Isolating with JB

When faced with any crisis we should always be prepared

To take the right precautions ‘gainst the threat.

So I’m locking doors and windows and I’m isolating now 

For that pesky virus hasn’t got me yet.

I’ve found a bar of lifebuoy and some wet wipes in a box

There’s fairy liquid somewhere ‘neath the sink

With that double pack of Andrex on the airing cupboard shelf

That should be enough ‘til summer, I would think.

The fridge is rather empty though the freezer’s nearly full

With gluten-free puff-pastry, kale and bread

There’s some kippers in there too, but I think they’re out of date

So I’ll have to raid the biscuit tin instead.

I’ve got a plate of nachos and a bowl of salsa dip

And I’ve made some milky cocoa in a mug

I’m putting on my onesie-the purple fleecy one,

With the heating turned to twenty, I’ll be snug.

I’m recumbent on the sofa with some hobnobs and a gin 

For I couldn’t find a single thing to cook

There’s not much on the tele apart from more repeats

So I’ll settle down and try to read a book.

I want a book of poetry, I’m thinking something light

For I need to raise my spirits at this time.

I’m avoiding T.S.Eliot, and Larkins far too dour,

I’m just yearning for some Betjemanic rhyme

With Betjeman it’s sense of place that really draws you in

Be it urban sprawl or craggy mountain peak

As the rhythm of his poetry paints pictures in my head

I’ll just relax and let the master speak.

So though I’m isolating, staying in and all alone

Within a house that’s locked at every exit

A daily dose of Betjeman should keep my spirits up

And at least I’ve now forgotten about Brexit

The Ballad of the Pier and Louise

There’s a famous seaside place called Skeggi,
That’s noted for fish, chips and peas
And Mr and Mrs Lockwheaton,
Went there with their daughter, Louise.

Louise was a right little madam
With her ringlets and ribbons of silk
She’d a pink little nose like a piglet
And a voice which could curdle the milk

Lou didn’t think much to beachfront
“You can’t see no waves for the mist.              
 That fisherman doesn’t look jolly
Quite frankly he looks round the twist.”    

Still the prom was quite crowded with trippers
In their “kiss me quick” hats, what a laugh.
No doubt on a ‘jolly’ from Leicester
For their chance, once a year, of a bath.

The stroll ‘long the front proved quite bracing
Then Pop said he fancied a beer
So mother suggested the cafe
That stood on the end of the pier.

Now Lou, knew the pier was a long ‘un
So whilst pa was fetching the tea
Lou suggested a stroll to the pier head
To wave at them Dutch ‘cross North Sea.
   
But Ma claimed her seat, near the window
To get a fine view of the place
Then a young lad arrived with his parents
And a scowl on one side of his face.

The boy was young Albert Ramsbottom
His parents were with him as well.
Lou turned her back on ‘em and mumbled
About the peculiar smell.

They ordered pork pie and some pickles
And plum loaf washed down with some tea
Some brawn and stuffed chine with a slice of brown bread
They wasn’t that hungry you see.




“This Skeggie’s a bit of a dump,” said the lad.
They ain’t got no tower, nor zoo
Them donkeys, they’ve all got arthritis
And t’sea here’s the colour of poo!

“I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
Said Pa in a voice loud and clear
“And where, might I ask, do yer came from
For there ain’t no place better than ‘ere?”

“We’re here on a day trip from Blackpool
“It’s finest resort on west coast.
We’ve one of them towers, like Frenchies
And winkles and pilchards on toast.”

“So what?” said Louise, “We’ve a pier ‘ere,
That’s longer than any you’ve seen.”
“You’re kidding.” The young lad retorted
“Look yonder and see what I mean.”

So all of them gazed through the window
The pier-head was stuck out at sea
But a great chunk o’ pier was just missing
Pa pondered, “Now, where can it be?

Louise, she had heard about piers now.
That they should be fixed to the ground.
“Some vandal’s been here and they’ve nicked it.
So come on, it’s got to be found.”

Now the coastguard looked older that Moses
he’d no idea where it had gone
Lou thought they should call out the lifeboat
So that was decided upon.

God bless the brave crew of the lifeboat
All risking their lives on the sea
But with no wrecks and nobody drownded
Most were home, having their tea.

