Skimpy Scrawlings

At a risk of my blog entries getting all samie,
I’m writing a poem for my girlfriend Jaime,
A few weeks ago, this chick of mine,
Turned the venerable age of twenty something,

She gave me some jip; twas no ode in her card,
I said, Pet, I’m no performing bard,
I don’t always know if the Muses are there,
But right about now, I’ve got oodles to spare.

She walks the earth on gorgeous pins,
And next to her other girls smell like the bins,
There is no compare; she is like no other,
But right about now, the funk soul brother.

She’s got luscious hair and is fair of face,
With a slender body like a young Lorraine Chase,
Throw in a bum like the Taj Mahal,
She’s as hot as a vindaloo, even a phal.

But the truest of beauty comes from inside,
And her heart is big and long and wide,
She is generous to a bloody fault,
Of this earth she is the salt.

Once you’ve known her for a while,
You start to miss her beaming smile,
She’s as clumsy as a baby giraffe,
But always follows with a laugh.

I never worry ‘bout worldly harms,
When I hold her in my arms,
And though there is much more to say,
I’ll keep it simple; Happy Birthday!

See you very soon, babe X

A sunbeam fell down from the sky
The apple of her father’s eye
A tiny angel with legs of oak
Arrived to bless us mortal folk

And thus the life of Jean began
Proudly begot of Vera and Stan
Their little daughter was so gracious
But her appetite alarming, and voracious

She ate with the gusto of a health pony
Pilchards, peas and pepperoni
Nothing escaped our little Jeanie
From leftover dog food to fettuccine

The siblings arrived, one by one
Helen, Philip then John and Joanne
She bathed us all in love and embraces
Feeding us biscuits and washing our faces

With Scamp and Paddy, Pip and Sam
In her warmth we all happily swam
And when down our faces, tears did stream
We’d always run to our Jean

But our little Jean is no ordinary girl
Amongst us swine, she is a pearl
There are no bounds to her love and compassion
Only our food she has attempted to ration

Never upset her while she’s grazing
She’ll turn on you with eyes a-blazing
And what can cause that halo to slip?
Having the temerity to pinch a chip

Throughout this life our Jean has shown
A tendency to be accident prone
An incident with a Bunsen burner
Left her looking a little like Tina Turner

She finally left the family bed
And went where angels fear to tread
With her dazzling smile and backpack full
Jean descended to the depths of Hull

She travelled wide, and we all missed her
Although often shadowed by her sister
The world is most certainly a better place
Blessed by Jean’s bi-lingual grace

Jean supports us, loves us and doesn’t judge
And never been known to hold a grudge
Knowing Jean is to be enriched
Which explains why Gary was so bewitched

Yes, the handsome Gary arrived on the scene
And it soon became obvious he was keen on Jean
It was also clear, the longer they dated
That Gary’s love was being reciprocated

But Gary was not the very first love
Of our beautiful cherub from above
Two came first before this elegant beau
Mr Smirnoff and Pinot Grigio

The stork flew by and it was no folly
That it dropped off Katie, then our Ollie
And in the eye of Jean, as ever fair
Was not an apple, but a perfect pair

A final thought for her proud father Stan
Whom the beautiful Jean made a happy man
A few this night may shed a quiet tear
But I have a feeling, he might just be here.


Written by Philip & John in celebration of Jean’s 50th Birthday on the 12th of November 2006.

I was honoured recently to be the right hand man of Sean Francis Conroy at his nuptials and as such, it fell to me to ensure that his day went smoothly and without a hitch. This was, quite frankly, a vain hope and it didn’t take me long to stamp my mark on proceedings. As we milled around outside the church it suddenly hit me that the two giant button-holes that should have been adorning Sean and my good self were in fact adorning Sean’s kitchen table. Rachael kindly lent me her car keys and with a cool head I haired out the church, through the car-park where the car was handily placed and onto the streets of Hebburn. I then scampered ineffectually up and down the same patch of road for a while, in the vain hope that the car would miraculously spring up through a hole in the ground. Were it not for a passing saviour, (Thank you Sarah), I might still be there now.

