Monologues

(These poems work best if read out loud in a broad Yorkshire accent. Give it a try!)

The beauty contest

The beauty contest

This, an astonishing story
As 'appened in days way back when
Women were birds (if they wanted)
And men were allowed to be men.

There were none of this Health, Safety nonsense,
And if tha' lost a leg while at work,
You'd 'ave to go 'oppit to 'dole queue
And 'missus would call thee a berk.

Well, back in them days, they 'ad contests
For women as thought they looked nice,
To parade in their best swimmin' cossies,
Wi' perhaps just a splash of Old Spice.

Lord Mayor of Bradford, were for'ard
Thinking, said,"We'll 'ave one of those,
Our city's a place full of women
As don't 'ave a reet lot of clothes."

They booked some celebrity judges,
Johnny Craddock and his missus Fanny,
The lady what cleaned the cathedral,
And Jeremy Clarkson's old granny.

Day of 'contest, there were dozens,
As lined up, along 'canal side,
Some, what were looking 'alf decent
And others, a dozen foot wide.

Sue from Holmewood looked fair tasty,
She'd borrowed a fresh pair of teeth,
But was given the boot 'ere the final
For being a plumber called Keith.

"What do you do, young miss, for a 'obby,
"Well me, I like children," claimed Kate,
And looking at size of 'er belly,
Kiddies were what the girl ate.

Wi' all 'er tattoos spelled correctly,
Dorothy, were  firm favourite,
Till it come time for answering questions,
When she said, she thought Clarkson were shit.

Now in them days, there weren't many muslims
Perhaps they 'ad got too much sense
Than to turn up in 'igh 'eels and swimsuits,
For the sake of a few rotten pence.

Bradford's most beautiful ladies,
And to tell thee the truth, some of 'worst,
But who would be placed in the contest,
And which lucky girl would get first?

Judges were quite undecided,
Some wanted Joan, some thought Jenny,
So, when none of the girls was a looking,
Then, slyly, they tossed up a penny.

Third place, were Greta from Greengates,
Second were fat, jolly Joan,
And when Jenny screamed,"Fuck, I'm a winner,"
Everyone let out a groan.

Disqualifying, 'only solution,
'Ead judge 'ad to do summat drastic
First prize went to 'lock-keeper's daughter,
A sweet little thing, Lucy Lastic.

Mrs Hobbo’s Pressie

Mrs Hobbo's Pressie

Mrs Hobbo were coming up forty,
A delicate age for a girl,
When bits of the body head southwards
And trimmings begin to unfurl.

To say she were touch about it
Would only be tellin' the truth.
Hobbo needed to buy summat special
To capture t'old lady's lost youth.

His brains, Hobbo racked for a fortneet,
What little he 'ad, any road,
Till Dauphy Dog come to the rescue,
Wi' a perfect idea, a la mode.

Sexy lingerie, that were the answer,
That's posh talk for knickers and bras.
Much better than Hobbo's suggestion
Of scotch and a box of cigars.

There were only one shop in all Keighley,
What 'ad necess'ry clout and finesse,
The shop were of course Mark's and Spencer's
What customers call M and S.

Hobbo was required to do research,
Before he set foot in the store,
So, he waited till missus was shoppin'
Then rooted round 'knicker-wear drawer.

For her knickers, she'd need a size ten
And her bras were a thirty six C,
But I don't think she'd want that made public,
So, we'll keep it between thee and me.

One bright early morning, in Winter
Hobbo sneaked 'issen in M and S.
He'd never bought undies before this,
And were under considerable stress.

Furtively looking about 'im,
He took from a pile, a wire basket.
Being virgin, he needed directions,
Being a man, he didn't dare ask it.

Finally, in 'knicker department,
And gobsmacked that there was so much
choice, he made 'is selection,
By looking, reluctant to touch.

Once he 'ad sussed what he wanted,
He bunged it in 'basket, right quick,
Walked to checkouts at far side of store,
Beginning to feel a bit sick.

By now, a long queue started building
As he waited to pay for 'is wares,
And Hobbo grew redder and redder,
Attractin' some giggles and stares.

Eventually, red as a beetroot,
He made it to front o' the queue,
And a glamorous girl on the checkout
Began putting 'purchases through.

By 'olding each item up caref'lly,
She checked all the sizes again,
Says,"Some of these knickers are twelves,
And some as you've picked, are a ten."

Ten is 'right size muttered Hobbo,
So she hands all the twelves to her mate,
To change at the far side of store,
As 'queue behind's getting irate.

