Author Archives: W is for Duck

Friday Poem #49

Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

Not much to say about this week’s offering – except it was one of those occasions where it just came to me, and I went with it.

I just like what it says.

I hope you do too.


Replace hate with love,
Swap bad for good.
Don’t do what you have to do,
Do what you should.
Don’t walk away –
Do take a stand.
Don’t make a fist,
Reach out your hand.
Put yourself second,
Say ‘after you’.
Be less what you say
And more what you do.

Be the example that you seek:
Be grateful, humble, respectful, meek.
Spread love, not hate;
Don’t give in to fear.
Use much less mouth, and much more ear.
Be honest, loyal, open, true
Don’t follow the crowd; be different – be you.

Shine your light wherever there is dark
Don’t blend in – make your mark.
Ask questions; challenge what you are told
Be brave, inspiring, radical, bold.

Be him.
Be her.
Be us
Be them.
Be all combined as one – and then
Be who you hoped you thought you’d be:
Be soaring, weightless, flying free.

Don’t exist,



Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Christmas for adults is different to Christmas for Kids. Kids get all the anticipation and excitement, while adults just get the expense and the logistics to think about. I miss the excitement I use to feel as a child when it was Christmas, so I wondered what a letter written by an adult in that situation to Santa would look like.

This is what I came up with:


Dear Santa,

You probably weren’t expecting this letter from me after all this time, and to be honest I almost didn’t write it.

I say “write”, but as you can clearly see that this letter has been typed. You’ll have to excuse the company letterhead; the decision to contact you overcame me late at work one night. I hope this letter reaches you – using company printers for non-company purposes is a sackable offence.

It should reach you, I sent it in the traditional way – sealed the envelope, and then burnt it on the fireplace so that the ashes could go up the chimney for you to read. Actually, that isn’t exactly what happened. We don’t have a real fireplace, and when I tried to burnt the letter on our “fire-effect” gas fire, the corners just melted a little. In the end, I had to put it under the grill – but I did sprinkle the ashes out of the upstairs window closest to our false chimney.

By the way, you might find some melted cheese mixed in with this letter – we had cheese on toast the night before, and I forgot to wash the grill pan. I hope you can still make sense of it?

Anyway, let me get to the point: the reason I am writing to you Santa, is not for a train set, or a new bike (although an Xbox and a two-hour window each day without interruption to play it, would be awesome) or any gift at all; what this 46-year-old man would really, really like for Christmas is this:

I want the excitement of Christmas back.

I love Christmas, I always have – but as an adult I don’t feel the same excitement I did as a child. As a child, the excitement at Christmas you feel overrides everything else – the need to eat, sleep, pee, and sometimes, even breathe. Now, as an adult – the responsibilities put upon us (including those put on by ourselves) has dulled the excitement felt. Of course, as parents we look forward to seeing our children open their presents but the excitement we feel is diluted compared to the children themselves. It’s like third-party excitement, or diet excitement.

As we get older, we let life wear away at us. We get more responsibility, and attribute more importance to things like earning money, and so events like Christmas lose their magic, and just become a huge to-do list: have we got all the presents, have we ordered enough food and drink (even though we end up eating mince pies until March), when should we put up the Christmas decorations, who should we send cards to this year (only those who sent cards to us last year). It’s just chore, after chore, after chore.

I miss getting excited about Christmas – I mean really excited. I miss not being able to sleep on Christmas Eve. I still can’t sleep on Christmas Eve – but it’s because half the night the kids (who are high on excitement and sugar) are giggling incessantly, and then the other half of the night they are coming into our bedroom every 10 minutes asking if it’s time to get up yet.

I’m worried, Santa – worried that Christmas will be come just another day, just like my birthday. You can’t get excited about a birthday when you know that all you are going to get is socks, a nasal hair trimmer, and some “deep heat” pain relief gel.

Maybe this isn’t just about Christmas; maybe this is about life in general. Perhaps this letter is the manifestation of some deep-seated regret about all the chances I didn’t take, or all the decisions I made that I wasn’t sure about. Maybe it’s a wake-up call for me to look at my life and make some changes. Or maybe it’s those four boxes of chocolate liqueurs kicking in.