All this was forgotten when the beautiful Kerry glided into the church on the arm of her father. Is there ever a happier sight? I could see the awe in Sean’s face as he gazed at the vision before him and it wasn’t lost on me either – Her auld man did look great in a suit. But it was Kerry who was the fairest blossom that day, the rest of us mere weeds starving in her shadow. I have to admit that my usual stoic, stony-faced demeanour crumbled as I saw Sean imperceptibly rest his hand onto the hand of his new wife as the service was drawing to a close.

One of my tasks was to ensure that a special gift (bought by Sean for Kerry) was transported to the reception hotel after the service. It was as we approached this hotel in our reet posh old Bentleys that I realised that the prezzie was safely holed up in Sean’s house. I slumped back in the seat, reflecting on the prescience of Kevin’s telegram as it nestled in my pocket.

“Best Wishes to you Sean and Kerry on your special day. Hope Sainty doesn’t mess it up”.

Happily the day was perfect. A real humdinger of a wedding, choc-full of great people. As the night drew to a riotous close, I reflected on it all and was filled with a massive feeling of warmth, partly due to the fact that one of my oldest friends had honoured me by making me his best man and partly due to the fact that he’d bought me an i-pod nano for doing it.

In return, I give this…

Yes Sean he is my pal of old,
A man you cannot measure,
And now his story must be told,
So listen at your leisure.

Brought together by our Mams,
I wish you could have seen us,
But as we gurgled in our prams,
A barrier lay between us.

It loomed above and stood so tall,
A presence so entrenched,
It wasn’t quite the Berlin Wall,
More the Bamburgh Fence.

But Sean he had two evil twins,
Yes each one was a bugger,
They armed us both with lolly-sticks,
To dig for Dougal’s sugar.

And so a bond in stone was hewn,
Through rain and hail and thunder,
From the foggy banks of Castle New,
To the merry Land of Sunder.

Through most our lives we were good lads,
And rarely played with fire,
But Mr. Conroy saved my back,
In a fight with a black Maria.

Yet man can’t live on bread alone,
Or even syrup and marge,
And when Sean first saw Kerry Maine,
She filled him with a charge.

And so it came their marriage day,
In October, on day seven,
Upon an angel we did gaze,
Near Martha’s Vineyard, Hebburn.

Yes Sean he is my pal of old,
A man you cannot measure,
And now the story has been told,
He has his Dougal’s treasure.

See you both soon, Conroys. X

is "Fingal the Llama's stripey beret".
SIZE LARGE

Two old friends about to embark on new journies (not together, like). A very significant weekend awaits us. My love you and yours, Kerry and Lisa.

Will speak more of this very soon.

X

So I disappeared for a while. Mam’s birthday, although geographically only a few inches away, is actually months ago now. It was Kathy Bates. She’s had me holed up in her shed in Penge and threatened to Chinese-burn my ankles if I didn’t carry on writing chapters of “Mr McJumper’s Jam Factory”. I had originally killed off a character that was close to her heart and she took severe umbrage. Not really sure why. He was a minor character called Funt who spent most of his time hanging round the bins dressed as Louis Pasteur. Anyway, she seemed to think that, “the book’s plot progression is intrinsically hinged on Funt’s disengaged refuse-orientated activities”. I couldn’t see this link personally and so escaped by sneaking out, bit by bit, through my own nose while she wasn’t looking.

Also I am forced to answer the withering comment left by my esteemed blogging compatriot, Kevin Chicken Feet III regarding an the meeting of my sister Joanne and web usability stud, Jakob "The Fonz" Nielsen. He is in no way overrated and I would go as far as saying that he is the sole reason must of us haven't all had our eyes poked out by bad internets. Anyway, our lass ensured that future generations will surf in safety by laying a big fat hug on the man himself, imbuing him with such an enormous sense well-being that he vowed a new and holy crusade. Amazing guy. Amazing chops.

