FOOTBALL AND POLITICS

Peter Woodgate

 

His nose grew longer, will he sneeze?

Oh no, it’s just the latest slease.

A penalty, it seemed to most,

But just in time, he moved the post.

Oh Boris, forgot there’s V.A.R?

You cannot move the posts that far.

The referee, (the opposition)

Have caused this rather glum position.

They have wingers who just dribble

Whilst the home team gladly fiddle.

To think I bought a season ticket,

Come on you cheats it’s just not cricket.

Your players other teams will dread

Their dreadful tackles don’t get red.

For a blatant fowl not even a booking

After the match some books need cooking.

I despair those calamities time after time,

They are certainly not a team of mine.

But worst of all in my throat there’s a lump

As Boris has now morphed into TRUMP.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 THE JOURNEY 

by Richard Banks

They are all here now: George, William, Frederick, Herbert, Mary-Anne, Elizabeth, Esther and their mother. Hushed voices by the bedside and in the room beyond. Don’t whisper. I want to hear what you say. Come on, you can be candid, now that I can no longer see or speak, almost dead, but not quite away. What do you really think of me? What have you discovered? Have you separated out the myth from the reality, or have I covered my tracks too well? Speak up now, I won’t be around for the funeral eulogy. What’s that George? - “

He was one of the founding fathers of Hobart.” That’s putting it rather grand, son, but not untrue. “He was descended from landed gentry in Hampshire, England.” So you swallowed that one. I must have told the story well.

     Your grandfather also told a good story; tales of Huguenot ancestors who fled from persecution in France to settle in London’s eastern suburbs. They had been well-to-do silk weavers, or so the legend went. Well, poor people need their legends and there were few poorer than us, even in the slums of Bethnal Green. The golden age of hand-weaving had well and truly ended. The Spitalfields Acts, which kept up our prices, had been repealed and duties on foreign silks either cancelled or much reduced. It was free trade they said. It would benefit the nation. Well, it didn’t benefit the hand loom weavers - many thousands out of work and the rest on short time, earning only a fraction of their former pay. 

      In truth, we had outlived our usefulness. Machines now ruled - power looms that produced woven cloth more quickly and cheaply than we ever could. The old skills were no longer needed and we were cast aside to eek out a living as best we could. Many dropped down to become labourers or street hawkers. Others, like myself, stubbornly persisted in the old trade, hoping against hope for better times. Lucky the poor weaver who had only himself to feed!                               

      Five good souls depended on me and a sixth grew ever larger inside my wife. They were starving, and I was desperate, too desperate to pass by an open window in a deserted lane. The sovereigns I stole that day kept us in food and lodging for a month. It was my first robbery and I vowed it would be my last, but in the absence of honest work I soon sank into the residuum of London’s criminal underclass. I became a housebreaker and sold my looms in order to buy the tools of my new profession, fool that I was! 

      Three months later, I was seen leaving a house in Stepney and pursued through the streets by a parish constable who knew me by name. I gave him the slip in a warren of dark alleys and laid low in a common lodging house, but there was little hope for me now. There was a price on my head, and within days I was seized by thief-takers and taken to the nearest police office.

     The guilty verdict at my trial was as inevitable as the sentence of death which accompanied it. But the times were changing and capital sentences for robbery were often commuted on appeal. Accordingly, seven honest tradesmen of my acquaintance petitioned the Home Secretary and my sentence was reduced to one of transportation for life. At once I was full of hope and wrote to my wife, urging her to also petition the Home Secretary, asking that she and the children be allowed to follow me abroad. It was a forlorn hope, dashed almost as soon as it was conceived. 

      My brother came and gave me news that had hitherto been kept from me; news that made me the most wretched man on God’s earth. There had been an outbreak of typhus fever in the eastern parishes and two of my children, who had been lodged with friends, were dead. My wife, despairing of the filth and squalor of Bethnal Green, had left London with our other children, intending to find work in the textile mills of Lancashire. It was to be a new start, away from me and those who knew of my disgrace. She bid me forget her and by my brother returned her wedding ring. I now bitterly regretted my reprieve and wished only to die, but the Government had other ideas and I was taken to the Lord William Bentinck, a convict ship bound for Van Dieman’s Land. 