And as for the crew at the boathouse
Some were already in bed.
So Lou and her parents decided
They’d take out the life-boat instead .

“I think that the pier has been stolen
So our mission is perfectly clear
We need to find out where it’s got to
Cos It’s clear that our pier is not here.”


Young Albert persuaded his parents
That they should assist in this quest
“All we need is a large picnic hamper.    
And an orange inflatable vest.”

Their search went from Cromer to Yarmouth
Past Walton-on-Naze and Southend
Albert said, “P’raps they have disguised it.”
But Lou said, “You’re quite round the bend.”      

For three days and nights they kept sailing
Past Kent and the Isle of Wight
They turned a sharp left after Cornwall
But Skeg’ pier was nowhere in sight.

Then Albert’s Pa shouted, “There’s Blackpool
I know it because of yon tower.
So you’d better slow down in the ‘arbour
Cos we’ll crash if you don’t reduce power.”

It was Albert who spotted the headline
On a billboard, it read, “I confess.
Ship’s captain pleads intoxication.
I was driven to drink in Skegness.”

 Albert then found a newspaper
“‘Twas a ship, the Europa, I fear.
It says that the captain weren’t looking
And drove his boat straight into pier.”

“We wouldn’t want your pier in Blackpool.
We’ve three of ‘em here, as it is.”
He’d a Polaroid snap just to prove it.
Which put Louise in a right tiz.

Lou’s dander was up when she realised
“Three piers in one town, that’s not fair.”
Then a thought crossed her mind, “We should take one
For nowhere needs more than a pair.”

Steel ropes wrapped around with silk ribbons
She tied to the legs of the pier
And t’other end fixed to the lifeboat
The throttle Lou put in first gear.

Slowly the strain it was taken
And soon the pier, broke away free.
Full-steam ahead, they went northwards.
They hadn’t no compass you see.


So somewhere out there on the oceans
Where a pier and those Skeggi folk roam
Should you spot a flotilla approaching Manila
Just tell them it’s time to go home.

The Fifties - a commercial break    

Remember, remember the fifties, the festival?
Science, art, industry all put on show.
Beacons of change arrayed on the south bank,
Pavilioned in splendour, and British you know.

The modernist skylon, and dome of discovery
Welcomed the masses to Festival Hall.                    
Iconic images plastered on posters,
Brands from an age we just love to recall

Our new baby Belling, in shining enamel,
The iron’s a sunbeam, that kettle’s a swan.
A goblin teas-made should wake us up early,
That slumberland mattress might let us snooze on.

The sofa and chairs are from Gimson and Slater
The sideboard is G-plan, now that isn’t cheap
The Axminster’s grufty but who needs a hoover
I’m trusting our Ewbank will make a clean sweep

Picquot-ware teasets with sycamore handles
Toby’s from Doulton and tureens from Spode
Models of spitfires, in kit-form by Airfix.
A new Raleigh cycle to whiz down the road

Guinness is good for you, Craven ‘A’ wasn’t,
Mappin and Webb produced best Sheffield plate.      
Vases from Whitefriars, Ercol-made furniture,
Midwinter pott’ry designed by Miss Tait

Lean-leaded windows, inspired by Mackintosh?
Tana-lawn fabrics and Liberty prints
Willow by Morris on Sanderson wallpaper,
Bring in the Conran and throw out that chintz.

Only two years ‘til the Queen’s coronation
Our new Bush tele, the first in the street.
“Remove all those nets Stan, the neighbours are gathering.
Tell Nan to hurry or she’ll lose her seat.”

Somerset ciders and gorge-ripened cheeses
Ales from Burton and Kippers from Peel.              
Melton pork pies with Long Clawson Stilton
Pudding or Tart? What’s the real Bakewell deal?

Lyons Maid mivvis and McVitie penguins
Caramac, Spangles and Quality Street.                                          
Fry’s Chocolate Cream, they’ve all came off ration
And few can resist such a sugary treat



Some drinks for the kiddies? We’ve Vimto or Tizer.
A small ‘gin and it’ should satisfy Nan
The Bristol cream’s empty. Mum’s found the Babycham
Get out the Mackeson for the old man.