Full forty yards, top of her voice,
Yells, "We don't have the tens in a white.
We 'ave got, grey, green or raspberry.
Would any of these be alright?"

Holding each item aloft,
For Hobbo to choose, mortified,
He mumbles that any will do,
And the queue behind Hobbo all sighed.

Luckily folks started laughing,
Not Hobbo, he wanted to hide,
Though once he were safely back home,
He started to see 'funny side.

Mrs Hobbo were pleased with her pressie,
Expecting, like last year, some socks,
But the next time that she 'ad a birthday,
She 'ad to make do wi' some chocs.

A bit of a fuss

A bit of a fuss

A Yorksher mill town name of Keighley,
That's where this little story begins
With a young shop assistant called Susan
Full name 'at is, Sue Anne Provvins.

She couldn't keep up wi' the ding rate
When they put the poor lassy on 'tills,
Sideways, she moved on to the butchers,
To better 'er choppin' up skills.

There, she mixed tripe wi' black puddin'
In a way that was less than desirous.
Before you could say 'Billy No-Mates'
Sue Anne was the source of a virus.

At first it were swept under 'carpet
Her bosses were in-cred-you-luss,
When folks started dropping like nine pins,
Well, it started a bit of a fuss.

'Train through to Leeds were soon cancelled,
Some said, "Whoa, tha's goin' too far,
'Ow can I go and see me old granny,
It's alright for thee, tha's a car".

The newshounds got ho'd of the story,
And people were dying in lumps.
Said Barnaby Bumble, a spokesman,
"It's worse than when Johnny 'ad 'mumps".

It quickly spread, all ovver Yorksher,
Chaps took to a coverin' their face.
In an effort to find who 'ad gorrit,
They wrote a new app, 'Back to Base'.

The old, and the poorly were shielded,
By lockin' them into their 'ouses.
Being stoic, because of the war years,
They stayed there as quiet as mouses.

The Mayoress of Yorksher were summoned,
She divided us all into tiers,
Some as could do as they wanted,
And some as were kicked up their rears.

Brains, working all sorts of 'ours,
Were tryin' to come up wi' a cure,
Then early one morning, Eureka!
At nigh on a quarter to four.

The guinea pigs they 'ad been feedin'
To see what would live and would die,
Had e'ten a mixture of gubbins
But one, a survivor, ate pie.

Strict trials were started, immediate
To find which were 'best pie to eat.
The one causing least complications,
Were found to be taty and meat.

Fact'ries ramped up their production,
And taties were killed by the score,
Five 'undred a week they were makin'
But they guessed they were gonna need more.

Now Yorksher, it does 'ave its skeptics
Some, very 'ard to convince,
Many preferred eatin' pasties,
And some said, they'd sooner 'ave mince.

So, a Positive Pie Eating programme,
Which media 'ad dubbed P.P.E,
Was rolled out, right ovver Yorksher
And now, they are Sue Virus free.

Granddad’s Legacy

Granddad's Legacy

Me granddad were never sartorial
He was, to be honest, a scruff
Who frittered away most of his money
On tobacco and 'osses and stuff.

He always wore same 'orrid cardy
A monstrosity med out o' cotton
Dirty and threadbare and smelly
This manky old thing were quite rotten.

When younger, he worked down the jam mines
Blasting out strawb'rries and plums
Then he'd slope off to 'pub wi' his whippet
And neck a few beers wi' his chums.

He kept 'issen fit fer a pensioner
Only five days a week on the sick
And even well into his eighties
He could sprint hundred yards wi' his stick.

The old man just med it to hundred
Then curled up his toes and he died
I 'ad to break news to our granny
Who I swear, on my life, nearly cried.

He was given a good send off by Co-Op
Folk travelled from near and from far
They wheeled 'im to church in a barrer
Which saved the expense of a car.

For 'reading of 'will, we all gathered
Tension, it were ramped up a notch
Gran got his pigeons and slippers
And dad 'is retirement watch.

Granddad 'ad not forgot me though
In a carefully weaved codicil
He left me his stinky old cardy
And that's all I got from 'is will.

Now, if this were a fairy type story
Tha' would treasure the cardy, not knock it
Tha'd search through the garment for money
And tha'd find summat grand in the pocket.

Well, I did that, I searched it for goodies
But the pockets were as empty as sin
So I rolled the thing up in a bundle
And left it outside for the bin.

Me mum said, "Tha' can't leave it there lad
What will folk say, get a grip.
Anyway, this week's recycling
Tha'll 'ave to tek thing to the tip".

