Month: May 2015

Herbal Tea

Together we sit here and drink herbal tea.
We talk to each other but not verbally.

You and me and herbal tea.

I watch how you drink your cup of herbal tea.
You sip it and slurp it so superbably.

You and the way you drink your herbal tea.

Your cupboards flow over with herbal tea.
To say that you love it is not hyperbole.

You and your cupboards of herbal tea.

I much prefer hot Vimto to herbal tea.
That you never stock it often perturbs me.

Me and hot Vimto and herbal tea.

So we sit with our endless cups of herbal tea.
Each minute which passes an eternity.

You and me in an eternity of herbal tea.

Footballers’ Hair

Footballers’ hair
floats with the majestic grace of a swan
through the air.

Footballers’ hair
which is unkempt or tousled or dirty
is rare.

Footballers’ hair
bounces and flounces and announces itself
with flamboyance and flair.

Footballers’ hair
makes grown men weep when its lopped off locks
lie abandoned by the stylist’s chair.

Footballers’ hair
is brushed and blow dried and brylcreemed
with care.

Footballers’ hair
when muddied from footballs is the cause
of despair.

For footballers’ hair
is more hallowed and holy
than the Lord’s Prayer.

Biscuits: A Love Sonnet

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Splendorous hobnobs, bourbons, custard creams
arrive unbidden in my nightly dreams
and occupy the waking thoughts of days.
I love to dunk thee in my cup of tea
at breakfast time and at elevenses,
at three o’clock and half-past sevenses,
and at supper time thou dost comfort me.
Thou art there for me and never grumble,
thou make me feel like I’m not a misfit,
thou dost pick me up whene’er I stumble.
For thee, the whole of my life I’d risk it,
for I love the way that cookies crumble
and none shall take my beloved biscuit.


I hereby declare this is the last but one
will and testament of Brian Herbert Bilston.

The full contents of my kitchen drawer,
some string, a spoon, a broken straw,
I bequeath to cousin Theodore.

My 1982 Trevor Francis Football Annual,
(contains a profile of his cocker spaniel),
I bequeath to my nephew, Daniel. 

A pristine edition of Naomi Campbell’s Swan,
unread, unopened, with its cellophane on,
I bequeath to my strange Uncle Ron.

My signed photo of Sharon Davies,
which was blu-tacked to my wall for ages,
I bequeath to dear Auntie Mavis.

My belly button fluff (March 86 to June 89),
a particularly favourite crop of mine,
I bequeath to cousin Caroline.

Nik Kershaw’s The Riddle on twelve inch vinyl,
once accidentally dropped in a pub urinal,
I bequeath to my best friend Lionel.

My poems, my novels and other writing,
all those endless hours of typing,
I bequeath to the bin for recycling.

The Chelsea Flower Show Massacre

There was death amongst the daffodils
the day Fleur took her secateurs
and ran amok through the flock
of haughty culturalists in the Chelsea gardens
without so much as a beg your pardon.

Roses were red, violets were too,
ears were sheared, nosegays chopped,
toes trimmed and green fingers lopped,
as Fleur took the lawn into her own hands
and mowed them all down.

Even the failure of Lady Pru’s azalea bed
became overshadowed by the trail of dead
and the herbaceous borders
filled up with her slaughters.

There was carnage in the carnations,
annihilation amidst the anemones,
hysteria in the wisteria,
nastiness in the nasturtiums.

Nobody could remember
a flower show bloodier.

Someone had even been nipped
in the buddleia.

Clarkson Apologist

Reader, please beware
of the Clarkson apologist.

Here’s how you can find out
if you’ve got one in your midst.

He’s the kind of man who says
global warming does not exist.

Defends his golf club’s ban on women
then claims he’s not sexist.

He illustrates homosexuality
through the limpness of a wrist.

Still talks about the two world wars
and then clenches his right fist.

Bemoans the bloody immigrants
of which his England now consists.

Every night he drives home
his terrain response Range Rover pissed.

I could go on
but I’m sure you get the gist.

First They Came

First they came for the origamists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not an origamist.

Then they came for the sports shop assistants
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a sports shop assistant.

Then they came for the Mexican entymologists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Mexican entymologist.

Then they came for the Michael Jackson impersonators
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Michael Jackson impersonator.

Then they came for the recycling
And I did not speak out
Because it was the right day for the recycling to be taken.

Then they came for Katie Hopkins
And I did not speak out
But merely pointed at the cupboard in which she was hiding.

Then they came for the mime artists
And I did not speak out
Because I was a mime artist.

Then they came for me
But my mum spoke out
And told them to go away.

a forest, which grew

a trail of parsnips along the floor
was all it took to lure
the sons out of their caravan door

where mumford was, i wasn’t sure

bundling the sons out of my van,
i planted them in tubs of manure,
watered them daily,
played them the banjo
and ukulele,
and watched them grow
in the golden glow
of a late summer afternoon

gazed upon the long limbs
lazing up to an incipient moon,
the entangled bramble of beards immune
to the unforgiving snip
of the shears that prune

mighty sons of mumford,
fifty feet high,
stretching up into the pale night sky

Eat Your Hat

There’s nothing tastier than a hat,
everybody knows that.

They’re good for her
and good for him,
they give you added fizz and vim,
they fill you up
to the brim.

You don’t have to be a hatter
or a platypus
to know a hat-filled platter
must matter
more than asparagus.

Start your day
with a bowler tricorneflakes
and see the difference
that eating a hat makes.

To accompany your baked beanies,
murder a homburger,
a pork pie hat,
or a spam o’shanter.
Wash it down
with a can o’fanta.*

Get your palate clean
with a Sombrero ice cream
or a raspberet sorbet
with a bonbon bonnet
upon it.

*Other fezzy drinks are available.