Category Archives: Comedy

Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Today is the Birthday of my soon to be Mother-In-Law (she who was bitten by a Bat), and to celebrate, last night we went out to a lovely restaurant  – as all the horrible restaurants were booked, thankfully – and had a lovely meal.

It was a very pleasant and uneventful evening.

Unlike last year. Don’t get me wrong – last year my Mother-In–Law’s birthday was equally lovely and pleasant, but was also altogether more eventful. The following extract was originally a Facebook status update, which my friends will tell you is often littered with tales of mishap as the hand of fate regularly pokes me in the eye.

I thought I would share it with my Blog fans.

I hope you like it.

The Birthday Pub Meal Restroom Restriction!!!

My friends, it’s happened again. The seagull of fate has yet again dive bombed my chips, and simultaneously pooped on my new shoes.

This week has been a week of Birthdays: Marianne Lagrue , Dan Lagrue , Glenn Bratley , Emma Bratley , Rebecca Hurley (tomorrow) to name a few very lovely people, and included in this Cacophony of celebration is the divine and sublime Margaret Hurley .

It is her Birthday today along with the afore-mentioned Emma, and so Dr Adrienne Rogers and I booked a table for three (sorry Emma) at the Blue Vinney Pub and Restaurant in Puddletown, Dorset. The Blue Vinney is a lovely place that serves great food, but has very poor telephone reception.

Adrienne and I picked up Margaret from outside her house – she hadn’t fallen, she was just waiting – and we drove the short distance to Puddletown. Margaret was in good spirits (tequila I think) and was merrily telling me to get a haircut, and complaining about modern pop songs and how they were just noise and you can’t hear the words anymore like in the good old days.

Before you could say “you can’t beat a bit of Frankie Vallie” we arrived at the pub, and went in to take our seats.

‘Table for three, Rogers – I booked’ said Adrienne cheerfully as we approached the bar.
A furrowed brow and a sense of confusion stared back at us, interspersed with checking of the booking log.
Soon it became apparent that the empty table reserved for “Hodges X 2” was actually ours, (poor telephone reception) and we decided that we didn’t want to sit there anyway and chose a different table with a view out to the pub garden.

Menus were inspected, and drinks and food chosen. The meal began, and all was lovely.

It was midway through my main course that the “WC available” sign came on in my bladder, and I excused myself and went to the gents toilet.

For those of you who are neither local, or male, let me describe the interior of the gents:

Three urinals, one cubicle, and a sink.

(you now
never need visit)

The urinals were on the far wall and the ceiling slanted down directly above them – a fact I did not consider important initially. Looking downwards, I readied myself for emptying, and only as the process started did I raise my head – and found that the slanted ceiling was so low that I couldn’t stand up straight.

Usually, I could cope with this. It’s not the first time I’ve been bent over in a gents loo, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. However, of late I have been suffering with a bad back and I knew I couldn’t maintain this position for very long. I decided that the answer lay in my erectness (as it often does).

I gently leaned backwards whilst expertly maintaining my fluid release. I found that this allowed my back to stretch out straight alleviating the uncomfortable feeling. At full stretch, my forehead was less than 2cm from the slanted ceiling.

After a moment to steady myself, I relaxed and closed my eyes, and let my mind wander. My lower half was on Autopilot so I need not concentrate on that. Thoughts of the upcoming Pantomime, and the lines I still had to learn filled my head. And that’s when it happened.

In my relaxed state, my internal gyroscope had switched off, and my centre of balance became unstable. With my eyes closed, I was unaware of myself gently moving forward…..

Until the cold, hard plaster of the ceiling touched my skin, and gave me a sensation much akin to brain freeze. In that instant, my body stiffened and I effectively wedged myself up against the ceiling, with my back bent, my hips forward, and my penis out.

It was a genuine struggle to reposition myself enough to become free of my own made trap. I tidied myself up, washed my hands, and returned to my meal.

The rest of the meal was lovely and uneventful.

Another tick in the column “how?”…..



Good evening, and welcome to my blog.

Here is a blog originally posted 6 years ago on a previous blog. I apologize for the lack of modern content, but I am juggling my time badly, and need to organise myself better.