I set off to 'tip on me pushbike
Pedals went round 'ell fer leather
Got there and then 'eavens opened
Typical wet British weather.

I'm just going to chuck granddad's cardy
When a dainty young thing caught me eye
Deirdrie, the tip's supervisor
Says, "Come 'ere lad, and keep thissen dry".

Pretty soon, we found ourselves chatting
Things come to a head, as they say
Before I had time to say granddad
I'm saying to her, name the day.

My fiance were a real beauty
Wi' her dimples and pimples and spots
And a rash spread all ovver her body
I spent many hours joining the dots.

We were wed in 'same church as me granddad
She, ten minutes late, not too tardy
With me wearing, you'll nivver guess it
A smart three piece suit, not that cardy.

Osses:  Horses
Cardy:  Cardigan
Issen:  Himself
Barrer:  Barrow
Thissen:  Yourself
Wi':  With

Conquering Billinge Hill

Conquering Billinge Hill

Now, if tha's gorra taste for adventure
And tha' likes an adrenaline thrill
For a trip that'll set thee pulse racing
Try to conquer the great Billinge Hill.

Tha' mun pick a day when it's sunny
St. Helens is often in cloud 
And if by some wonder, tha' meks it
Tha' mun take a pic, standing proud.

Tha'll need lots of specialist equipment
If tha' wants to get nearer to 'sky
This is no little lump that were talking
This monster's six hundred foot high.

Tha'll 'ave to mek base camp at 'chippy
And stock up tha' sack wi' provisions
Like porridge and bog roll and such like
And a compass what works wi' precision.

First feller to try it, a local
Sadly, run out o' chips 'alfway up
He could've made do wi' a cuppa
But forgot to bring wi' him a cup.

Mountaineers by the dozen 'ave tried it
Sir Edmund explained, cun't be plainer
Tha' mun have a good pair of fell boots
And none of your fancy Nike trainers.

Mek sure thee affairs 'ave been settled
If tha's worth owt, tha'd best make a will
There's more than just lives 'ave been lost
In that lay-by, at bottom of 'ill.

Mek sure tha' tells gran where tha's goin'
In case tha' gets lost on the way
And tha'd best take a clean pair of undies
As tha'll not do it all in a day.

If tha' meks it all 'way up to 'summit
The view is a sight to behold
Tha' can see all 'way back to the bottom
And mek out my house, so I'm told.

So, if tha' is one of 'handful what does it
Plant a flag, tap it in wi' a whack
Be reet careful on 'long journey homeward
And give theesen pat on the back.

A cautionary tale

A cautionary tale

In Yorksher they had 'reffy rendrum
About whither to go it alone
And since most of 'tykes, were all forrit
The republic of Yorksher were born.

First job, it were finding a boss type
Nessy tated all 'ands to the pump
They scoured the cobbles of Bradford
To find billionairess, Donna Crump.

The slogan,'Mek Yorksher great ag'in
Was summat they an't 'eard in years
And the prospect of more dry stone walling
'Ad grown men, crying into their beers.

On 'first day, she signed loads of papers
Twelve before going to bed
Some of it really important
And some, what she even 'ad read.

At first it were all hunky dory
She built up considerable funds
By scrapping the decimal system
And printing their own Yorksher punds.

Soon, some were beginning to doubt her
Too big fer 'er boots, too offhand
To establish 'erself as 'world leader
She shook, Mayor of Lancashire's 'and.

About twelve months 'afore re-election
The Black Pudding Plague swept the Dales
But Donna were sniffy about it
Said it only killed people from Wales.

Her supporters were told not to worry
And Donna refused to wear 'mask
Sadly, thousands who listened to 'lady
Were carted away in a casque.

Her four years in office passed quickly
What with eatin' tinned peaches and such
When they put an old man up ag'in her
Well, Donna thought that a bit much.

The vote were about fifty-fifty
Wi' towns going one way, then t'other
When it looked like t'old feller 'ad edged it
Crump 'ad to ring up 'er big brother.

Find me a shed load of voters
Don't care who, don't care how
And as for the votes fer the old bloke
Well they shouldn't count anyhow.

The countin' dragged on fer a month
T'old feller were given a win
But Crump were as stubborn as pigshit
Dug 'er heels in, and wouldn't give in.

Crump supporters, invaded the town 'all
Wi' a noise fit to wekken the queen up
They med such a mess wi' their boots on
It took 'em all weekend, to clean up.

Eventually, sense were restored though
And Yorksher came back into 'fold
As a warning to future republics
Is this little parody told.

