In a cupboard in my bedroom in my house lays a box of the ancient. It contains old floppy disks, data CDs and a mysterious cable, whose purpose is lost in the mists of time.
This afternoon I’m have a right good look through the contents of these discs and have decided to post some of what I find here. The first disc contains some poems written by me and my chums, back in 2001. They’re mostly terrible but I’m finding them quite entertaining. I’ll be posting more of the stuff I find over the next few days.
Oh, do you like the new site design? It’s all red and yellow and that.
This is a song written by Tom about the town of Sowerby Bridge, which is where we used to do the bulk of our drinking back in the olden days and now. Sadly most of the reference in the poem will mean nothing to you unless you were one of a dozen people drinking in Sowerby Bridge at that time.
I wish I was back in Sowerby Bridge,
Sowerby Bridge where I was born.
Where there is some trees, some scented breeze,
But no fields of waving corn.
There are some girls with peroxide curls,
And the beer is far from free.
You’re sick in your bed when you’re off your head,
And it’s Sowerby Bridge town for me.
We nearly burnt the puzzle down,
Way back in ’95.
It’s a hole in the ground where we’re always found,
But at least we bloody tried.
So we’re there every day just wasting away,
Staring at those walls so brown.
Pissing money away in that special way,
That’s unique to Sowerby Bridge town.
There is a miserable bugger there,
Jerry is his name.
He gets fine beers from everywhere,
But he serves them all the same.
They taste like piss, but you tell him this,
And you’ll get an awful frown.
And he’ll kick your brains down Hollins Mill Lane,
In dear old Sowerby Bridge town.
Now Jerry has gone and wandered away,
Leaving friends galore,
To laugh and chat with Lydia Platt
And sup halves by the score
But still they say at the end of the day,
The Puzzle’s halls resound
With the echo of “Sup and fuck off!”,
In dear old Sowerby Bridge Town.
One by me here. This one is about the town of Todmorden, which has a reputation locally as a center of incest and general inbreeding.
The Todmordians Story
There is a land which I have seen
Beyond the bounds of Hebden Bridge
Where people ride on magic carts
And have chilly things called Fridge
They drink blue beer in magic pubs
And dance to invisible bands
Then eat some warmly seasoned guts
And hurt each other with their hands
They sleep in beds with fat top sheet
And are woken by talking men
Then, they swear and run around
And eat the boiling spawn of hen
Be warned, this all could happen here
We must fight it till we blister
For no harm comes to those who dwell within
And stay close to their sister.
This was written by a friend who prefers to remain anonymous.
A Love of Clatter
Five minutes late’s not late
Cancelled service neither
Late trains on every date
Some don’t Arriva either
At least the doors open these days
Remember when they never
And the windows stuck in lots of ways
Especially in warmer weather
They say Arriva down the side
Little John perhaps
These are, and smell like something’s died
With disconnected taps
A service so undeniably erratic
Begs the question ‘why the name?’
Surely better to call it ‘Static’
The shortest journey – quicker by plane
Railways enabled the growth of nations
Until they closed the local line
Beeching flushed in all the stations
Unable to read the clearest sign
Yet we love our railways, all not lost
And have good reason to take the flack
To see them cut the morning frost
Gracefully gliding, gently curving track
Towards the platform calmly floating
As breeze encaptured sand
It matters not the loss of smoking
Nor the foolish things our lives have planned
And here’s one more from our anonymous friend.
The pre-packed meal lay heavily down
Mixing with whiskey & beer
All day and all night painting the town
A projectile now certain and near
The feeling of greyness came burning and fast
He turned for the bathroom door
But too late to prevent the involuntary blast
Over the telly and onto the floor
A second eruption came shortly thereafter
He attempted to aim at a beaker
But missed and hit the telly again
Filling the holes for the speaker
He got the remote and turned up the sound
Using his leg on the screen
His trousers smearing the puke all around
Producing an interesting sheen
He collapsed back down into his chair
Feeling a little creaky
Lumps clung grimly to the edge of the tube
The picture, blurred and streaky
He stared and squinted at a shadowy bloke
Whist puke dripped in through the vent
A bang, accompanied by a wisp of grey smoke
And to oblivion the telly was sent.
The thing was fucked and that was that
The carpet was sticky and smelly
Just deserts for an uncivilized twat
Who ate dinner in front of the telly
Tomorrow I’ll be posting some tunes.