Andy Capp
Don’t blame Andy for Labour
losing Hartlepool. He never
voted in his life. Or worked.
More to the point, whatever
they try to tell you, he died
last year from Covid. Florrie
never got to say goodbye.
Comments
This is a smashing poem, Greg. Some years ago, I read a quite serious political article which mentioned, in passing, that Hartlepool was full of housewives who answer the door in their underwear. Things seem to have gone downhill since then......
I watched and heard some interviews with Hartlepool voters on the TV/Radio and the overriding sentiment that seemed to come across to do with their dissatisfaction with Labour was of 'being taken for granted'.
These are very interesting times, ripe for observational writing. You're hitting a rich seam lately Greg! Good stuff.
Thanks for the kind words, Greg. Your poem reminded me that I’d actually written The Headland. I find places like The Headland strangely beautiful, especially on a slow Sunday afternoon. If I remember correctly, the first British casualty in WW1 was at the Headland - German bombardment from the North Sea. As to the town’s recent voting habits, I quietly despair. Oh, the hanging of the monkey during the Napoleonic war is now a thing of civic pride. Tony
Thanks for your comments, Phil and Tony. And Tony, thanks for your wonderful poem. As you might have guessed, I have never been to Hartlepool. Now, having read your poem, I kind of feel I have. If posting my little effort had no other effect, it was worth it to read 'The Headland'.
Hi Greg, I live about a fifteen minute drive from the Andy Capp sculpture. It’s at the Headland, or Old Hartlepool as it used to be called. An interesting place to which I’m frequently drawn. Tony
THE HEADLAND
Past the God forsaken roundabout,
its guano-mottled, brine-bleached statuary
the only thing of civic pride for miles hereabouts;
past the minimalist youth and his propensity
for casual violence; beyond the last man standing
public house, marooned in its car park, empty
at 3.15pm on an afternoon that isn't ending
as you might have expected; past the row
of shops and their crestfallen guttering;
past the drive-by tattoo parlour,
the blood and thunder butcher's,
dull thuds on the wooden hour;
past the the tirade of gulls in the harbour,
circling, plying their endless trade;
past the pawn shop, the no-credit jeweller's,
cheap at rings in their seedbeds,
an empty plaque of sunless absence;
past the crime that is always being committed
to which there will never be a witness;
past the dog seeking retribution
for its ribcage; past all of this
and face the sea, its diminishing return,
its ship to shore silence and emptiness,
which is going nowhere, ever. Walk past this.
Philipos
Tue 11th May 2021 10:32
Aw. Yes I remember it well. Good write.?
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Greg Freeman
Wed 12th May 2021 09:11
Thanks for your kind comments, Stephen and Graham. Tbh, as I was growing up my favourite strip cartoon in the Mirror was The Perishers, not Andy Capp. Does anyone remember the dog Boot and 'the eyeballs in the sky'?