Whatever it is about, I hope that you will read this letter, and find a way to get me what I want for Christmas. I’m fairly sure that I’m on your “good” list – I have been a good boy this year, after all. Alright, I have been looking at Jenny from Human Resources when she is stood by the water cooler – but she is HOT!. I hope she is on your naughty list……

It’s the excitement of Christmas I miss Santa. I hope you will leave it under the tree for me.

Yours hopefully,

Laurence (aged 46 1/2)

Good Evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem – which guarantees to bring a tear  to  your eye!

Although hollywood and the media would have us believe that the secret to true love lies in physical attraction, in truth we love those we love for who they are and what they do – not what they look like.

This poem tells the tale of why my good lady loves me.

And why I’ll never sing baritone again……



The Rib-Tickling Roller-Disco Restriction



It’s the little things they say, make the difference;

And friends I’m here to tell you that’s true.

When a loved one is sad, we don’t want them to feel bad

So there is nothing that we wouldn’t do.


Now we all have our own tricks and methods

To get our loved ones to laugh and/or smile.

It’s each to their own, in the privacy of your home,

After all – none of us are on trial.


Herein lies a tale of devotion

A tale of just what yours truly will do.

Of how the woman I cherish, almost saw parts of me perish

In my attempts to stop her feeling blue.


Now romance I can do by the hat full,

With plenty of comedy to boot

If my girl’s feeling down, to un-wrinkle her frown

I find a dance in my pants often suits.


I’ll admit that I’m not a great dancer –

I can’t do all those new fancy moves.

But I shuffle about, with the occasional pout

To show her I’m into the groove.


Our story begins late last winter

When the dark, dreary days bring you down.

The one I adored, looked so sad and so bored

And all she could do was frown.


So, one day we were out at a craft fair

Selling my lady’s bespoke, hand-made clothes.

It was one of those times, when the stars are aligned

And in my head I felt inspiration explode.


My lady was not feeling too cheery;

Stress at work, and exhaustion the cause.

She needed to grin, and I knew just the thing

To get her happiness back on course.


Across the hall, there happened to be a vendor,

Selling fabulous roller-disco hot-pants.

But not being a fool, I stayed nice and cool

Until the time came to take my chance.


My lady went to see to her ablutions;

At the far end of the hall were the loos.

As she went out of sight, I said to myself ‘right’

And I nipped across to have a peruse.


Well I must say, I was not disappointed

When the range of designs met my eyes.

I stood there agape, at the patterns and shapes

But I couldn’t make out any size.


And alas! There was no time for enquiry,

As I saw my lady start on her way back.

So quick as a flash, I parted with cash

And snatched a pair from the closest stack.


I got back to our table just in time

And resumed the façade of Mr cool.

My good lady said zip, but much later did quip

That she really is nobody’s fool.


Back home from the fair, we were tired;

We were happy, but dead on our feet.

I’d some energy reserved, because tonight she deserved

A tip-top hot-pant dancing treat!


Soon enough, bedtime was upon us

My lady settled herself in our bed.

So I grabbed the hot pants, and without backward glance

I diverted to the bathroom instead.


For the first time, I could see what I’d purchased;

They were festooned like the United States Flag.

There was red, blue and white, and the old stars and stripes

And I was proud of the choice I had grabbed.


In a flash, I had discarded half my clothing

A moment later, I wore nothing at all.

Thrilled at this chance, I stepped into the hot-pants

But to my horror found out they were small!


I stepped out again, and looked for a label

With which I meant to ascertain their size.

I found it – “girls age 8-10”; I checked it again

These damn things wouldn’t fit over my thighs!


I was stood there stark naked and frowning

In the bathroom with hot-pants in hand.

My brain whirled as thoughts sped, and a cold panic spread

Cos this definitely wasn’t what I had planned.


I looked down at the sequins and fake leather

And the colours of the Stars and Stripes.

With grim determination, and risking castration

I vowed I’d wear these hot-pants tonight.


My lady called out ‘you alright love?’