     I joined the ship at Spithead, with four other prisoners and was examined by the Medical Officer, who declared me fit to travel. Indeed, compared to the prisoners who had been on hulks at Gosport, I was a picture of health. They were a sorry sight, sallow and emaciated, some not well enough to make the journey. We up-anchored on 7 May 1832, which was the last time I ever saw England. Soon, we were out of sight of land and heading south-westwards, into a vast and empty ocean.      

     At first there was much sea sickness and the medical officer was oft amongst us, dispensing calomel and other medicines. He bid us to be of good cheer and promised us fair treatment if we conducted ourselves like good men. Gradually the weather became warmer, our fetters were removed and we were allowed to exercise daily on deck. We had our sea legs now and were put to work swabbing and holystoning the decks, washing clothes and cleaning the privies. We worked hard and in return were given two meals a day, a gill of wine when the weather was inclement and lemon juice when it was fair. What greater irony could there be than we were now provided with the necessary things previously denied us and which we had sought to secure by our crimes.

     On the thirty-seventh day of our voyage, in worsening weather, we sighted the coast of Argentina and with the wind at our back, turned eastwards towards the Australian colonies. The regulated routine of our existence began to be relaxed and we were allowed free time on deck to fish, play at cards or otherwise amuse ourselves. Some, not many, used this freedom to plot mutiny - wild talk about seizing the ship and sailing it to Africa. Did they know where Africa was? I doubt it. Just talk, empty talk for which one of them, poor fool, received four dozen lashes. There was little appetite for mutiny after that. We were resigned to our fate, and sought every means to make our captivity more agreeable. We entertained ourselves as best we could and looked forward, with almost pathetic relish, to the evening pipe of tobacco that was allowed to those who worked well and gave no trouble. 

      Occasionally, the tedium of our ordered lives was enlivened by the misfortune of others: two prisoners who fought at cards were consigned to the cramping box, a seaman fell from the rigging and broke a leg, an old pickpocket was found dead in his bunk and buried at sea. For the rest of us, misfortune consisted chiefly in the slow passage of time, which grew ever more oppressive to us. 

     At last, after one hundred and thirteen days at sea, we arrived at Port Hobart, on the island now known as Tasmania. Our relief at our journey’s end was mixed with apprehension as to what was to become of us. We were not long in finding out and two days later I was assigned to George Johnstone, a merchant and shopkeeper. He was my master now and I his slave but he treated me well and by degrees I earned both his trust and affection. The work was much to my liking, as was the town and the countryside that surrounded it. Far from being the hot and arid place I had been expecting, the climate was temperate and the land much cultivated with corn and potatoes. It was a new country, raw but full of promise and I worked hard in the hope that I might someday share in its future prosperity. 

      My hopes were fulfilled seven years later when I was given a conditional pardon and Johnstone took me into partnership. He opened a new store on the far side of town, where I was not known, and put me in charge. It was there that I met the young woman, a free settler from England, who was to become my wife. I told her I was a widower, the younger son of a country gentleman. She told me she was niece to the Archbishop of Canterbury. We understood each other only too well and were married within the year. 

      In the next twenty years she bore me nine children, of whom seven have survived. As my business interests expanded I invested much money in their education. What clever children I have: two solicitors, a banker, an aspiring politician and daughters with wit enough to marry into good families. None of them know of my criminal past and none of them must know. God help them if it should ever became common knowledge. 

     They say that life is a journey. If that be true I have journeyed far. In my lifetime I have traveled from one side of the world to the other. I grew up in a country that denied me opportunity and condemned me to poverty and servitude. I prospered in one that valued the hard work of willing toilers. I exchanged the disease and destitution of the slums for the clean air and water of an unspoiled land. I have been a weaver, criminal, convict, shopkeeper, merchant and speculator in property. I was born a pauper, I die a gentleman. Much has happened. The journey has been a long one. Is it about to end, or is death just a staging post on some longer journey? Soon I will know what those on earth can only guess at; will see what those before me have already seen. 