The orbs I am trying to throw and catch include:

  • Completing the manuscript for Volume One of ‘The Friday Poems’ (poems 1-52) which will be published as an e-book for Kindles shortly.
  • Drafting a poem for the Hidden Needs Trust ( – a charity working with children with special education needs.
  • Writing my Friday poems
  • Increasing my Social media activity
  • Finishing a commissioned poem for someone.

So I am busy. Honest!

So here is this blog – written when I was younger, but less wise.

Rude Cyclists, Communicating With Dogs, and Swearing at People Who Can’t Hear Me.

I have to be quick, as I am off out in a bit. Yes, I am a Social Butterfly.

Yes, I know that social butterfly shouldn’t have had Capital first letters.

This morning I did my third walk of the weekend. I walked 8.5 miles – but the sport tracking software only recorded 7.48 miles because it was at that point that the battery on my phone died. But I did really walk 8.5 miles today, bringing my weekend total to 21 miles.
The route that I walk is a well used walk, and I pass many other people along the way. As is customary with anyone who has any resemblance of manners, polite acknowledgments are exchanged as you pass. This morning, it was “Good Morning”. As I walked along, I exchanged such greetings with dog walkers, joggers, and families out for a walk – the children on their bikes and the parents walking in front or behind. However I discovered that one set of path users had no manners what so ever: Adult Cyclists.

On three occasions I was passed in the opposite direction by a couple of cyclists. I presume they go out in pairs because they know that one of them will end up getting punched in the face because of their mannerless, self-importance obsessed attitude. Each time I encountered these cyclists, I said good morning. Each time, I was ignored.
Now I’m sure that cyclists have a lot to think about: Is their helmet on straight; are they wearing sunglasses (irrespective of the weather); do their lycra cycling shorts enhance the size of their genitals whilst at the same time protecting them in the event of riding over a pothole; are the going in the right direction; etc. etc. However, it doesn’t take much effort to say “Good Morning” or even just “Morning”.

It did annoy me that I got no response from them. I will accept the weak possibility that they might not have heard me. That’s okay – next time I’ll shout my greetings at them, and hope that they ride into a clump of stinging nettles.

As you know, I love dogs. And therefore have no shame in admitting that when I meet a dog (a dog that is friendly and comes up to me and says hello) I talk to it in the most ridiculous two-tone voice, with which I ask it questions and then answer them for it.
For example, this morning on my walk I saw a dog walker approach me. He had a West Highland Terrier with him, and this dog came running up to me and jumped up with its tail wagging. So, the silly voiced questions started:

(In a deep voice) “Hello, you’re a lovely dog aren’t you? (high voice) yes you are!”
(deep voice) “are you having a nice walk? (high voice) you are, aren’t you!”

I can’t explain why I do this, but I guess part of it is that dogs respond better to an excited tone of voice than a dull one. The other reason could be that I’m mental.

I like football, and I watch it on TV. But when my team (Arsenal) are playing, I go mental and scream and shout at the telly every time they miss a pass or waste an opportunity. I know they can’t hear me, but still I do it. The air in my lounge was every colour of the rainbow due to the colourful language I was using.
It’s not clever to swear, but somehow “Oh do try a bit harder chaps – that really isn’t good enough” doesn’t really convey the sentiment enough.

Anyway, that’s it for today’s blog – I’m off out.


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 this week’s Friday Poem.

Find your loved ones, and hold them tight. This week’s poem is a terrifying tale of supernatural malevolence, the battle between good and evil held in the balance, and most frightening of all……the unspeakable horror of scuff marks on the skirting board.

This poem is not for the faint-hearted, nor for the short-sighted, and definitely not for the over-hyphenated.

So sit down, strap in, and try not to sh………show your fear.


Just when you thought it was safe…………




Make sure your doors are all locked tight,

Shut out this dark and stormy night.

Here is a tale as yet untold;

A tale that will make your blood run cold.


You may recall, a little while back

My mother-in-law had a bat attack.

This briefly caused her to behave quite oddly,

But left no lasting damage bodily.


At least that is what we had assumed

For over us a new shadow loomed.

From the previous horror it was begat

A malevolent shadow of the bat!