From my thoughts I awoke to a new dawn.

I knew this was it; these hot-pants had to fit

Though I might need to use a shoe-horn.


Steadfast, I began operations;

Up my legs the hot pants started to slide.

It was apparent very soon, that I would need much more room

So I stretched the waistband open wide.


With some effort, my thighs had been conquered

Though I was feeling a considerable pinch.

With a deep intake of breath, like facing battle or death,

The hot pants were raised inch by inch.


I heaved and I pulled to contain myself,

But I struggled to keep myself within.

Now I’m not one to boast, or claim I’ve got more than most,

But there was definitely no more room at the inn.


Determined, I was not to be beaten;

I could not fail my lady tonight.

So with clenched fists and teeth, I grabbed those star-spangled briefs

And wrenched upwards with all of my might.


For a moment, I was blinded by the agony;

semiconscious, I started to sway

As I slowly regained sight, by the bathroom mirror’s light

I saw my patriotic pelvic tourniquet.


As I swayed back and forth in discomfort

I noticed my legs had taken a purple-ish hue

Both above and below, there was no more blood flow

And my feet were also turning quite blue.


Nonetheless, I still had a job to do

I couldn’t quit now – it was too late to stop.

Plus I had to be quick, cos I was now feeling sick

And was worried about getting blood clots.


Earlier on when I thought through my performance

I imagined appearing with a strong, manly stride.

But now I could only just mince, and each move made me wince

Because I couldn’t stretch my legs very wide.


And that is how I appeared in the bedroom:

Severely constricted, and crushed in some parts.

But I forced out a grin, despite the pressure within

And I started to perform my dance.


It was not quite the spectacle I had hoped for,

And I would not earn any five-star reviews.

I still managed to pout, though I wanted to cry out

In the pain caused by my leg’s terrible bruise!


I must admit I probably did look a vision

Almost bent double, with bruised legs and blue feet.

I was sweating and pale, and on the verge of heart fail

But my woman had deserved this treat!


Well I’m pleased to say that I reached my objective,

Tears ran down my girl’s  face as she laughed.

I felt really nice, unlike my satin lined vice

In which I had almost cut myself in half.


But my crown of world’s greatest partner

Was retained – and was never in doubt.

Then much to my relief, I was spared further grief

As from my hot-pants I was finally cut-out.


My lady was ever-so grateful,

And whispered ways she could show me so nice

But I couldn’t oblige, because I’d damaged my pride

And had to spend the next three days wrapped in ice!


There is a moral to this story,

So take heed; listen well; be prepared.

Do what you must do, for those dearest to you

But mind you don’t become physically impaired!!

















Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Aah, the innocence of youth……….

Tonight, I came into the living room and found a conversation in full flow between my stepson and my fiancée. My stepson was in a state of shock, after discovering that my fiancée knew  both who Stormzy was, AND that he was a Grime artist.

(He is a Grime artist, isn’t he? I hope he is – ‘cos if he’s not, I’m going to look like a right tit.)

According to my stepson (who is 13 years old), my fiancée and I had no right knowing who Stormzy is, because we are A) Old, and B) wrinkly. My young ward continued to lessen the number of Christmas presents he was going to receive, by saying that we only listened to music on those (and I quote) “flat, black things”. This caused some degree of confusion for several minutes, until we realised he meant records. The confusion was extended somewhat because he said that these flat black things were purchased in packets.

I’m not aware of ever going into HMV or Woolworths (ask your parents, kids) and asking for a packet of records. I never smoked, so never got a packets of cigarettes – and wasn’t as attractive to the opposite sex as I am now, so never asked for a packet of three. In fact I once had a condom in my wallet so long, that it went out of date. Ironically, there was no warning on the packet that said “best before end”…….

Needless to say, we put Barnaby straight on a few things (about our knowledge of modern music – not the lack of sex in my younger days), and he now knows that we are down wiv da kids.



Good Evening and welcome to this week’s Friday poem.