         Not long now. The voices by the bedside say their last goodbyes. A final prayer is said. 

      Remember me, who journeyed far, and journeys on in hope.   

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

 A series of senryu relating to cop26

By Rob Kingston

 

climate change

the itch

I cannot scratch

 

autumn budget

heaps of carbon ahead

of the cop meeting

 

at the cliffs base

fallen rubble

keeps rattling 

 

tired of the wrecking ball

the queen

 issues a swerve ball

 

Autumn showdown

leaders at the cop meeting

spill the beans

 

Glasgow cop

in the green pages

who what when

 

an old man

a  cross earring 

waves in his bowl

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

 Ancestry

By Janet Baldey

None of us can escape our ancestry, it follows us every step we take on our way towards the end.  But, sometimes, we cannot even evade the ancestry of others.  This is what I have learned.

Right from the start, I sensed she was different.  Special – as they say today.  But that hardly mattered; from the moment she opened her eyes and stared at me out of eyes so dark blue they were almost black, I was caught and wanted her with all my heart.  

The orphanage was quite open about her. 

         “She’s a difficult baby, you will have to be patient.” The matron leaned over the cot and laid the back of her hand against the baby’s cheek; her workworn skin starkly emphasising the flawless porcelain of the child’s.

         “Sleeps all day and screams all night.  Almost impossible to feed.  Seems to hate the taste of milk and vomits most of it back up.  But we have managed to keep her alive and she does have the knack of drawing one in.  We all love her deeply.”

         She sat back down and stared at us over the width of her solid oak desk.  My heart was thudding in my chest as I returned her gaze.  What was she thinking as she looked at us? A late middle-aged couple, too old to deal with a new born - we’d already been turned away by half a dozen other orphanages.  I fought against my body’s urge to cringe and lowered my lids to hide the need in my eyes.  I struggled to douse my smouldering resentment; what did this woman know of the grief of six still-born babies or the silence of an empty house that was slowly suffocating the love my husband and I once had? I must have this baby.  It was our last chance.  

The outcome of that interview was pure joy but ‘be careful what you wish for’ is a wise saw that never entered our heads as we drove away with our precious newly acquired daughter asleep in the fastness of her carrycot.

 Difficult is an inadequate word to describe the trial of raising Meriel.   The orphanage hadn’t lied, she did indeed scream all night and sleep all day, which did nothing to improve my husband’s mood.  She clamped her rosebud lips against the nipple of every bottle of milk and a geyser erupted, drenching both of us, if she was forced to swallow even the smallest drop.  In the end, going against all advice, I improvised.  Like Meriel, I grew used to sleeping all day and staying awake all night.  I also found that she would tolerate a clear beef broth and this way, managed to rear her until she grew teeth and could eat meat. 

But I don’t want you to think this was a chore.  Once we had established our routine, she was a delight and we grew very close.  From early on it was clear that she was highly intelligent.  She learned in a flash and by the age of three was reading and writing fluently.  She had many talents but dance was her speciality and every evening I watched, filled with pride, as she flitted around her room with an airy grace, her silhouette mimicking every move.

By this time, there was just the two of us.  Albert hadn’t been able to get used to the idea that she had special needs and his love for me wasn’t strong enough.

“Children must fit in with their parents, not the other way round.” This became his  mantra, and one that I constantly ignored.   At last, during yet another row and infuriated by my adamance, a blood red tide suffused his face. “She’s an aberration” he roared.  Afterwards, he apologised but it was too late. The word was out and hung between us like a dagger of ice.  He left a few weeks later.  I think he thought I would grovel for him to return but he was wrong.  I had my daughter now and she was enough.             

              Meriel knew that she’d been adopted.  I remember the evening I told her. I was sitting in my armchair listening to the music of the fire as it sang in the grate and Meriel was sitting in her usual spot, behind the sofa.  Her head was bent and she was crayoning furiously. I chose my moment. The dark had already stolen the light from the sky and I knew she would be in a good mood, this was her favourite time.

