Snooker poem - first draft!

And here's a poem on snooker I've been sitting on for a while. Enjoy

Snooker (By Malcolm Head)

Foul and a miss, an easy red,

Ebdon fingers a scab on his head,

Snooker’s the game…

Some smooth cueing from Mark Williams opens up the table,

Reds sparse, colours on their spots, Williams as concentrated as an owl at nightfall,

Graeme Dott coughs onto the collar of his waistcoat, and sips at his water nervously,

Whilst in the commentary box John Virgo thinks about Jim Davidson

A makeable pink, a missable black,

John Parrot is on the attack!

Snooker’s the game…

“Shot to nothing” says Dennis Taylor, scratching the frame of his iconic glasses with a blistered thumb,

“You say that” says Willie Thorne, “but if it drops, it’ll be a shot to something all right!”

Taylor shakes his head and mumbles something off mic in Thorne’s direction,

Thorne gets his phone out and types a message that begins with “please - no quorn mince”

But then deletes it and returns his attention to the match

Tight to the cushion, touching ball,
The Referee must make an important call,
Snooker's the game...

Ronnie O'Sullivan misses a simple red through sheer complacency as he starts playing left-handed, which quite frankly is insulting to his opponent Ken Doherty and the game itself,
Marco Fu hiccups and then finds an unlikely plant,
Much to the frustration of John Higgins who crushes a handful of bombay mix in his pocket,
John Virgo bites into a cheese sandwich and nods in approval;
"In ten years, Asia will be the heart of snooker. Asia. That's the future"

Out of position, a safety shot,
Jimmy White chances a risky pot,
Snooker's the game


I'll post the other half soon brethren. I bid you adieu

M

Snowed under...

So... There I was 3 weeks ago. Feet up, PC on and a tall glass of Robinsons in front of me ready for blogging. Then I had a call. A call that no-one wants to get...

'Malcolm? Malcolm' says an unfamiliar voice. Auntie June. Auntie June? But heavens, why?
'I'm up in Scotland with Linda. But I've just had a call from Roy. It's the snow Malcolm... He's in trouble...'
'What kind of trouble?' I said angrily. 'For the love of seeded bread, what happened?'
A melodramatic pause...
'He fell asleep in the shed. Woke up. Then couldn't get back out. He's stuck in his shed. We're ever so worried...'

I hung up the phone without saying another word. Which in hindsight I regret. And I immediately cleared the driveway and filled the Skoda with supplies. Sustenance. The very things that could save my life. 'Don't leave your home unless absolutely necessary' the sky news presenter said apocalypitically. This was going to be one heck of a journey. I mean they only live just the other side of Tilbury. On a good run you could get there in 45 minutes. But in these arctic conditions it was like jogging to Alaska. But I had to get to Uncle Roy...

4 hours later I arrived. And the only radio station I could get was Radio 1. I listened to a Scottish woman called Edith Bowman for about 10 minutes and then decided upon silence for the remaining 3 hours and 50

I removed the snow and in the shed I found Roy eating a pink wafer, reading a copy of News of the World from the early 90s. He was shaken up but ok....

With this, I decided to take annual leave from Kent Police museum for a couple of weeks. I stayed with Roy for a few days until June returned, and took the oppourtunity to visit the National Motorboat Museum in Basildon. It seemed daft to go all that way and not visit the nation's foremost collection of motorboats

So unfortunately the poetry has taken a back seat. But I have started to draft something. Inspired by Roy. Something about men in general. What makes them tick? Roy's a proud man; what my father often referred to as 'a man's man'; by which I mean he's an alpha male (not a homosexual). Anyway it got the creative juices flowing. Here's the first line. More soon...

A Man (By Malcolm Head)

A man in a pub talks to his baby with a silly voice. He stops when he notices 3 men walking past talking about hammers


Enjoy your day, whatever you're doing. And avoid Edith Bowman if you can! I'm kidding, I'm sure she's very nice. Just not my cup of tea. And please, if you're from The Sittingbourne Herald, this is not an attack on the Scottish. The fact that she's Scottish is of no consequence, I was irked purely by her abilities as a Disc Jockey, which were below par at best

M

Christ it's Christmas!

Just tucking into a pickled egg and thought I’d thrash out some more ideas for the Christmas Collection. I actually haven’t got many specifically Christmas themed numbers in there yet, so I’m officially giving myself the proverbial kick up the bottom!

Moreover, it's a rhyming number (I won't mention names but there's been some criticism of my supposed inability to write poems that rhyme. I've said it once, and I'll say it again; I generally write without rhymes not because I can't rhyme but because I feel that they constrict my creativity. So John Gritton from Kent Police website guestbook, take a look at this. Read it and weep my friend...)

Christ it’s Christmas! (By Malcolm Head)

'Santa Stop Here' say signs in front gardens,
A mother surrounds the turkey with bacon lardons,
Glynn from Big Brother 7 turns the lights on in Chester,
A large woman cheers, she's come all the way from Leicester!

It’s getting cold, the shops are open til 9,

We’d better get ready for Christmas time…

'Yule Log!' Says Alan, to his dear Wife Sue
'Nonsense' she replies, 'Swiss Roll will do'
'But it's not the same' says Alan again,
He kicks the supermarket trolley, and walks off with disdain

Have you got all your presents? I haven't got mine!
We'd better get ready for Christmas time...

An old-fashioned man chews on a nut,
An unruly child points at his gut,
A War veteran and his Grandson sit and watch Twister,
'This is crap' he says, 'Go get your sister'

The presents laid out, line after line,
We'd better get ready for Christmas time...