Last weekend, I went to the Midlands with my family for a Birthday party of my Fiancée’s aunt. Well, she’s not really her aunt, but we’re not here to discuss how she know my Fiancée and why we would all travel for several hours to see someone none of us are related to. You’ll just have to trust me on this one.

Anyway, a very lovely time was had by all. We stayed overnight, and returned home on the Sunday – stopping halfway for a pub meal. In the pub, I had a sneaky lose on a fruit machine – and I distinctly remember holding my wallet at the time.

Fast forward to Monday morning, and I am unable to find my wallet. Not too concerned, I head off for work, assuming that it will turn up once I return home and a more thorough search of my abode takes place.

Except that it wasn’t. It wasn’t to be found anywhere. I looked in all the places it usually is, then all the places it shouldn’t be – and then all the places that it never, ever, should be – the food mixer, the bin, the toilet. I even rang the pub we had stopped at on the way home the day before to see I had dropped it there somehow and it had been handed in.

It hadn’t.

I couldn’t find it, and that was serious; it meant I had to stop all my credit cards, get a new driving license, and most upsetting of all, I had lost some personal memories of my mum and dad. With a very heavy heart, I cancelled my cards, and vowed to call the DVLA in the morning to get a new driving license. I went to bed, sad and confused.

The next morning, I had another fruitless search without success. Adrienne’s mum came over to look after the kids, and I got ready to leave. Which is when Adrienne’s mum found my wallet – under the cat blanket. The cat blanket I had moved several times whilst hunting for my wallet.

And because of that, I was inspired to write this week’s Friday Poem, which .

I hope you like it.


The Bloody Cat Stole My Wallet!
The bloody cat stole my wallet –

I bloody know he did.

He took it when I wasn’t looking

And now it’s bloody hid.
And furthermore, he sees me search

Sat primly on his rug.

Watching as I go back and forth,

His face all furry and smug.
He knows where it is – Oh yes he does!

But will he tell me? No –

It’s much more fun to watch me scour

And pace madly to and fro.
I’ve sifted through his litter tray

In desperate search of it.

But all I found was frustration

And fragrance free clumps of shit.
He thinks we’re playing hot or cold

As I hang on each miaow

I even asked him “am I close?”

But just get silence now.
I don’t know why he took it,

He has no need for money.

Perhaps he did it for a dare

Or because he thinks it’s funny.


I’ve had the thought, it might not be him;

He is, after all,  just a cat.

But then I see that smug look on his face;

The hairball vomiting twat.


Perhaps I’ll never find my wallet –

In life, other things are worse.

But if I have to replace it, I’ve promised him:

I’m making a cat skin purse…



Good evening, and welcome my blog.

Last Sunday, I was waiting for Blue Planet II to start, and had a 45 minutes to wait. I decided to try and write a poem in that time.

I failed.

But what I did do, was inadvetently record the struggle that so often happens to me when I am trying to think up a poem.

This is a glimpse into that struggle.

Waiting for David

It’s 7:15pm on Sunday night. I’ve got 45 minutes – not a second more. 45 minutes to write a poem, 45 minutes to conceive and craft a worthy piece.

And why the urgency? Blue Planet II is on at 8 O’clock, and I don’t want to miss that- oh no. You just don’t miss the Attenborough.
For once, I’m in pretty good shape – it’s been a good day in terms of jobs done. But it’s not been perfect – no banjo practise today, and I’m still waiting for that egg to cool down. Slave to an egg, that’s me.

Perhaps that is what I should write about: waiting to make egg mayo sandwiches. I know it doesn’t sound exciting – but you never know, there could be a whole niche market of sandwich filling based poetry, just waiting to be conquered. For all I know, “Ode to Coronation Chicken” Might just be my break into the big time.

I love David Attenborough. I bloody love him.; he is an institution, a national treasure, and the Icon of my lifetime. He’s always been there, like a comfort blanket, giving me a warm feeling of security, but not dribbled on, or stained by rusks. David Attenborough could present a programme about wardrobes, and I’d watch it. In fact, it’s a little known fact thar he doesn’t just do programmes about nature;

I once saw him present a programme that explained how the Titanic was put together, and I can honestly say, it was riveting.