Originally my mother’s left hand was bit

And though she said she’d got over it,

The ‘badness’ to her right arm had jumped

Because it ached severely like she’d been thumped.


This aching steadily grew and spread.

“Oh it’s right miserable”, she often said.

I suggested a doctor if she was ill

But she just said, “I’ll take some pills”


Then on Halloween night we got a strange call

From my mother in law – not herself at all.

She said, “Help! It’s my arm, it’s got me – quick!”

Then silence, as the line went ‘click…..’


For a moment I felt really scared

But I knew I had to get round there.

In haste I grabbed my coat and keys

Ignoring the trembling in my knees.


I reached her house not feeling brave,

The whole place was as quiet as the grave.

I went round to the side door to let myself in

And on tenterhooks, walked into her kitchen.


A horrible sight there met my eyes;

On a plate, was some unfinished meat pie.

It breaks my heart to see such waste,

So I tipped it in my coat pocket – just in case.


I crept through the house in search of the lady

My coat pocket steadily filling with gravy.

I suddenly became aware of a slow steady sound;

The repetition of something being dragged on the ground.


As I turned into the hall, I very nearly retched;

She was out cold on the floor – her right arm outstretched.

By its own power this limb was dragging her across the floor

Making slow steady progress towards her front door.


It was horrible to witness, I really must say;

Her clothing had ridden up in a most unflattering way.

Now older ladies’ underwear may look nice on a dummy,

But nothing can prepare you for seeing them on mummy.


But this was no time for principles – she needed assistance

So with an angry roar I soon covered the distance.

With both hands I grabbed the limb below the wrist

Then the hand twisted towards me – and turned into a fist!


As quick as a flash I got punched in the jaw.

By the time I reacted, I’d been punched twice more.

Like a possessed boa constrictor, the arm twisted and turned,

Growing hot in my grasp – with pure evil it burned.


This fight was exhausting, it was taking its toll,

My mother in law was thrown about like a doll.

There was only one way to save her, I knew what to do:

The arm and the shoulder – had to be severed in two.


In anguish and horror, with my jaw really hurting

I dragged her back around, scraping her shoes on the skirting.

I was sweating and panting, and my coat had a stain.

And I knew that I’d have to paint that skirting again.


I made it back to the kitchen as best I was able

Though I did clack mum’s head on her telephone table.

I knew I was fighting to save both of our lives,

As I opened a drawer in search of sharp knives.


I found one – a cleaver – then two more, and another.

(remind me, I must have a word with my mother)

With no time to be choosy I reached for one, but

Before I could take it, the drawer was slammed shut!


The arm knew what I was planning, so it started to fight;

It twisted and wriggled with all of its might.

In self-preservation it was mean and unruly,

Then, without provocation, punched me straight in the goolies.


Now a punch to that area, is a real big no-no;

Even for an evil limb, that was a low blow.

If it was dirty fighting it wanted, I’ve a badge that I’ve earned;

So with a quick change of grip, I gave it two Chinese burns.


I was in a real battle, and boy was it rough!

For an old lady’s arm, this limb was vicious and tough.

I tasted blood in my mouth – it was sickly and sweet

And I was spattered with pie crust, gravy and meat.


We pulled and we wrestled;  this fight was a saga

The arm shut my fingers in the door of mum’s Aga.

In one surging mass of movement, we writhed on the floor,

Until I slammed it repeatedly in the Fridge door.


The arm lay there limply, and I took a breather,

Before seizing my chance, and grabbing a cleaver.

Looking down at the chaos, I gave a small cough.

There was only one thing for it; that arm must come off.


I knelt on the limb, to hold it firmly in place

Then paused as I gazed at my poor mother’s face;

Despite her ordeal, she looked free from all pain

Though her appearance was marred by a large gravy stain.


She still was unconscious – which was a big plus,

As I readied myself to do what I must.

With the cleaver raised high, I hoped my aim would be true

Then I brought it down swiftly, cutting the limb clean through.


If I thought it was over, I was wrong – oh by heck!

As the arm suddenly shot upwards, grabbing me round the neck!

I just had time to say to myself “you’ve got to be joking”

Before frantically clawing at the hand that was choking.


Then a voice in my head told me “fight, Larry fight!”