We aim to please

We aim to please

Now this here's a delicate subject
Appertaining to only us blokes
As a poet, I cannot ignore it
And it's often the subject of jokes.

I'm talking of bodily functions
But I'll be as discreet as I can
Womenfolk don't 'ave to read this
Though I bet, they will sneak a quick scan.

It's all got to do with the diff'rence
What me mam used to call 'dangly bits
A woman has need of the toilet
For the 'ole operation, she sits.

We first find this thing, in our nappies
Such a treasure, for any young boy
Then what does your mam go and tell you
It's a present, but it's not a toy.

As lads we are given a bucket
Which we tip upside down, so we reach
We balance a'top, and rest on the rim
Missus, watch where you go with that bleach.

Growin' up, we are taken to visit
This white shiny thing, the urinal
The smell when you walk through the door
Can best be described as caninal.

At home, there is nothing, quite like this
Instead, we must target the pan
It's gen'lly a two handed job
And we aim it as best as we can.

Now here, lies the crux of the problem
As we stand there, with hands occupied
Not a care in the world, and we whistle
Then, the lid on the bog, starts to slide.

A dilemma of piddling proportions
How do I, take this matter in hand
Without pissing all over the bathroom
Thereby risking, my wife's reprimands.

Quick as a flash, 'ere the lid falls
'Leg lifts, an' I catch it wi' knee
But far from an ideal solution
Me 'ands are now covered in wee.

So ladies, when choosing a toilet
Pick one, wi' a lid what stays put
Don't 'ave them what drop down whilst streaming
Q.E.D, I think, open and shut.

Dauphy saves the day!

Dauphy saves the day!

Our Queen, is a popular lady
Who lives, in a glamorous 'ouse
But, before she become rich an' famous
Poor girl were as shy as a mouse.

Mam sent 'er to stay up in Yorksher
Where there's loads of sound people to meet
And English is spoke like it should be
So, 'princess could learn to talk reet.

Tha' might think, am pulling tha' leg like
But am telling thee, this as a fact
Yes, I know now, she gen'lly talks posh
For the public, but that's all an act.

Moving on now, she's stuck in t'old palace
Locked down, at Buck House, in tier ten
The jigsaws had got a tad tedious
And they'd run out of bog roll,again.

So, 'butler were sent for provisions
T'instructions, precise and specific
Get 'soft stuff, not crappy old Izal
What slides round yer bum, it's horrific.

This, being the middle of Winter
T'old butler pulled on 'is warm wellies
And as he were passing 'er windder
She shouted out, get me some smellies.

It were at the main gate he 'it 'problem
The lock were froze solid, wun't shift
Butler scratched 'ead, stood there ditherin'
Cos he new Liz'd give 'im short shrift.

Luckily, passing that day
Were Hobbo and Dauphy, out walking
'Ow can I 'elp thee, asked Dauphy
'Pon my life! Is that Yorksher yer talkin'?

I can't budge yon gate, moaned the butler
'Lock on it's solid, it's froze
I've got an idea said Dauphy
Which I'll tell thee, in rhyme not in prose.

See, as look for some grass around 'ere pal
Well, a' mun as well search for a ghost
And the council are such flippin' cheapskates
That I've given up 'ope of a post.

Consequently, I am a bustin'
And it's too short to tie in a knot
If I pee on yon lock, I've a notion
Our problems are solved, like as not.

'Butler took up the suggestion
So that man and beast both had relief
'Servant went off, and did 'shopping
Brought pies back, two pork and one beef.

'Course the Queen, she were ovver the moon
She'd 'ad to be wipin' wi' Times
'Mail might 'ave been more appropriate
But 'Queen wiped wi' this, cos it rhymes.

Hobbo love, this dog's an 'ero
That Dauphy's looked after us right
Next time it's me birthday, I'll dub thee
In other words,make thee a knight.

Dauphy...Canine British Empire
E'en corgis don't get C.B.E
Dauphy, a little ungrateful
Says, Queen love, it's near time for tea.

So everyone 'ad a reet slap up
Dauphy 'ad well earned 'is snooze
'Butler cracked gin bottle open
Sir Hobbo and 'Queen went on 'booze.




reet; right
tha'; you, your
Izal; a shiny brand of toilet paper
windder; window
wun't; wouldn't
smellies; perfumed products
a' mun:  I might

The true story of the Bradford Boar

The true story of the Bradford Boar

Tell me a true story Granddad
About life in the good olden days
When gran still had all her own teeth
And you weren't so set in your ways.

Okay, well I'd just met yer granny
At a time when the Dead Sea were living
Pontius was not quite a pilot
And nobody had heard of just giving.