Now feeling off colour? Well, try Pepto Bismol.
There’s no Andrew’s Liver Salts left in the tin.                      
For Nan’s jippy tummy we’ve milk of magnesia.
She should stick to tonic and leave off the gin.

Home Service fav’rites each day on the wireless,
John Snagge, Nan Winton and Cliff Michelmore
Dimbleby, Alvar Liddell and Fyfe Robertson,
William Hardcastle and Corbet Woodall.

On the light program Dick Barton, Paul Temple,
Hancock’s Half Hour, Appointment with Fear.
Mum likes the series that’s all about country folk,
It’s called The Archers, but won’t last, my dear.

The kiddies watch Crackerjack! Ivor the Engine,
Sooty, Blue Peter, Noggin the nog,
Muffin the mule, Rag, Tag and Bobtail,
The star of the Woodentops; old Spotty dog.

We listen to skiffle on records from Decca.
Dear Ivor Novello and Jolson are dead.
So stick Nan’s old gramophone up in the attic
We’ve got a new Dansette with speakers instead.

Mother knows best with all products domestic.
Tide, Daz or Omo when clothes need a wash
Bricks of carbolic like Lifebuoy and Sunlight
Imperial Leather, to make us smell posh.

Your favourite comic, the Dandy or Beano?
Beezer or Topper? The Eagle was mine
Fans of the Bunty, remember Four Mary’s?
And that headmistress who kept them in line.

Ladybird books, we’ve plenty to choose from
Tootles the Taxi and Lost at the Fair
The Gingerbread Boy, What to look for in winter,
Piggly Plays Truant, The Tortoise and Hare.

‘O’ gauge by Bassett-Lowke, Triang and Hornby
Clockwork’s outdated now ‘lectrics the thing
Boys with Meccano, tin-plated creations
Off’ring a glimpse what the future may bring

Every girl dreams of a new pram by Silver Cross
Fine Witney blankets in salmon or peach
A doll’s house in plywood, some boxes of Bayko
A seersucker costume to wear on the beach

Palettes of paints straight from Windsor and Newton
Crayons by Lakeland and gummed paper squares
Boxes of plasticine, Painting by Numbers,                            
 ‘Don’t stretch that Slinky or fall down them stairs.’

Paintings by Piper, some sketches of Shropshire
Shell-guided journeys their latest book shows
JB has captured each village and hamlet
Pen portraits of people and places he knows.

Only last week I caught up with Betjeman
Took out the Morgan to meet him in Wells.      
Cheese and herb scones at the Tudor-house cafe
List’ning to extracts from ‘Summoned by Bells’

“We’ll try the Earl Grey dear, with some of that Parkin,
The third programme hopes for an excerpt next week.
But the section on Marlborough is barely half-finished
The chapter on Highgate? That still needs a tweak.

The poet once said that, “childhood is measured...
By sounds, smells and sights” from times long ago
Gathered, preserved in the vast vaults of memory
Before the “dark hour of reason can grow.”

So gone are the fifties, that childhood of innocence
The Hand-knitted swimsuit, the Cotton-string vest
We’ll see them no more but can treasure the memories,
Knowing those times were prob’ly the best.

Mark Temple.

The Parish Visitor

It's no use hiding from him in the wardrobe or the loo

For he seems to know by instinct when you're in.

He never gives you warning, otherwise you could pop out 

You may as well give up, you just can't win

It's not that he might hurt you, or try to steal your things

He's not coming for your vote or any money.

But still you dread those visits wishing he would go elsewhere

You always feel on edge, and that's not funny.

You tried to put him off last month by saying you had mumps

But he said that he had had ‘em years ago.           

So then you said the drains were blocked and smelt like rotten eggs

But he said, "I'll fetch a plumber that I know."

Each September you may spot him at the horticulture show 

He'll be stalking the refreshments as a rule.

He turned up at your wedding and you couldn't keep him out

He creeps into assemblies at the school.

Your neighbour, Mrs Fawcett, says she saw him yesterday

He was down in the allotments with the barrow

She saw him kneeling down so she thought he was at prayer,

'til he asked her if she'd like to see his marrow!

His visits make you nervous and last month he made you swear

You must admit you muttered, "Ruddy hell.”