So I pulled at the arm with all of my might.

It’s grip finally broke with a huge wrench I gave,

Then I stuffed it – still fighting – into the Microwave.


It hammered the glass as I turned the thing on

I didn’t want ‘de-frost’; that would take far too long.

In an act of defiance, as the microwaves flowed

The limb gave me the finger – then I saw it explode.


That was it, it was over; I’d finally won.

Exhausted, I returned to help my poor mum.

To hospital she was taken, where she started to mend

And both our ordeals had finally come to an end.


They gave her a new arm, to replace the one chopped;

It can carry seven bags when she goes to the shops.

It has artificial intelligence, and is frighteningly strong.

It became self-aware yesterday – what could possibly go wrong?




Good evening, and welcome to my blog!

This is another trip down memory lane to a time long ago, where my judgment was just as rubbish as it is now!

Hey – at least I’m consistent.

Here it is:


Making a Name For Myself – Not In a Good Way

There are certain things in life that don’t mix; Nitroglycerine and Epilepsy, Sword swallowing and the hiccups, Solitaire and Schizophrenia, to name a few.

One other thing that doesn’t mix well is my sense of enjoyment and the good idea department of my brain. Yet again the combination of these has led me to disaster.

Last night, I went out with friends to a local comedy night. There were three comedians and a compere – all of which were very good. We were sat behind the front row of tables, which afforded us the luxury of not being picked on by any of the acts on stage. The compere picked on a few people, but we were safe.

There was a break between each comedian for people to get more drinks or spend a penny, and it was during one of these breaks that the trouble started.

Me and my mate were late walking back to our table due to the number of people queuing for the toilet. Our route back took us right past the front of the stage – where the compere was warming the crowd up for the next act. As I walked past level with him, he said something (i forget what) to me. My response – and I don’t know why – was to reach up and pretend to tickle his testicles. I then carried on and returned to my seat. At the time, tickling the balls of the compere seemed a great idea – I was enjoying myself, I was out with friends, it was all good.

Of course that was it – I was the centre of attention for the next 5 minutes, and was referred to by the compere every time he came back on stage. To cut a long story short, I came away from that night with the title of “Larry The Ball Tickler”.

Naively, I thought that name was only relevant within the confines of the venue. I forgot that many of the people who went to the Comedy night would also go back to the same pub we did afterwards, and that all of them would call me by my new title on sight. So my new name stuck with me last night. How long this will run for, is anybody’s guess.

In future, I think I’ll keep my ideas, and hands to myself.


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

My little girl is unwell in hospital, and is having a really rough time. My fiancée is with her, and it’s hard for her to see our baby suffer. It’s hard for me being at home – I visit, but I worry about them both, and I just want our little one home.

If all of that wasn’t enough, last week my future Mother-In-Law got bitten by a bat.

I know!!

It’s true what they say: if it’s not one thing, it’s your mother!

So, because the best way for me to combat my stress and worry is to laugh and see the  lighter side of things, I have written the following poem about my Mother-In-Law’s adventure with a creature of the night.

I hope you like it.



Me Mother-In-Law was bit by a bat;

No – I couldn’t believe it either.

I was visiting my daughter in hospital when they told me

So I popped down to A&E just to see her.


At first when I entered the waiting room

I couldn’t see her in any of the chairs.

Then my eyesight was drawn to the ceiling

Following the line of all the other patient’s stares.


There she was, hanging upside-down from a strip light;

With her knickers on display to the place.

Well, I assumed that it was my Mother-In-Law

‘Cos her skirt was now covering her face.


God only knows how she got up there,

But we fetched her down so as not to offend.

And sure enough, it was my wife’s mother

(who I’ll now recognise from both ends)


I asked her what the hell she was doing,

And how the devil she got bit by a bat.

She said it happened in doing a good deed

By rescuing the thing from her cat.


She went on to say she saw it last evening

Sat quite calmly in front of the TV

With the cat close by in attendance

Watching “Cash in the Attic” it seems.


While she spoke, she showed very weird behaviour

She was fixated by a fly on the wall

Her head twitched and jerked rather oddly

And she wasn’t herself – not at all.


Expanding her tale, she continued

Telling how she feared for the little’s bats life.

