Handy

A moist morning, twirly,
about nine-fifteen/nine-thirty.

Dion Dublin
(the lord of the manor,
the thirteenth Duke
of Homes-under-the-Hammerton)
sits in his horse-drawn
chafing dish and looks on
as some long-snouted tenants
who have missed their rent payments
are dragged through thorny hedges,

a-backwards and a-forwards,
a-forwards and a-backwards.

A brace of Dave Beasants
rounds up fleeing peasants.

Well, it's summat to do, innit?



Meanwhile,
on the other side of hamlet,
across four fields,
           several meadows,
           a bridle path,
           a couple of bugger's ditches,
           some dynamic dual carriageway and
           a Grade II listed Little Chef

I wake up
to the dulcet tones
of Chris Evans.
I rant and rave.
I curse to the heavens.

There goes the ginger fiend again,
laughing at his own jokes again.
I just can't take it anymore.
This is it, the final straw.

This once top of the range clock radio
(a thoughtful gift from Graeme Le Saux)
is getting on my norks. It has to go.
I send it spinning through the open window.

It brought me newsflashes, catchy tunes.
Now it lies outside in smitheroons.



Three weeks
and two hundred and seventy minutes
(plus stoppages) later,
she is there at the turnstile,
the girl with kaleidoscope thighs.

She forces me
(at water pistolpoint)
to write a letter,
while callously ignoring my cries:

Thanks for the alarm clock Andy (Cole).
It should come in very handy (you a-hole).
That is to say
big handy
and,
to a lesser extent,
little handy.

B.R. 25/05/2017

The Hand of Fear. You afraid yet?