Gran were a taster for Marmite
Her palate refined, no mistake
And I worked part time at the butcher's
'Best seller were dinosaur steak.

We lived in a city called Bradford
Yorkshire it were, through and through
And people were living in terror
Of a boar what 'ad bunked it from 'zoo.

Now this, to you, might not sound scary
A fat bellied, oversized porker
but the tusks on it could 'ave cut glass
And it swore like a native New Yorker.

Now, to kill it, there were a reward
Of maybe three guineas, I think
Which then would by house and a car
And a kitchen wi' posh fitted sink.

So, eager to make a few bob
I come up wi' a dead cunning plan
Into Bradford Beck, I would lure it
Then chuck it in 'butchering van.

Six gallons of custard and gravy
In buckets, were laid for a trap
I was armed wi' me stick, just in case like
Then hid behind 'bush for a nap.

The clock on 'Town Hall had struck midnight
I woke up to a blood curdling sound
The boar had kicked all 'buckets ovver
And were 'aving a reet feast on 'ground.

Like a bullet, I sprung from me crouch
And pushed it in 'beck wi' me stick
Bradford Beck ain't the cleanest of watter
And it drownded the boar pretty quick.

Now granddad ain't daft, as you know lad
I knew I were in for 'reward
But I wanted the boar's meat for 'butcher's
So I cut out its tongue wi' a sword.

The Lord Mayor, he were delighted
And happy wi' tongue as his proof
I bought gran a house with the money
Wi' extension that 'ad a flat roof.

I became what you might call an 'ero
Folk came from all ovver the land
To purchase their Bradford Boar Burgers
And say that they'd shaken me hand.

The ballad of Adolf and Winnie

"Winnie," said young Churchill's mother
As they sauntered along by 'canal
"You don't seem right settled at 'arrow
I think what you need's a pen pal."

"There's a boy from a nice Austrian fam'ly
As I'm told that is looking for fame
You're sure to have plenty in common
Adolf 'itler's the little lad's name."

"I don't want a pen pal," sulked Winston
His mouth turning down in a pout
"Besides, I don't speak any German
And he won't know no English or nowt."

"It will better your school education"
Insisted mother, a woman called Jen
"Your CV will look well impressive
When you become a great leader of men."

So Winston began to write Adolf
Of the 'I am well, hope you're well' kind
To which Adolf responded politely
"Yes, I'm tickety-boo you will find."

At first it went all nicey-nicey
They'd write once a month, thereabouts
But as'itler grew up he grew dafter
And Churchill began voicing doubts.

Things worsened between them right sharpish
When Winston became the P.M
His letters to Adolf censorious
Using words that were quick to condemn.

"You can't blame the Jews for your problems
How dare you say, all is their fault?
And as for invading poor Poland
Your armies should grind to a halt."

The Fuhrer were quick to respond though
Not scared to call 'shovel a spade
So Winnie gave him 'V is for vict'ry'
To show 'Germans as we weren't afraid.

The battle swung one way then t'other
As things tend to do in a war
With 'absence of good refereeing
It was hard keeping track of the score.

Dunkirk, Winston claimed was a vict'ry
And 'Battle of Britain an' all
But Adolf 'ad u-boats and Nazis
So really, it was more like two-all.

Churchill demanded surrender
Sick to his teeth of the wars
"If you don't then I'll bring in the allies
And my mates are bigger than yours."

Then up stepped the Yanks with their money
Glenn Miller in 'mood wi' his swing
Big guns, bigger wallets, biggest voices
Nylon stockings 'as made the girls sing.

Their boss were called Eisen 'Ower
Or Ike to his pals, such as Winnie
He insisted on being in charge like
Leaving Winston in iger-nominy.

Thousands of brave men in ships
Were sent off to Normandy, France
Many lost their lives in the fighting
But the allies left nothing to chance.

They sent over food, tanks and soldiers
Who the French ladies met with a cheer
When 'itler saw 'size of this army
He knew he had plenty to fear.

Adolf scurried away from the fighting
And whilst Germany was turned upside down
This coward, who Winston stood up to
Wed his lover and mistress Frau Braun.

'Allies found Adolf's bunker in Berlin
The place were a bit of a mess
Churchill's letters were lying on 'doormat
Stamped, "No longer at this address."

So, if someone suggests you a pen pal
As they're bound to do sooner or later
Be sure to check out their credentials
Don't get stuck with a nasty dictator.