What's that? You can hear footsteps, he's approaching down the path

Any moment now he'll knock or ring the bell.

"How are you Mrs Scarbro', what a lovely day it is

I was passing so I thought I'd look you up."

"Oh it's very nice to see you, I'm about to make some tea

Now then vicar, shall I pour us both a cup?

The Shepherds' Ballad

Some say it's cos we swear a lot and others that we smell
Cos we doesn't wash from one week to the next
Whatever is the reason, the townsfolk call us 'scum'.
And shunned by all is summat we expects.

To then be called "the chosen few" was quite a turnabout
And many said it shouldn't have been so,
"Them shepherds don't deserve it, so why should they be first?
Let's face it they're the lowest of the low."

But first we were, no doubt you've heard, upon them blasted hills
Where night by night we'd shelter on the ground
From out the dark and silent night, there came this shining light
And the glory of the heavens shone around.

I don't mind saying, we were frit, and many sheep far-weltered.
Despite that voice saying "Do not fear"
It's not a thing you often find, the sky jam-packed with angels
All singing, "Alleluia" in yer ear.

For quite some time the mighty dread then seized our troubled minds
Until the message came forth loud and clear
That God's Son would be born that night, a saviour for mankind.
In Bethlehem, Yes! God had chosen here.

"Now get you off down yonder, your sheep will all be safe"
Is what them angels then went on to say.
"And there you'll find a stable where the Christ Child has been born
You'll find him in a manger, in some hay.”

Now we're quite use to stables, we're shepherds after all
But a stable's not a place for God's own son
Yet that's how we found the babby, within an ox's stall
Above his head, a star that brightly shone.

But what could lowly shepherds bring to offer to the bairn
We had one newborn lamb, that seemed just right
His mother smiled sweetly saying, "That's the perfect gift
To bring to him, the Lamb of God, this night."

Frim folk and Yellowbellies

 

Some famous names, that you may know, have dwelt in Lincolnshire

That we should celebrate and name with pride

Come forth you men of science, politicians and the rest

From beneath those rocks and bushels where you hide.

Let's hear it for those Methodists, the Wesleys, Charles and John

Who brought about revival in this land.

Another good samaritan, Chad Varah was his name.

Who saw the need to lend a helping hand.

From Revesby came Sir Joseph Banks who made his name in Oz,

Like explorers Matthew Flinders and George Bass. 

From Spilsby there's John Franklin, who sailed in Arctic seas

As he searched through northern ice-flows for a pass.

Let's talk of Isaac Newton and of Maggie Thatcher too

Who left the streets of Grantham in their prime

Not forgetting Mr Parsons, that's Nicholas of course

Who gave us Just a Minute of his time.

I calculate that many folk won't know the name, George Boole

Who proposed a logic theory based on maths.

In contrast there's that teacher who featured in 'Please Sir'

John Alderton's brave efforts raised some laughs.

Remember Richard Todd, the actor known for busting dams

And big Geoff Capes, he put his shot nearby.

Not far away at Sleaford, Miss Saunders made us roar

She was Absolutely Fab, you can't deny.

Lord Tennyson from Somersby, composed a poem or two

The one about Child Harold left me bored

He wrote at length about some girl he took a fancy to

Down the garden he asked, "How about it, Maud?"

Before he made 'endeavours' in the town of dreaming spires

Colin Dexter lived in Stamford town.

The same place where Sir Malcolm Sargent spent his early years

As he practised promenading up and down

When Billy Butlin planned to build a campsite by the sea

Just north of Skeg he chose a 'bracing' site.

Yet the poem by Jean Inglelow it told a gloomy tale

Of a shoreline breached by storm and tidal might.

Cusha, cusha, cusha, calling; overture, beginners please

Come, Dame Sybil Thorndike take your bow

Miss Dickson sing your socks off, Joan Plowright strut your stuff 

Don't miss your cue, the limelight beckons now.

Jim Broadbent won an oscar and a bafta and a globe

He's an actor, not a runner in a race.

Tony Jacklin likes his birdies which does upset his wife

So he's under par, she's slapped him in the face

Now we've not seen much of royalty since Bolingbroke was here

Perhaps they never think of us as posh.