And while I am at it, Mr Kevin's mother, Philip, hypnotised me into bidding for a three-foot high brown gorilla at a local auction. I went in there with specific instruction not to go anywher near it but after a seemingly innocent discussion with Mrs O'Mall, I felt a strange yearning rising in me. My fate was sealed. She is by day a salve for the tortured mind, a cooling balm for stricken soul as she pursues her angelic vocation, unselfishly giving of her time and sweat so that others may traverse the assault course of life with a hand at their shoulder. At the weekend she makes you buy monkies.

Keep safe amigos X

My Mam is 75 on friday. Also my brother Phil's Mam is 75 as well so we're taking her on a trip to Prog in the Czech Reprobate with Phil's new-world family (Rachet, Eye-sac and Is-it-a-bell). This trip will be glorious celebration of Vera's life so far and once we decide the mode of transport to the airport, all will be well. I'd prefer to take the hydrofoil but everyone else wants to walk there on mountian bikes.

Mam was etched out of the finest North East granite in 1931. You can actually still make statues of her by dropping molten copper into the reconstructed cliff wall left over from her creation. Mere physical frailties and ailments bounce and perish as they attempt to enter the Fort Knox that is her constitution. She has a shock of hair which generates so much static electricity that it has the Bermuda triangle looking on enviously as U-boats and guillemots fly headlong into its deadly gravitivity. Poems of Veronic celebration write themselves unchecked, leaping into life from same potent ether...

Oh happy birthday Vera,
True image like no other,
Everyone can here 'er,
Especially me and my brother.

Florence it comes next year,
For Beany, Bags and wor Pigs,
Though I heard it smells of dog hair,
A dump that is just like Stig's.

And so let's raise a glass,
I'm sure she won't be miffed,
Happy Birthday Mother,
On your seventy fifth!

All our love, Mam, as always

X

I've got a really fit bird with long legs and a great ass.


Speak soon babe. X

So I went to two weddings in two days the other week. The first was the grand union of Clodagh and Martin over in Northern Ireland. The actual marrying part of the gig was in a fantastic church in Ballycastle and the reception was in Ballymena. I asked my co-travellers what 'Bally' meant, local boys as they are with brains like steel-traps and tongues as sharp is stanley knives. Not one of them knew the answer. It's a anglicisation of the gaelic word 'baile' which means 'town', you thick fecking eejits!

The wedding was great and anybody who's remotely interested can check out Murphy's totally undistorted collection of piccies here. It's difficult to sum up the how brilliant the whole thing was when there are so many verbally gifted gobshites over in Belfast who can do it so much better, so I suggest you ask one of them. If you are from outside of N. Irelend, record the answer on a dictaphone and play it back again and again until the batteries begin to wear down and when this happens, the voices will slow down to a speed and tone understandable to the human ear. Patience is required but it will be worth the trouble.

For my part, I offer this...

And so they got married, Martin and Clodagh,
She looked gorgeous, you should've seen her
They went together like whiskey and soda,
As they Bally'd from Castle to Mena.

I felt so honoured, as grand as it sounds
Of this day we'll all talk often,
They both make you feel like a million pounds,
And that's the wonder of them.

Thangyouverymuch and my warmest wishes again to the Cassidys.

I gate-crashed the other wedding the next day and instead of rambling, will hand over to Young Omal Speaks for a description. Naomi and Brad kindly enivited me to the evening do and all I had to do was send a tonsilitis bug to Liverpool and Bob's yer uncle, I wangled a seat for the speechies and eaties.

A message to both of you; I can tell already that you will be together for life so all I can say is that I look forward to a sharing another camping trip with you, near a housing estate round the corner from wherever Kevin is living at the time.

Goodnight my sweets.