Something just snapped

This, an historical story
Bits of which, might ring a bell
Of a well famous engineer feller
Called Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

As a child he were awfully clever
By the time this young lad had reached eight
Given tough geometrical problems
The answers he'd soon calculate.

He drove his mum barmy at mealtimes
By sculpting his mash into ships
Tunnelling through his potatoes
Or building a bridge wi' his chips.

Izzy clearly was showing potential
But 'is parents left nothing to chance
For exceptionally good qualifications
He were sent to a Uni' in France.

For his first job he worked wi' his father
Ambitious their mission and aims
Folk commented,"This can't be done
Tunnellin' through 'mud under 'Thames."

"Something just snapped,"foreman shouted
Dirty water came flooderin' in
Leaving many poor kids wi' no parents
And mothers wi' no next of kin.

It took them a couple of weeks like
To clear up the mess wi' some mops
Then Izz took a look at the problem
Said 'workers,"Lad's brain nivver stops."

'Fuffle valve in the wotsit 'ad jammed
Causing 'shank shaft on 'giggler to shake
Which led to a build up of pressure
And the thingummy bobby to break.

Izzy soon 'ad the thingummy mended
By binding it up wi' duct tape
WD40 was sprayed on the giggler
And everything functioned ship-shape.

Next job were the Great Western Railway
From London right through to welsh Wales
Something's just snapped said 'same foreman
As carriages slid from their rails.

This time it were 'multiplicator
On 'camshaft 'ad had too much choke
Bending 'needle in 'oojamaflip thing
Meaning 'silly mid-on rod 'ad broke.

Izzy sorted the problem right sharpish
Getting hands and face covered in grime
Though long before great British Railways
His engines were seldom on time.

Clever Izzy designed several projects
At a work rate that could not be capped
And always wi' duct tape kept 'andy
As precaution, least something else snapped.

When his ship the Great Britain were finished
He became a celebrity star
Sporting dirty great mutton chop sideburns
And a big fat Havana cigar.

Izzy'd taken to carrying a knapsack
To keep all his bits an' his bobs
Screwdrivers an' spanners an' duct tape
An emergency repair kit for knobs.

Izzy's photo were always in 'papers
Not Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram
His missus did not like the coverage
"That bag makes you look like your mam."

"I've made you a titfer," she told him
"You resemble an aristocrat."
Mr Brunel were 'ighly delighted
"Now that's what I call a top 'at."

The chapeau were all he could wish for
No need any more, for his sack
He could fill it with all sorts of gubbin's
And still 'ave some room for a snack.

So, wi' Clifton Bridge under construction
When something just snapped once again
He'd fish in the 'at for the answer
This Brit with his ginormous brain.

Then, when the problem were sorted
He'd dig in his 'at, as you do
Bring out a pork pie, or a sarnie
And an 'ot flask of strong Yorkshire brew.

Shaken, not stirred

Stanley, a butcher's assistant
Lived at home with his mum, and his gran
A dog, fifteen cats and a budgie
And a lodger from Uzbekistan.

The dog was a mongrel, named Scruffy
Stan fed him 'scrag end' from the store
'Cats got bits of fish from the chippy
'Bird, seed, from the pet shop next door.

They all rubbed along pretty nicely
And 'lodger 'elped out wi' his keep
They'd sit round 'gas fire watching telly
Until granny and mum fell asleep.

From his gran, Stan had picked up a problem
Shaking hands, like the leaves on a tree
This made eating and drinking a problem
And soup were a catastroph-ee.

'Butcher's patience had finally run out
When young Stan cut his hand, with a yelp
"That's umpteenth time, only this week lad
I think you need medical 'elp."

Before he could visit the doctor's
His mum checked out how he were dressed
"We don't want no tittlin' or tattlin'
I've laid out on 'bed 'Sunday best."

Stanley sat doodlin' in 'surg'ry
A bit feeling down in the dumps
Wi' 'coughers and 'sniffers and such like
And a boy wi' a bad case of mumps.

His first diagnosis was Parky's
Which came as a bit of a shock
But after some prodding and poking
He was sent to a specialist doc.

"You've something called ee-senshul tremor,"
Stan was told,with some justification
"It's not a life threatening condition
We'll put you on strong medication."

The specialist prescribed him three tablets
One yellow, one white and one red
Two to be taken at mealtimes
And one with his cocoa at bed.

Medicated, he shook like a jelly
More discussion, and consideration
The hospital theatre were beckoning
For a bit of a brain operation.

At the hozzie they gave him a checkup
His ticker was tocking so slow
That knocking him out for the surg'ry
Was a lux'ry he'd have to forego.

