September 1, 2015

 

 

The glamorous Beverley Sisters
throughout the fifties had hits,
with ‘I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus’,
and ‘Willie Can’,  following in fifty six.

Joy, being the original Wag,
married to Billy Wright.
Always elegant and bubbly,
and a total delight.

Other hits being ‘Little Drummer Boy’,
and ‘Little Donkey’ in fifty nine,
Those 3 sisters of early television,
really were divine.

Once more the music industry,
has lost another celebrity, (celeb-rit-ee)
as sadness surrounds the ground,
of Wolverhampton F C. 

By Harriet Blackbury

for LDOK.net   Tony’s Time Machine.

 

 

June 24, 2015

 

 

Back in the 60’s

when Bob Lord was king,

and life at Burnley FC

went with a swing,

 

A young fan of the club

to Turf Moor would hurry.

He watched every home game,

and went by the name of Gerry.

 

He stayed loyal through grim times,

and many there were!

But success came as well

for supporters to share.

 

Gerry liked a good sing-song;

a laugh and a joke,

and like the Houghton Weavers,

preferred to sing, mostly ‘Folk’.

 

At times when Burnley lost,

he’d sing a shanty or a dirge,

and take requests from Blackburn fans;

‘sing Wild Rover’,  they would urge.

 

He saw many games abandoned,

due to a water-logged pitch,

or ten inches of snow,

sent by the Pendle witch.

 

But with dogged determination,

and a folk song in his head,

he’d go to most away games;

to whatever town that led.

 

And though he could have followed,

Preston, Wigan or Bury?

He stayed loyal to his team,

did dependable young Gerry.

 

He even shunned watching Bolton,

when at it’s height with Allardyce.

And saw Rochdale and Bury as non-starters,

though was dragged there once or twice,

 

always under much duress,

with some relative or friend.

whilst his heart would be with Burnley,

playing down in Brighton or Southend!

 

When his fave Manager – Stan the man,

Hip-hopped down to Gigg Lane,

He did attend more games there;

once he’d recovered from the pain.

 

So Folk music and Football

sure have floated his boat,

since back in the sixties,

when he wore his duffel coat.

 

‘Those were the days’ sang Mary Hopkins,

and Roger Whittaker sang Durham Town.

Whilst Haslingden’s very own Gerry,

was the local folk hero, renown.

 

So whether it’s ‘Gerry the singer’

or ‘Gerry the Burnley fan’:

He’s stayed true to what he loves;

because he’s just that kind of man!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I will love you until

the pigeons stop cooing.

 

I will love you until,

all the cows stop mooing.

 

I will love you until

Carlsberg stop brewing.

 

I will love you until

the opposition stop booing.

 

I will love you until

I don’t know what I’m doing.

 

But at the football ground,

I will always be queuing.

 

 

 

June 7, 2015

 

 

Thirty years and nothing,

No contact, no hearsay.

The thought of re-uniting,

has my mind in disarray.

 

To meet up at the cricket ground,

was a brainwave, I have to say,

If he’s looking rather dodgy,

I can just go on my way.

 

He got me into music,

back then, in the day,

I’ll offer to buy him a beer;

I can’t see him saying ‘nay’!

 

Can he have changed ‘that’ much?

Until we meet, I just won’t know,

But we both still like cricket,

so it’s now on with the show.

 

And if he does my head in,

after the first nervous hour,

I can pray for divine intervention:

‘Please god, let there be a shower’.

 

And if it turns out well,

a second meeting there could be.

But one step at a time,

right now, will do for me.

 

Later that same day

 

The day went very well;

rain didn’t stop play.

Old memories flooded back;

we sure found plenty to say.

 

 

We spoke of happy times,

when we’d met at grammar school,

after he’d fallen off Mount Snowden:

– What a silly fool!

 

And how he wrapped his Mum’s car,

around a telegraph pole,

at Bowland’s ‘cow arc’ bend,

with me, in the passenger role!

 

And how he got me into music;

mostly rock and folk.

And introduced me to good ale;

he sure was my kinda bloke.

 

So yes, at the close of play,

we both were back on song,

a bit older and much wiser,

but we so, still got along.

 

And as Lanky, Lanky, Lancashire,

in our ears did ring out,

we turned to each other knowing,

our friendship, solid, without doubt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written for LDOK.net  

( Tonys Time Machine)

To hear the concluding part

to Harriet’s poem,

tune in on Wednesday

11am – 1pm

 

 

 

April 23, 2014

 

 

For pity’s sake,

give it a break,

your lashing tongue

by now, must ache.

 

For pity’s sake,

I’m not to blame.

So you lost five-nil?

It’s just a GAME!

 

 

 

February 2, 2014

 

 

Saturday was a day to remember.

The Leader showed them the cultural scene.

Passing Bram Stoker’s home

and then onto St. Stephens Green.