Neighbour Martin peers in at the Christmas Day spread,
'Who's he?' says Graham, 'Is he daft in the head?'
'His parents are Jehovahs' replies Uncle Herbert,
'Well shut up the curtains. He's got the face of a pervert'

We'd better get ready for Christmas time...


A tweak here and there and this one's done. A sneak preview of this year's collection. And further proof that John Gritton's nothing but a bitter old fool

19th Century Truncheons and not so clever Trevor...

Well, another day, another dollar. Or as I like to say at the moment, another day, another set of 19^th century truncheons to be cleaned and restored!

It’s been a busy day at Kent Police Museum, but a good one. As the history section on our official website says (http://www.kent-police-museum.co.uk/core_pages/history.shtml) ‘The history of the Police in the United Kingdom is long and interesting.’ And by Christ it is.

However, the evening thus far has not been quite as relaxing as I had hoped…

It had been going well. Macaroni cheese and a crème caramel. Few pages of Mcnab (‘Aggressor’ – I have to look away from the book at times just to remind myself I’m not being shot at, it’s that realistic!). Then I ran a bath and put on Wet Wet Wet (no pun intended! Honestly, it wasn’t until I was in the bath that I realised. Had a Hell of a chortle) Most pleasant

Unfortunately, my neighbour Trevor has recently attached a basketball ring to the top of his garage to play with his son Hamish (Using a power-drill he borrowed from me I might add. Yet to be returned…). Now there’s nothing wrong with that per se. I have a fervent dislike of American sports but that’s just me (baseball’s just an uncultured, barbaric version of cricket, and American football is an abomination). But what is unacceptable, is for a sport of this nature to take place so late at night. I was just winding down when it started and it’s still going now. Frankly it’s a disgrace. Nothing quite like the ignorant thud of American sports to crush the sweet, jazzy tones of Marti Pellow. My bath was ruined…

Trevor’s pushing his luck with his noise pollution. I’ve told him before, I’ve warned him. Any more nonsense and I’m going straight to the editor of the Horsmonden Cryer. And that’s that.

More poetry soon comrades. Just needed to get that off my chest. We used to be quite close, Trevor and I. But he’s changed. Much like this country has…  

Boot Sale

Evening All!

Just got back from a Car Boot Sale in West-Malling and am supping on a well-deserved large cup of ovaltine as I type! Went over with my neighbour Trevor. He didn't have anything to sell himself but just came along for the ride. Said he wasn't in the market for anything. Famous last words! Ended up buying himself Neil Diamond's greatest hits and Dunston Checks In on VHS! Didn't offer any money for petrol though, which was dissapointing. It's not the money itself, it's the principle. Especially given the large inheritance he's just picked up following his mother's death. God rest her soul. But other than that and the comical prices for a bacon sandwich (£4!) it was a terrific day.
But it did get me thinking... have boot sales, or rather, boot sale sales, been affected by the recession? On the basis of what I saw at West-Malling today, I'd be a damned fool if I didn't say yes.

I've started drafting a poem on the subject. Here's what I've got so far:

A boot in the face (By Malcolm Head)

A man with a large birth-mark on his face. I recognise him,
Seller of novelty hats and caps. Happy-go-lucky,
Or at least he was,
'It's at least 3 pound for the Ayrton Senna cap' he says, scowling at a bearded customer,
'I could buy a brand spanker for 4! You must think I was born yesterday' replies the customer
'4 for a brand new Ayrton! World's gone mad' says the birth-marked seller, shaking his head.

It's tough out there...

'How much for the dog?' asks a man with a lazy eye to another seller,
'Ted's not for sale' says the seller dismissively, rubbing Ted's moist chin,
'There's a price for everything. How much?' He asks again
'I'm not selling Ted. I'm selling Jigsaws and board games sir. Boggle?'
'Name your price...'
'Fine. 350...'
'Ha. Too much. Thanks anyway' says the man, and he trots away
The seller's wife approaches her husband, distressed
'I can't believe you'd sell Ted. He's a thoroughbred'

It's tough out there...


Like I say, a work in progress. Needs tightening. But heck Rome wasn't built in a day. It was effectively built over several hundred years. This just needs another couple of verses. It won't quite be Rome, but it might just make my Christmas anthology, which incidentally, will be out on December 12th, and available in the following Stores:

Mace in Tonbridge
SnackAttack in Groombridge
Bargain Booze in Pembury
Dillons Newsagent in Paddock Wood

Bye for now folks, and wrap up warm! Gordon Bennett it's getting colder by the day!

Hello world!

I am something of a technophobe. So I've avoided the blogosphere like the plague. But as many people found out in the 14th century, the plague was difficult to avoid. And so is blogging. So here I am friends...
I'm a South-West Kent based museum archivist and performance poet. No doubt I'll blog about the specifics in the future, but what I want to do in these blogs is essentially 2 things:

1) Give a taster of some of my work. My poetry in process and my newest ideas for poems. To give a flavour of the mind of a working poet
2) Give my take on the biggest issues being faced today, not just globally but nationally and locally. And everywhere else in between. Sure I'll talk about the effects of the global recession on government policy, but I'll also talk about how it's affected Kent Police Museum where I work. Until recently tea, coffe and milk were all free. Now only tea is free, and the milk often runs out. And no one brings in coffee. Which is fine by me, I only drink tea. But what if I did drink coffee...