I patted the seat beside me.  “Come and sit next to me sweetness, I have something to tell you.”

She looked up but she didn’t move.  Then she looked towards the fire and I knew what was wrong.  She wasn’t afraid of much but she hated the orange sparks of flame that spat from the coals with a crack as loud as a pistol shot.

So, I went to her and crouched down to her level.  I looked at what she was drawing, a black and crenelated castle straining against a purple sky. I marvelled at the detail and wondered where she had seen such a sight.  Then, with an effort, I returned to my task.

“Although I couldn’t love you more, Meriel, I have to tell you that I am not your birth mother.”

“I know.” She didn’t look up from her drawing.

How could she possibly know?  But I didn’t challenge her, perhaps this was the way she channelled information.

So, I told her about the orphanage and my lips formed the old adage that she was a “chosen” child and that I loved her and had never regretted my “choice”.  On her part, she asked just one question.

“Where did I come from?”

“I don’t know darling.  I wasn’t told and I wanted you so much, it didn’t seem necessary to ask.”

This seemed to satisfy her and we never spoke of it again.

I knew that there were difficulties ahead.  Soon I would be forced to send her to school and she would detest that. Although she was now used to normal ‘office’ hours, she still hated the sun and refused to leave the house if it was shining.  Even on dull days she insisted on long sleeves and kept a nervous eye on the sky.  Also, on the rare occasions we visited the playground, she avoided other children and this worried me. I wanted her to socialise and not be ‘the odd one out.’ 

When the time came, surprisingly, we had very few problems.  I had already primed her class teacher that she suffered from a skin complaint, aggravated by the sun, and arranged that she should not go out at playtimes.  I also said that she had food allergies and should only eat the packed meal I would prepare for her.  I didn’t mention that her sandwiches were filled with raw liver, because I knew that would be found strange.  

Her other classmates seemed to accept that she was different and largely left my little girl, sitting swaddled in dark clothing at the back of the class, to her own devices.  Meriel was quite happy with this.  She was entranced by the school’s library and was rarely seen without a book.  Due to her superior intellect, she’d hoovered up the children’s section in no time and was now working her way through the junior adults.

Her class teacher, Miss Read, although slightly baffled by her odd pupil, was quite amenable.  She did, however, voice her concern about Meriel’s social skills.

“It’s not that she’s unpopular, it’s just that the other children avoid her. And, she in turn, avoids them. Would a birthday party help, do you think?”

Meriel would soon be turning six, so this seemed a good idea but when I suggested it, her eyebrows drew together and she shook her head so violently her hair rose up and swarmed around her head.

“No. No party. No one would come. They hate me.”

“Why do they hate you Meriel?”

“Once a girl gave me a sweet and I was sick all over her.  And they say my sandwiches stink.”

“Why did you eat the sweet? You know they disagree with you.”

She looked at me and I shall never forget that look.  Her eyes were so full of sorrow and anguish that I knew that I would protect her forever, with my life if necessary.

“I think they are afraid of me. And, I ate the sweet because I wanted to be like them.”

It was in secondary school that things came to a head.  I knew that puberty would be difficult and I had already sensed a difference in Meriel.  Restlessness, evasion, an inability to meet my eyes, these were just some of the changes I noticed.  In the mornings I would find her bed hardly slept in and she grew picky with her food, although I made sure I gave her all her favourites, raw beefsteak and entrails so fresh they were almost steaming.

One morning, the telephone rang and I rushed to answer it.  It rang so rarely I knew it was important and my thoughts flew to Meriel.   Sure enough, it was the headmistress.  They wanted me to come immediately.  Meriel had attacked a fellow pupil.

I followed the sound of sobbing as I hurried down the corridor. Through the open door of an office, I caught sight of a tumble of glossy curls and the slim column of a young girl’s neck, as white as alabaster - except for the blood. 