Six hours with no anaesthetic!
Two big 'oles in his 'ed, Stan were stressed
Sticking 'lectrodes and probes in his noggin
And a pacemaker thing in his chest.

A fancy remote he were given
Big improvements is what he were hoping
'Operation did help him a bit
And with eating his food, he was coping.

Soon, Stan was back at the butcher's
Let loose with this 'uge boning knife
A 'glass half full' kind of person
Who looked on the bright side of life.

So, pleased with the little improvements
He gave 'budgie a peck on its beak
Granny's bird had the avian flu though
Stanley curled up his toes within 'week.

His mum, mortified at his passing
Had checked Stan's insurance again
One payment short on the premium
She'd have to make do wi' free pen.

The family were very upset
Played his favourite song at the wake
The group were 'The Swinging Blue Jeans,'
The record was 'Hip' Hippy Shake.'

Shakin' Stanley it said on his 'eadstone
Shook his last, no more 'Rattle and Roll'
'All shook up' on a permanent basis
And may God rest his shiverin' soul.

To his wonderment, Stan went to 'eaven
Passed the Man in the Moon and the stars
Gave Orion the 'unter his belt back
And took a sharp right after Mars.

When he reached 'pearly gates, Stan were baffled
Saint Peter had asked for a word
"I've got you a job in the bar, son
God's Martinis are shaken, not stirred."

The icing on the cake

Bill Ogden adored his girl Annie
Loved her with all of his 'eart
They'd only been courting for six months
When he promised 'Till death do us part.'

The way to man's 'eart goes the saying
Is feeding him good things to eat
And when William got married to Annie
He knew he were in for a treat.

See, Annie loved cooking and baking
'Twas truly her passion and pride
A bit of a gourmand was William
What more could he want from 'is bride?

She conjured up pasties and pastries
Cooking food that was fit for a king
Baked cakes that were light as a feather
Sweet puds that could make 'is 'eart sing.

As William grew fatter and fatter
Annie's expertise started to grow
She began by exhibiting wares
Near to Thirsk, at the Borrowby Show.

The cheese and onion pie got a mention
Her chutneys came in with two thirds
First prize for her Dutch apple pie though
And Annie was strugglin' for words.

Her signature dish was established
Perfecting it show after show
This pie always nabbed the top prize
Leaving contenders with nowhere to go.

Bill worshipped his wife's home-made cooking
In the kitchen, he'd often be found
Feeding his face with her goodies
As his belly grew ever more round.

Of all of the shows held up North
The biggest, and so most prestigious
Annie pursued the 'Great Yorkshire'
With a drive that were almost religious.

This show is the Creme de la creme
A real agricultural force
To exhibit your baking or jams
Your gin, or your spuds, or an 'orse.

It was an era, post 'foot and mouth'
Many livestock were tragically dead
But also a time before Covid
Had raised up its 'orrible 'ead.

Annie knew that she could have played safe
With her old apple pie reci-pee
But Victoria Sponge was her choice
To broaden her cook's repartee.

Practice makes perfect they say
And Bill was in 'throes of delight
Each cake tasted hot from the oven
Until Annie had got it just right.

Come the big day, she were nervous
'Reputation had drawn a big crowd
'Judge frowned when she say Annie's offering
"Icing on 'cake's not allowed."

A dusting of sugar's permitted
But paragraph three clearly stated
Victoria sponge is not iced
And poor Annie was 'umiliated.

"I'm afraid rules are rules," preached the judge
"It is something we cannot re-visit.
I'll still try a small slice or two
My dear, this is simply exquisite."

Gutted and crying was Annie
Bill tried of his best to placate
"Get your coat on my treasure, we're leaving
You're coming with me.  Harro-gate."

Now Harrogate's a beautiful town
Like Leeds,only smaller and posh
Bill escorted his wife into Betty's
And treat her to well fancy nosh.

Their high tea were served silver service
The waitresses pampered and fussed
Served fancies all smothered in icing
And sandwiches shorn of their crust.

Holding hands, Bill met his wife's eyes
"My darling, please make no mistake
I love you with all of my 'eart
You are my icing on 'cake.

Tommy’s birthday

Tommy's Birthday

When Tommy Ramsbottom turned eighteen
He said to his mum and his dad
"I don't want a present or nothing
I'm off for a drink with the lads."

The Ramsbottoms lived on the 'social'
And struggled to make both ends meet
But they stuck twenty quid in his pocket
And told him to, "Have a good neet."