So she wrapped it up carefully in a tea-towel

To release it back into the night.


Wrapped up, she moved gently but quickly

So that the trauma to the bat wouldn’t linger

But the bat couldn’t tell her intentions

And as released, bit her right on the finger.


Understandably this caused her some discomfort,

And although curses she does not usually utter

Her neighbours noted hearing in the darkness that night

Someone clearly saying “OW! You fucker!”


After not too long, she was seen by the doctor

Who thankfully said Rabies was ruled out.

However her hearing aid batteries had packed in by now

So several times the Doc had to shout.


It’s been three weeks now since she was bitten

She’s recovered well, I’m pleased to report.

But some aspects of her behaviour still concern me

Like her sleeping hanging down in her porch.


She’s been seen less often in the daytime

But has been flitting here and there in the night.

Being deaf, she doesn’t have much sonar

So she relies much more heavily on sight.


In the darkness of course this is a problem;

Her eyesight is 78 don’t you know.

She gave me a heart attack last Thursday night

When she smacked into my living room window.


But I guess we should be grateful for small mercies

We’ll get used to her as time goes by.

And having some bat traits are an advantage –

She keeps down the moth numbers at night!!


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

I like going camping.

But I don’t like the almost symbiotic stress that always comes with each and every camping trip my family go. Every time we set off in a happy, and excited mood which lasts roughly up to the point when we have to set the tent etc. up.

This poem is about one particular cause of stress, that we still haven’t managed to get right – in spite of having the same difficulties on concurrent camping weekends.


The Airbed

A new airbed we sought, and one for camping was bought

T’was a double – velour top and sumptuously deep.

With electric plug at one end, for compressed air to send

as itself it inflates – which is sweet.


Now, in tents it is true; plug sockets are few –

I suppose that is part of the charm.

But I’m no camping chump – I had purchased a pump;

Double-action – to save aches in our arms.


The bed was high-tech, and the air intake spec

was “Inflate” (obviously), “Lock”, or “Deflate”.

All set on a dial, so choice wouldn’t be a trial –

A dial, that I would soon come to hate.


One fine weekend last March, we at last had the chance

to take the air-bed on its first trial run.

The instructions were easy; setting up would be breezy

Which was bound to make camp sleeping fun.


We unpacked it with haste, for success we could taste

in anticipation of sumptuous reclining.

My family couldn’t wait, so as I pumped at a rate

They just stood there, mouth open, admiring.


As I pumped up and down, air was forced ‘cross the ground.

To the bed through a tube it was rushing.

But to my shock and surprise, the bed failed to rise

and the sight of its limpness was crushing.


“Patience” I said, “It’s a very large bed –

to inflate it will be time-consuming”

And with a confident grin, my pumping again did begin

But inside, I was secretly fuming.


With a fury I pumped, and my heart it did thump

as sweat poured in torrents down my face.

Every breath out was snorted, and my face was contorted

but the damn bed – it wouldn’t inflate.


Tired and exhausted, to help I resorted –

With my family, we pumped as a team.

My fingers were twisted, and my palms hot and blistered

Which is the first time since I was a teen.


I was hurt and perplexed – and in no little way vexed

as to the reasons our efforts weren’t fruitful.

The minutes ticked by, but the bed wouldn’t rise

And I was ready to give it a boot-full.


The bed lay there limp – though you could have inflated a blimp

With the amount of air pumping we had mustered.

I now held a grudge – though the bed wouldn’t budge

But just lay there flat, like a bastard.


I checked my equipment, offended – which at my age is recommended –

But found it to be working and true.

I could not understand, why the bed failed to expand

And I just didn’t know what to do.


Then, with a simple smile my son said, “the dial

Is only used for electric inflating.

And though your efforts were great, with the dial on ‘Inflate’

Air was just passing through and escaping.”


With that he turned the dial back to ‘Lock’, and with speed that did shock

Had the airbed inflated perfectly.

Trembling with rage and fatigue, I admit I did jealously seethe

At the bed now inflated correctly.


But in the wisdom of youth, I did learn a great truth:

impatience doth man’s best hopes hamper.

And as I look back now, I make this new vow;

Next time, I’m buying a Camper!