We were lucky. The parents didn’t want to take further action; the girl had a history of bullying and had been in trouble before.  The biter bit, I couldn’t help thinking as I sat in the headmistresses’ study.  The school were also more than happy with my suggestion that Meriel be home-schooled.  I chose the tutor. A squat, middle aged individual, whose jowls seemed to fit squarely between his shoulders. There would be no temptation there.

Above me, I can hear the faint shuffle of feet whispering across the floor.  Meriel is dancing, as she does every evening and her appetite will be good. I worry that soon I won’t be enough for her.  I know that old Dr Sanders is concerned about my iron levels and has prescribed Vitamin B Tablets.  He says that it’s just a matter of age but I know better and am taking double the dose.  I take off the scarf that I habitually wear and start to cream my neck which is both wrinkled and deeply scarred. Nevertheless, every evening I religiously apply emollients and afterwards dust it with the finest of powders.  I lower the lamp and in the half-light my neck looks almost normal. Satisfied for now, I dare not think about the future, I sit and wait for my daughter to come to me.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 Finding the Perfect Pet

Sis Unsworth

I often thought I’d like a pet, but not sure what to choose

to give something a loving home, that has to be good news.

At first I thought about a dog, but then found a few flaws

we do go out an awful lot, and he’ll have to stay indoors

but then I thought about, a friendly homely cat.

But my family visit with their dogs, so it puts an end to that.

What about a hamster, that may be just right

However they’re nocturnal, and we’d only meet at night

I thought about a budgie, now I’ve reached a certain age

But I never liked to see a bird, trapped inside a cage.

At last I’ve found my perfect pet, In fact he just found me

he’s environmentally Friendly, I’m sure that you’ll agree.

He stays at home when we go out, and doesn’t mind at all

We don’t even have to feed him, or like a dog play ball

He doesn’t pollute the atmosphere, and helps with climate change

and also cant get cat flue, and never get the mange

He really is the ideal pet, but now I’m filled with gloom

I think he may be leaving me, as winter coming soon

Some may find him scary, while others may just laugh

We call him ‘Sid the Spider’, & he lives above our bath.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 The Three Tuns