 

They stopped for a pint in the Shelbourne,

then into Dublin’s smallest drinking den.

Before finding a bar with a telly,

to watch the footy – well, men will be men!

 

The girls went off to do some shopping,

saying ‘Can we stay out ‘till three?’

‘Oh, yes,’ cried the men with one voice,

while rubbing their hands with glee.

 

At last they could get down to business.

‘Another six pints of Guinness, good man’,

they shouted to the barman in eagerness.

‘This draught sure beats that in a can!’

 

The girls arrived back at three twenty,

thinking that they were so late.

But another game of footy had started,

so back out they went thinking, ‘Great!’

 

At teatime they walked along Grafton Street,

and stopped at Bewleys Tea Place.

Where they ordered sandwiches and coffee;

the day was still picking up pace.

 

In the evening they went to the Guinea Pig,

though they lost a ‘big brother’ on the way.

As one guy was still feeling very sick

and decided to call it a day.

 

The men soon got talking politics

and the world’s problems they did debate.

and decided to have some brandy,

when told that the taxi would be late.

 

Forgetting they’d lose an hour next day,

when all the clocks were put on.

They headed to a bar for a nightcap,

but one jumped in the lift, and was gone.

 

The Leader had been promised tickets

from a guy, who’d never let him down.

They were to meet him in the second carriage

of the next train heading for town.

 

This soon proved a journey to remember.

The passengers were crushed to bits,

One woman yelled: ‘You’re breaking my ribs!’

another screamed: ‘You’re squashing my tits!’

 

Each time they pulled into a station

the doors slid open and still more got on.

One of the girls nearly burst into tears,

as sadly, her bottle had gone.

 

The Leader came good with the tickets,

well, he got an all important two!

And with hindsight, for him and his best friend

it’d be a match they wouldn’t want to view.

 

They’d probably have developed heart failure,

or at least sunk in utter despair.

Because the game wasn’t so much a ‘walkover’,

as it was embarrassing beyond compare.

 

Two of them stood at the back of the stand

to avoid the inevitable squeeze.

Whilst others headed towards The Herbert Park,

for stew and Guinness to at least appease.

 

Some headed into the city,

to find a livelier spot.

And stumbled up the stairs to O’Neills,

into a room that was hotter than hot.

 

One poor guy was still feeling dodgy

and needed a place that was cool.

‘I could give all this lot twenty years!’

He thought, as he stood on a stool.

 

But age, in the end, didn’t matter.

as England won by a margin so clear.

And gave all the much travelled supporters

an excuse to down yet even more beer.

 

They then headed back to Mulligans

and ordered more beers and coke.

Where they met the Leader’s older brother,

who turned out to be one hell of a bloke.

 

He was just back from touring Australia

and he had an amazing grin.

Due to a plate of teeth made from titanium

that he said was almost ‘paper thin’.

 

The rest came in celebrating,

the unbelievable England win.

And ribbed the Irish unmercifully

but they took it well, on the chin.

 

Then they caught the train back to the hotel,

including the brother and the best friend.

At least they could commiserate together,

a sorrow shared, by good pals til the end.

 

The group then collected their cases.

Their adventure was over and done.

They agreed the weekend had been terrific,

and best of all – England had won!

 

 

 

 

January 15, 2014

 

 

With his future

hanging in the balance,

and the very next game

deciding his fate,

the referee makes

one wrong decision,

and the job’s bollocks’d;

all hope of fairness, too late.

 

 

 

December 18, 2013

 

 

The cheaters

The divers

The overpaid skivers,

who bring the game

into disrepute.

 

The complainers

The groin strainers

The pulled muscle feigners,

who fall over their

very own boot.

 

The time wasters

The disgracers

The off-side racers,

who still continue

to shoot.

 

The lazers

The grazers

The failed trail blazers,

who unashamedly

collect the loot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December 10, 2013

 

 

The beautiful game

now in disarray,

as fixers and twisters-

a different game they play.

 

And obvious tackles

we now know were staged,

for lucrative bets,

that it now seems were waged.

 

An unmissible goal

kicked high into the Stand!

A penalty awarded through

a sudden raised hand!

 

A rumpus erupting

from a push or a shove,

brought on out of nothing-

eyes look to heaven above.

 

In utter disbelief

like fools we watched on-

All lambs to the slaughter,

our own good money gone.

 

The build up, the set pieces,

all week our team planned,

in the end wouldn’t matter,

with Judas on hand.

 

We took it all in,

like idiots duped.

Then the long drive home,

like losers, we trooped.

 

Our hearts now broken,

by despicable greed.

Can we ever trust again,

those men, for whom we’d bleed?

 

 

May 26, 2013

 

 

He’s got out alive, some

never thought he would.

He’s turned his back and

waved a final farewell.

His place in history

forever secured.

Will his successor succeed?

Who can tell!

 

 

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