnon working class
Allowing me to perform Open Mic
Even if I talk out of my arse.
Always grateful to Lizzie
Who wrote about me in a Lunar review
And to everyone else who
Gives me the courage to do what I do.
Then there's the Dulwich Hamlet fan
Who encouraged me to pick up a pen
I never thought I'd love it so much
My life won't be the same again.
To Alan, Irina, John-Paul,  & Co.
All of you who welcomed me
To your Open  Mic show
And lastly to Ernie
For my forthcoming feature set
I my so far short poetry life
It's the best moment yet.

Dulwich Poet 9th November 2014

(I have been enjoying going to and participating in poetry night Open Mic events for over a year now. On Saturday I did an Open Mic slot at 'Platform 1 Poetry'. At these things you ge 4 or 5 minutes to read what you like. Platform 1 is split into three segments, and you have a featured poet in each one, who gets their name on the pre-publicity, and you get, in effect, an extended 'Open Mic' slot, where you can read for ten minutes.  I have only ever done Open Mic, but for the first time have been asked to do at feature, at an upcoming' Platform 1 poetry night'.  It's not a great achievment compared to the many talented poets I listen to, but inside I am so proud of myself...and am not ashamed to say so...)

"Issues"

It was so fucking miserable
Soaked walking down the street
Then I saw a drenched 'Big Issue' seller
And I was a bit more upbeat.
My life may not be perfect
In fact it's rather crap
But it could be far worse
I couldn't get in a flap.
Touch wood my drinking days are over
And I'm learning to cope
Twelves years a sober alcoholic
At least I've got some hope.
If I'd carried on boozing
I'd be on the street or worse
I certainly would be capable
Of articulating my thoughts in verse.
If I hadn't gone to A.A.
You can take this as read
I wouldn't be sharing poetry
I'd be in the gutter dead.
I'd stopped to buy my Lottery
Dreaming of great wealth
When I've already won top prize
Of sobriety and my health.
That was enough to give me amoment
Time for a second thought
And when I went back out into the wet
His last 'Big Issue' I bought.
In reality I'm not so badly off
That I couldn't afford to buy
Even though I don't believe
In that imaginary 'god'
But for the grace of go I.

Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014

(I wrote this after Saturday night. It was pouring down with rain, & I was getting wet on the way to the monthly 'Platform 1 Poetry' Open Mic. Then I passed a drenched bloke selling the homeless 'Big Issue' magazine. I waved him away, but coming out of the shop I'd popped into, to get my lottery ticket, I bought a copy off of him)

"Private Poppy Pride"

Are you saying I'm unpatriotic
Or do I not really care?
Just because I'm not wearing a Poppy
That is so unfair.
How dare you judge me
Saying I should show one with pride
My one's on my heart
It's just worn inside.
I remember the sacrifice of the soldier
Though I don't believe in every war
Silently shedding an invisible tear
For the cannon fodder working class poor.
At my Football Club I'll bow my head
Always respecting our playing dead
For those who changed into khaki
From our Pink & Blue
Blindly making the ultimate sacrifice
Because that was the thing to do.
Something we do every season
Our oldest fan Bill is ninety four
Recalling our fallen
Inside the Boardroom door.
It never gets easier for him
As he lays his wreath
Maybe crying a little
With pain underneath.
I shall stand and pay my respects
My thoughts may be different to others
Wondering about those on the other side
From families like my mothers.
I don't wear my red Poppy
Because I think that's wrong
It's just a personal something
Don't want to make a dance and a song.
I always spare a few coins
For the Legion rattling tin
But it's a deed that's private
Something deep from within.
I've got a Poppy at home
A wristband and more
Proud of my country
So I know the score.
But I care about soldiers
That fought on all sides
Which is why I don't show off
Pretending to wear a Poppy with pride.
Can you imagine what a better place
Our world could have been
If people acted on conscience
Rather than following the masses
For Country and Queen?
World War Two was a just one
Taking on the Nazi might
But in recent years' conflicts
I can take no delight
In supporting brave soldiers
Who went into battle
But ended up gettiing slaughtered
Like an abattoir of cattle.
I've been to the Tower
Seen ceramic Poppies in the soil
If you say I'm unpatriotic not to wear one
It makes my blood boil!
To accuse me of that
Will make me rant and rave
But at least from within
I'm proud of  having a conscience
That knows how to behave.

Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014

(I wrote this in response to some people on the radio saying that everyone should be made to wear the traditional red Poppies. It should be a choice, with far too many people, I believe, wearing them just to be seen wearing them)

"Here Is A Six Word Retort"

Insanity fucks you

Three points calms.

Dulwich Poet 7th November 2014

(A friend on Facebook wrote a six word poem, which was this:

Within storm clouds,
Insanity is peace

The above was my response.)

"Doing a Poem by Halves"

Is your glass half empty
Or is your glass half full?
A bit like your mind in poetry
But then that's half the pull.
All I've been asked to do
Is jot something down in half a page
If it doesn't fit in
I got to have a rage.
For once the tap is turned on
You can't halt the flow of ideas in your head
That's the problem with poetry
You can't leave an idea stone dead.
If you need something to describe me
I'd say I'm quite lazy at heart
But when it comes to writing a poem
Can't leave it half done once I start.
I've no idea what I'm doing
Dave said a page of A5
If it was anyone else I'd say you're bonkers
But seeing as you're 'proper Sarf Lunnon' I'll strive.
Truth is i'm soing this in a notebook
Before I transfer to your size of paper
I hope that doesn't half mess up
His arty farty caper.
When a mate asks you a favour
You help him with his task
From my part of London you don't reason why
Questions you don't ask.
So I've done what he wanted
Even though I don't understand
This half page masquerading as a poem
Done for David from my own hand.

Dulwich Poet 5th November 2014


( A friend of the 'poetry circuit' has been asking other poets to write a poem on an A5 piece of paper, if I understood it right. he wouldn't say what it was for, but clearly part of some sort of 'art project' he's doing. This is what I wrote.)

"Payback Time"

A century after the Great war began
The donkeys they still bray
Raising a glass to their chancellor chum Osborne
They're rolling in the hay.
For he done the 'decent thing'
And finally paid back
Two hundred and eighteen million pound
The return of all that money
How crazy does that sound?
Of course "We're all in this together"
And times are really hard
Those City types have offices to keep
In fancy places like The Shard.
What about the descendants of the lions
Struggling on their council estate
No money left for them
They will just have to wait.
Cressingham Gardens by Brockwell Park
Soon to be under Lambeth's wrecking ball
Yet a working class community could be saved
If politicians cared at all.
It was ordinary folk from Herne Hill & Brixton
Who answered the call to die
The 'lucky' shell shocked ones who returned home
Fell for the 'Homes for Heroes' cry.
Today modern flats will be demolished
Local people sent north, south, east and west
Replaced by 'affordable' homes they can't afford
Our elected representatives know best.
Clearly too expensive to maintain
It might sound a tad unpleasnat
But surely it makes more sense
To give City boys their christmas present.
For they've had years of struggle
Making do with last years Savile Row suit
Having to cope with smaller bonuses
And public vilification to boot.
So what if a few common oiks turfed out
Might leave you feeling miffed
Hand on heart be honest
Can you begrudge these toffs their gift?

Dulwich Poet 3rd November 2014

(I picked up as discarded copy of The Sun, on Saturday. There was a minor story, on page 39, with the headline BRIT WW1 DEBT PAID 97 YRS ON. It was about the Government paying back Firsst World War Bonds, where they reported: "...they are mostly held by City institutions". There is a council estate in South London called Cressingham Gardens, which are pefectly habitable, but Lambeth Council want to demolish, because they haven't got enough money to refurbish them...)