He met all his mates round the corner
At a pub called the 'Satin and Lace'
Tom struggled to grow any whiskers
So he took some I.D, just in case.

Our young hero wasn't a drinker
He gen'ly just had one or two
But this was his birthday remember
And he managed to sink quite a few

With bravado he said to the barmaid
A lass wi' a lovely big smile
"Could I have one of those pickled eggs love?
I haven't had one for a while."

His hunger was partially sated
They started a mini pub-crawl
When 'clock on 'town 'all chimed out ten
Then,"Let's go and eat," was the call.

Our Tommy had never 'ad curry
And the menu was quite complicated
He was drunk, but not daft, was the lad
He sat, and he watched, and he waited.

Tommy's buddies had been here before
They all seemed to know what to do
And fair split their sides when he said
"I'll 'ave same as him, vindaloo."

Well, after a couple of mouthfuls
He were sweating and mopping his 'ed
And afraid he'd be poorly at 'table
He rushed to the lavvy instead.

It were there that our Tommy met Hughie
After which, he were feeling much better
Then off to the nightclub they went
A swish place, called 'La Vienetta.'

The drinks were expensive in there
It was almost ten bob for a beer
And with 'glitter ball spinning on 'ceiling
Tommy started to feel a bit queer.

Tommy spied a young lady in 'club
His mates said,"Yon girl is a cracker."
But with curry escaping his pores
He had no chance of getting a smacker.

His romantic intentions cut short
Tommy thought he would call it a night
And waving drunken tarrahs to his friends
He staggered home feeling 'not right.'

Once home his dad went ballistic
Because Tom had forgotten his key
"Sorry dad, I'm desperate for 'toilet,"
Tommy's attempt at quick repartee.

Following morning though, Tommy felt rotten
Met his pals for black coffee at Gregg's
His 'ed and his stomach protested
Never again, would he eat pickled eggs.

Where there’s a will

You'll have heard of Albert and 'lion
At the zoo, how he poked in its ear
With 'is stick with its 'orses 'ead 'andle
And 'ow 'lion made 'lad disappear.

It was penned by one Marriott Edgar
Not sure that it's totally true
A British tradition the monologue
For telling a tall tale or two.

This then, is the story of Doris
A frail little lady from 'ull
And Joseph, her fisherman 'usband
'Andsome when younger, but dull.

When Doris met Joe in her twenties
She thought him 'a bit of a dish'
But since working away on the trawlers
All he could talk of was fish.

Sadly, Joe passed away in the Autumn
They'd been married for fifty six years
Though she'd not miss his moods, or his washing
She managed to shed a few tears.

He'd left her no money or nothing
Joe was 'ardly a millionaire
And Doris had toasted their parting
With a small glass of vin ordinaire.

What he had left her though, were a parrot
Called Polly, an African Grey
This parrot could swear like a sailor
Vocab'lary badly astray.

The bird was some comp'ny for Doris
They'd sit and they'd have a good chat
Until Doris developed arthur-itis
And the council coughed up wi' a flat.

"No pets," council lady insisted
Handing 'keys to her new maisonette
'Where there's a will, there's a way' though
So t'old lady were not too upset.

She covered Poll's cage in a blanket
And smuggled her into the flat
What with gas central 'eating and carpets
Doris treasured 'er new 'abitat.

Old 'abits die 'ard with a parrot
Who soon took to swearing again
When 'neighbours began to ask questions
Doris guessed, they were going to complain.

But, at just passed three in the morning
Doris fell out of bed, on t'floor
"Get up, get up," Poll' was squawking
As smoke trickled through 'bedroom door,

Doris weren't a girl given to panic
(The parrot were 'ighly impressed)
Pulling clothes quickly over her nightie
She rushed from the flat, barely dressed.

She managed to wake all her neighbours
The firemen brought cheering throughout
But standing there, bird cage a danglin'
Doris knew that her secret were out.

The fire had been caused by her cooker.
Commented senior fireman, Paul
"Thanks to Doris's lightening reactions
The extent of the damage is small."

The neighbours rolled up their shirt sleeves
As the clean up immediately began
Elbow grease, and Fairy, (original)
Soon had Doris's flat spic and span.

Poor Doris was all of a dither
When 'council called later that day
"I'll see what I can do," said the lady
"Because, where there's a will, there's a way."

Guide dogs are let in by the council
From the rules, they are simply excluded
Whilst a dog for a dis-abled person
Is allowed, and expressly included.

These pooches are called 'elper canines
Doris still has her pet, to this day
It is 'ull's very first 'elper parrot
Because, "Where there's a will, there's a way."