By Jane Scoggins

It had been a long time since I had set foot in the Three Tuns. Years in fact, and what a transformation. A lot of the old features had been kept but it was now one of those trendy gastropubs. All pale greys, chrome, and discreet well placed lighting. I had to admit it did look good, but a bit of me thought it a bit of a shame that the old pub with its stained walls, dusty beams, and murky corners was lost in time together with my memories. I went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and a ham sandwich, and went to sit in the dimmest corner I could find and take it all in while waiting for my sandwich. The old open fireplace was still there but spruced up and with a log burner installed. The wonky floorboards had been replaced and the old tapestry style fabric on the chairs, benches and corner couches refurbished with a royal blue velvety fabric. I ran my hand over the seat and had to admit it did all look rather smart. I was on my way to visit my Mum’s sister Auntie May. She lived in the village. I had told her I would not need lunch and would arrive early afternoon. She was over eighty now and I didn't want her to be bothered with preparing a meal, so thought I would pop into the pub that had been my haunt back in the day. The pub had been closed for a few years and with no buyers offering to take it on it had taken a shrewd brewery eventually to buy it when they saw that two small housing estates on the other side of the village were being built. Auntie May had come to live in the village after her divorce when I was about seventeen. I was very fond of her. She was a lot of fun, in a way that my Mum was not. She was an art teacher and much more happy-go-lucky than my rather more straight-laced mother who worked in something corporate that I never really understood. I did love her and she loved me, but not in the cuddly carefree sort of way that Auntie May did.  So from my late teens, I visited her quite regularly at weekends. As I finished my gin and tonic I mused on the memory of my first alcoholic drink in a pub at aged 18. It had been right here at the Three Tuns with May. The bartender brought over my sandwich. As I tucked into it my eyes roved around the room and reminded me of all sorts of memories and encounters within these walls whenever I had visited. Auntie May would often come with me and I would meet some of her friends. Sometimes I would go by myself and chat to whoever was there. It was a very friendly pub and the same locals went there year after year. Surrounded by the blue velvet chair coverings prompted a memory of a girl I had once met there in the pub one evening when I was much younger. I remember it as I was visiting May on that occasion to tell her all about my new job. I was sitting in the corner, in fact, the same corner I was sitting in now and hadn't noticed in the gloom that a girl was sitting nearby. I smiled at her in surprise and she smiled back, and then we got talking. It was that sort of friendly pub where it was easy to start chatting to people around you. I told her I was visiting my Auntie May and introduced myself. She introduced herself as Amy.  She said her father had once been the landlord here. The reason I was prompted by the blue velvet to think of her was because over her maxi skirt she wore a long blue velvet coat very similar to the colour of the new seat cover, with pretty buttons down the front and at the cuffs. It was really beautiful. She had long wavy light brown hair that swung across her face from time to time. Every so often her hand would go up to push it aside and there would be a tinkle from the collection of thin Indian bracelets on her wrist as they jangled against each other. She was probably in her early twenties and her boho look reminded me of myself years earlier when I dressed like her and bought my clothes in Carnaby St and Camden market. I was quite taken by her.  During our conversation, I told her I had traveled quite a lot before settling down to a proper job. She said she had hoped to travel too but her situation had changed and she had not managed to get away, after all, she seemed sad so I didn't want to ask her any more about the circumstances in case it was something awful like her mother had died. I didn't feel I knew her well enough to ask, and selfishly I didn't want to dampen the enjoyable mood of the evening. She asked me about the places I had visited and the adventures I had had had traveling. I was happy to oblige and there had been quite a few to recount. Amy listened intently and said she wished she could do the same. She said that her father had refused to let her go and insisted he needed her to help out at the pub.  He got stressed about her leaving and sometimes drank too much. She said he had hidden her passport at one point. She had tried rebelling but it had ended badly.  I asked about her Mum. She said she had left her Dad when he began drinking too much. She had met someone else and moved out knowing that Amy was also planning to leave too and travel abroad. Of course, I tried to convince her to try again reminding her that she was of an age when she could make her own decisions and do as she pleased even if it meant going against her father. She did not reply and looked upset so I changed the subject. I was going home the next day but on the next couple of visits, I looked out for Amy but didn’t see her again. I hoped she had managed to get away on her travels. Time passed, I got married. I smiled to myself as I took one last look at the blue velvet upholstery and remembered the old-style pub of my younger days. When I got to Mays cottage I asked her if she had been to the new-look Three Tuns.

‘Occasionally, but not often, bit posh now isn't it, she said.

 And then she told me the story of the refurbishment and how it had taken so long because of the damp in the cellar and dry rot in the timbers. The cellar had been enormous and taken a while to clear, still had some of the old wooden casks, hence the name The Three Tuns. Apparently, in the very old days, they had brewed their own ale and spirits down there. Due to the damp conditions the water company had had to dig deep to renew pipes and in doing so had dug up bones. It had been in all the local papers as the bones were human. It took some time to identify the bones as that of Amy Parsons whose father had run the pub over 40 years ago He had been known to be a drinker and eventually he had been dismissed by the brewery and died a few years later. He left the pub in a poor condition and was closed as business had been poor. As far as everyone knew the daughter had gone off traveling or gone to live with her Mum. Apparently not though. She had been murdered and had lain there, maybe for 40 years, Beside the body were some little Indian bracelets and the remains of what could have been a passport. This would all have happened before May came to the village. Amy’s bones had since been buried in the churchyard. That afternoon I walked to the churchyard and looked for the little stone plaque set in the grass at the side of the church. It read Here lies Amy Parsons. May she rest In Peace now and forever.

There was no one about so I said aloud.

 ‘It was good to meet you Amy, even though you were a ghost. I am glad you were found and put here to rest in the churchyard. I'm sorry you never got to travel’

 Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

A Picture Haiku ~ Tanka 1 

By Robert Kingston