Not so infamous as ‘81

when Liverpool went feral

and anger blazed for nine whole days,

the riot of ‘85 arose

in Toxteth when someone

was stabbed and four men’s freedom hung in peril.

I didn’t know that then, although I was 

stranded in the middle

thinking “What the fuckin’ fuck?!!”

In ‘85 there was a lack

of means to know the cause.

We had no internet to solve...

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As promised yesterday, my updated secular and politically correct rewrite of Land Of Hope And Glory...

Land of Hope and Mercy

Mother of the Free

How shall we extol thee

Who are born of thee?

Wider still, and wider

Stretch thy welcoming arms;

Embracing all the needy

With tolerance and charm!

Dear Land of Hope, thy hope is crowned.

We’ll make thee more me...

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A lot of debate recently about the appropriateness of "Rule Britannia" and "Land of Hope and Glory" as songs for the modern age. The middle verse of "God Save the Queen" is equally controversial, but it strikes me that although I sang the song hundreds of times when I was young and had little choice in the matter, I have never sung the offending verse because it was always tactfully dropped. I don...

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Today we’ll learn to build a wordstone wall,

substantial as the one before you now.

It must survive hard frosts; wild gales and squalls;

ride seismic shifts; endure the shunts of cows.

First we think about what it’s for.

The purpose might be to keep your chattels penned

or keep intruders out.

It may define the boundaries of your tract

or simply be aesthetic.

Conside...

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“PIG

MAAAN!

PIG

MAAA-AN!

HA HA,

GERARD YOU ARE!!”

Not the most astute critique, I know,

but we were just fifteen. The Pink Floyd song

would volley from the mouths of my home gang

every time a panda car rolled slow

to cast a cagey eye on us then slew

away from those street corners where we’d hang,

and mumbling some Prog Rock lyrics wrong

summed all the in...

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The sun was filtering through a gauze of green

and ripples of lustre rolled pearl-like over moss

as if her path lay deep beneath the sea.

The branches overhead 

seemed polished with a gloss

that flung each iridescent spark of light

ricocheting sideways, bud to bud,

before they sprinkled, sharp and diamond white,

to soak into the vibrant

forest’s spongy bed.

...

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Anemones frizzled sparks beneath the trees

and bluebells rippled lakesides in the glades

the day Amelia Hamilton first breezed

into the woodland camp

sequestered in the shade.

Although no one had seen her face before

they felt she had been born to live among them.

Willing to muck-in with all the chores

the new recruit soon proved

more expert than the young men.

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The night Amelia Hamilton was born

the caravan was battered by a gale.

Her mother gripped the drop-down bed and scorned

the father who was now

a thousand miles away.

The caravan site owner made it clear 

that babies have to pay their rent as well

so young Amelia passed the next ten years 

in custody of Gran

where none would wish to dwell.

Daily beatings, sma...

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