7:30pm – fifteen minutes gone, wasted, evaporated. I haven’t got a clue what to write about. I’m still thinking about Blue Planet II. Maybe that is what I should write about, the life in our oceans: the sharks, fish, octopi etc. I could even write about crabs – who wouldn’t want to hear about crabs?

I’m suddenly reminded of a blind date I once had…………..

Hang on – the cat has just come in, and is now crunching his dinner. His cat food stinks – it’s meant to be biscuits flavoured with Tuna and Salmon, but I doubt that there is any actual fish content in that food at all. The cat obviously thinks the same, as he has just walked out again.

Come on, I need to write something – time is getting on.

You see, I set myself this goal of writing a poem on a Sunday night, so that I would have time to review it mid-week before publishing it on the Friday. The trouble is, it’s hard to review something that hasn’t actually been written. Actually, that isn’t true –  it isn’t hard,  it’s easy: You just say “nothing that needs changing here”.

I notice my socks: they are red – but not bright red; they’re more the type of red colour that white socks would go if you were to bleed heavily into them.


Dear God, I’m rambling now; going on about bloody socks – in both senses of the word! I can hear David Attenborough narrating this scene in my head, as if I was the subject of a nature programme:

“Here we see the would-be poet, sitting in a quiet corner of his habitat. He rocks back and forth, staring at his bloodied feet. In his left hand, a pen; in his right, a notebook. His teeth are clenched tightly together in frustration, as he desperately tries to think of something to write about. As mating displays go, this surely must be nature’s poorest. None of the females are coming anywhere near.”

7:48pm – Twelve minutes to go. No poem in sight.

I’ve got two other pairs of socks; One set is purple and they make my feet look horribly bruised – as if they were smashed in retribution in a mob vendetta. The other set are grey, and give the impression that I have really bad circulation – which is ironic, because I do. Some days, I cannot tell if I am wearing socks or not.

Oh dear lord, more sock ranting – shut up man! You can’t write a poem about your socks!


The children are exchanging insults in a relaxed, almost musical manner in the living room. “You’re a Pooooooooo!!!”, flutters tunefully down the hall to the room I am in. Even with that gem on a plate, my mind refuses to pick it up and run with it.

Mind you, it is a poo – so I do understand to an extent.

I wouldn’t run with a poo – or scissors for that matter. But if I picked up the poo with the scissors, would that be okay? Could I still run? Or would they cancel each other out?

It’s 8pm – Blue Planet II is starting. I haven’t written my poem.

David has come to save me.

From myself.




Friday Poem #46

Good Evening, and Welcome to this week’s Friday poem.

This week’s offering is a real bargain – great value for money, and no financial outlay on your part. And, there is absolutely no chance of physical harm whilst your read it – unless you are reading this sat atop a step ladder balanced precariously at the top of some scaffolding on a really windy day.

If you do fall, remember to click “Share” on the way down.

Here is this week’s poem – I hope you like it.


Black Friday

It’s Black Friday, which means that all bets are off;

Every man, woman, and child is for themselves.

This isn’t going to be pretty, but there’s no room for pity

As we fight to grab all from the shelves.


High streets will be turned into war zones,

With bodies lying strewn on the ground.

People will go demonic, to get that 55” Panasonic

TV with built-in surround sound.


You may well come out with a bargain,

And this isn’t the place to be nice.

You don’t dare to linger, and you could lose a finger

So you don’t have the chance to think twice.


Annually, the same scene is repeated;

Like last year, things can really get nasty.

I got two broken legs in a riot in Gregg’s

‘Cos they took 70 % off their pasties.


Have you ever been gouged for a hairdryer?

Or been kicked in the groin time and again?

Is being crushed on the floor, with a broken jaw

Really worth it, for the new iPhone Ten?


In the pursuit of a bargain we go backwards

Evolution regresses a few million years

We just don’t give a damn, about our fellow-man

And would bite off each other’s ears.


So before you prepare yourself for battle

Take a moment to step back from the brink.

If you think that it’s right, to claw, scratch and bite

Then the price paid may be higher than you think.