After crossing through the fens old King John turned up his toes.

He were miffed, he'd left Crown jewels in the wash.

Patricia Hodge and Robert Webb, some names you may have heard

Guy Martin's yet another off the 'telly'

But a better claim to fame is the fact you may have missed

They were fortunate to be born 'yellow-belly.'

So next time someone visits or stops you in the street

Just slap them on the back and call them, 'Fellow' 

Offer them a slice of chine, or better still, plum bread

And show them that your belly's rather yellow.

Mark Temple

Time 'for a song' gentlemen, please

When was the last time you enjoyed an old fashioned singsong down at your local?  I have thought it is rather sad that these days communities rarely have the chance to share in this enjoyable British tradition. Although we have numerous, trendy, wine bars and clubs offering karaoke these are quite different. They may give Tina Turner or Barry Manilow wannabes the chance to strut their stuff with their friends after a few drinks but these aren't community singalongs. I remember, as a student in the seventies, calling in a couple of loughborough, town-centre pubs where they still had an old upright piano in one corner of the public bar and where, for twenty minutes or so, twice a week, an enthusiastic local would sit down and reel through a repertoire of old songs. Specifically I remember, Mr Clarke at the Old Packe Horse (recently given a makeover and renamed the Organ Grinder). If I recall he had a rather gravelly voice which he used to launch most songs (largely to insure the revellers recognised which song he was currently playing)  before the whole room joined in. He rarely played with sheet music in front of him and songs were strung together with smooth dexterity. Every taste was catered for. Irish melodies were integrated with music hall ballads and wartime hits. Everything from Ivor Novello to Buddy Holly.  Occasionally soloists would be encouraged to lead a verse or two whilst the audience waited eagerly for the chorus. I remember he would pick out one of his personal favourites, which maybe less well-known, and he would continue to sing them through before returning to those more recognisable items. And I never heard him give up on a song even if no-one else in the room seemed to be singing.  

So, what has happened to this very British tradition? I heard on the radio a few weeks ago that a group in London (I think they were called PIPS: Pianos in Pubs for Singalongs) were trying to reintroduce pianos and pub singalongs into a couple of city pubs citing the fact that out of nearly 1000 London pubs surveyed only 7 still had pianos used regularly to accompany occasions of this type. I read in a magazine last year that in the Richmond area of Yorkshire, two students, just for a little bit of beer money in the summer holidays, were trawling around a number of willing inns nearby with an old piano in a horse-trailer simply to provide the locals with an opportunity for a good old-fashioned singsong.  I doubt there is any pub in my own county of Leicestershire that still has a piano available on the premises to be used in this way (I'd love to be corrected). It is very sad that this should be the case, more-so given the fact that one local lady, back in the 1960s, became a national treasure when her particular style of pub piano playing hit our television screens and rocketed her to stardom. I'm speaking of course of the village of ‘Our Glad’ also known as Hathern's Mrs Mills. I am no fan of jukeboxes playing incessantly in bars or restaurants and personally I shy away from pubs where football is screened non-stop from an overhead screen. Surely once a week a few minutes of live music, played by an enthusiastic pianist, would add something positive to the ambience and community spirit of any local hostelry.  The cockney 'knees up' had something of a revival in the eighties and nineties with the likes of Chas and Dave appearing on the Television but did it survive outside the confines of Shepherd's bush? Hardly. However, on a trip to London recently, I was pleasantly surprised to see that in the busy concourse within the St. Pancras and King Cross stations, several brightly painted, upright pianos had been installed to allow members of the public to play. Whilst sitting in one of the station cafes we heard several people playing a wide variety of pieces; songs from the shows alongside well-known, classical pieces. A crowd gathered for a few moments before disappearing again. Sadly there was no singing. 

The only time we get close to sharing anything like this in our village of Woodhouse Eaves is when a few locals gather to sing a few carols each Christmas in one of our village pubs. Such a pity, for back in the 1980s I recall going into a the Curzon Arms on more than one occasion to be entertained by a local amateur pianist and joining with the locals in such standards as, 'You are my sunshine, Pack up your troubles and forgotten classics like, You can't keep a horse in a lighthouse. They don't write 'em like that anymore.