Tag Archives: culture

The Space Captain has Got a Big Ray Gun

I am the firm-jawed space captain
And this is my sci-fi show.
I’m the randy tough shirt-ripping hero
You know the way it goes.
I’m the brown-haired stubbled morally-upright
Captain of this ship
I’m the father figure hunky macho man
Who never loses his grip.

Each week the show ends
With the threat of evil lessened.
I’m the laser shooting alien bating guy
Who teaches everyone a lesson.
My assistant this whole time has been
An affable old curmudgeon
Who dispenses words of wisdom and sanity
With every alien that i bludgeon.

The producers met last year
And while they were pleased, gosh, I’m so heroic
In my body hugging one piece spacesuit
Making me be both ridiculous and stoic
Decided to give me a new assistant,
A scientist, with test tubes and litmus .
But from the first moment of our first rehearsal
He turned out to be as camp as Christmas.

Viewer figures started to go up.

First day on set he seemed upset and
Insisted on rewriting his script
Pretending to get just a little aroused
At the sight of my shirt getting ripped.
And when we were held captive by then
Evil King Empreror of the Gargantuan Lizard Men he asked, could he
Remark that the Gargantuan Lizard Men were Gargantuan
In every place but the one that they really should be.

To the maniacal plotting demon wizard,
While supposedly undercover
He remarked to him, oh, you’re so butch!
You must get it from your mother.
While running away on Forbius Seven
Pursued by the furious Forbius Sevenese,
He adlibbed the line, ooo, a pair of handcuffs,
Now what shall we do with these?

Viewer figures went through the roof.

To the giant snake like Mega Octopus
Who wouldn’t let us pass,
Presumably unaffected by it’s mind altering powers he said,
Ooo, you’ve got a face like a slapped arse.
And my catchphrase I loved, as I jump into action,
‘Power it up and hit the switch!’
Was replaced by his own insistence by the phrase,
‘Brace yourself, bitch!’

And all those corny jokes about my ray gun.
Don’t point that thing at me.
Gosh, that’s a big one.
Does it shoot as well as it looks?
My my, you’ve polished that one up nicely.
Look at the shaft on that.
Big ones are so much harder to conceal.
Is it difficult to get a good aim with one that size?
I’ve never seen one that shape before.
Keep it covered up, I’ve just had a sausage.

I wanted such fame and tough guy acclaim
But my dreams have all been torpedoed.
It’s hard to have dignity when captured by robots
He says, ooo, were going to get probed!
The scripts for next year
I really do fear
Have just been released by the studio.
And while my name is still in the frame
I’ve been reduced to just a brief cameo.
I was the firm jawed space captain
And now this is his show.

I only love him when he sulks

I only love him when he sulks.
He looks so masculine and tough.
I can’t get enough
Of when he’s off in a huff.
He does something to me deep within.

He’s a normal bloke
And we do normal blokey things
But when he gets in a mood
It makes my heart sing.
He starts a thing he can’t stop
When he gets in a strop.
When a frown overtakes his complexion
I get an immediate . . ..
. . . . . . . Sense of wellbeing.

Be my hunk, be my daddy,
Do it for me, throw a paddy,
Come on big boy let’s have some fun
Please, I’m begging you, go off on one.

Your brooding gets me in the mood
And I’m only in the mood
When you’re in a mood
And when I’m in the mood
It gets you in a mood
Because I’m in the mood
Because you’re in a mood.

I deprive you of burgers
Not for the sake of your health,
But because
You’re never so manly
As when you’re hangry.

In bed last night
It stayed with a low, sultry moan
Only the moan was about
Chunky kit Kat’s not being
As chunky as they used to be.
And then you got that frown
The frown that never gets me down
And I said,
Don’t give me sultry,
Give me sulky,
And you said,
What the bloody hell are you on about?
And I said,
That’s it, just like that.

I’ll never be employee of the week

I’ll never be employee of the week

You see their face in photographs
So proud in shirt and tie.
It’s an accolade I’ve never had
And I often wonder why.

Of course I work the best I can
With all the skills that I have got
‘Hello there!’ I’m supposed to say to customers
Instead of my usual ‘What?’

I try to learn certain procedures
And apply them to my job.
Apparently the company frowns upon
Calling a customer a ‘jumped up nob’.

Explain where you’ve used initiative,
My boss said the other day.
I haven’t thumped anyone in weeks,
Was the only thing positive I could say.

Our health and safety policy
Ensures that risk is now no more
Though it doesn’t specifically mention
Racing office chairs across the shop floor.

One moment a young trainee starts
Months later in the ranks he supersedes’ ya
Calling him a spotty faced squirt
Only leads to a grievance procedure.

Apparently a stock count is essential
Though the store room is in such a mess
It saves so much time if you can
Just try and give an educated guess.

Asked if I’d cash up the till
It’s a chore that’s no longer in my range
After I told my line manager
That I’ve developed a fear of change.

A workshop in customer services
Is something I’ve been asked to join
Since someone came in for a refund
And left with a knee in the groin.

And then there’s a sudden malfunction
With the self service automated scanner
Apparently it’s not company policy
To repeatedly hit it with a spanner.

An employee of the week I’ll never be
Nor a candidate for an actual promotion
My home made sign in the window, ‘free shoulder rubs’
Caused something of an unwanted commotion.

It’s time for your annual review,
My line manager this morning said.
We looked at each other and just sighed
And then went to the pub instead.

My lucky pants are getting a bit too tight, now.

I’m wearing my lucky pants
I think they’re a bit too tight.
They’re squeezing all sorts of things in.
It’s a feeling I really don’t like.

But I’d never want to get rid of them
Not once in a month of Sundays
So many good things have happened to me
While I’ve been in these undies.

It’s awkward when I’m wearing them
They’re affecting the way I walk.
I ran for a bus this morning.
People are starting to talk.

Every time I’ve had a blast
It’s these pants that I’ve been in
At first it was a coincidence
I’ll never throw them in the bin.

It’s kind of become a ritual
Excitement invariably starts
The moment that I put them on
And cover up my parts.

If I do well in a place
Where ordinarily I’d blunder there
The only excuse that I have
Is to blame it on my underwear.

But now they’re getting tighter
It’s almost borderline kinky
These pants that did so well for me
Can now be described as slinky.

If I have to give a speech
And be heard right at the back
My voice goes higher as I realise
They’ve gone right up my crack.

People can tell when I’ve got them on
There really is no mistaking.
The friction as I walk it really is
The cause of some serious chafing.

So many good things have happened in these pants
And one or two just after
I used to feel like a sex god in them,
But now there’s only laughter.

I’m wearing my lucky pants
And with them life used to be a breeze
I still put them on when I need some good luck
But instead there’s just a tight squeeze.

Bad Uncle

Bad Uncle

I really am a bad uncle.
I’m really not that good.
I never buy them sweets or things
Like a proper uncle should.

I really am a bad uncle.
Not once did I show consternation
When I made them get the tennis ball back
From inside the electricity substation.

I really am a bad uncle
Being with them is terribly tiring.
I told them the meaningless of existence
When they asked to hear something inspiring.

I really am a bad uncle
Hey uncle, have you brought us some sweets?
No I haven’t, I said, but hey, just for fun
Help me go through these tax return receipts.

I really am a bad uncle
They wanted chicken nuggets for tea.
The vindaloo which I made was ever so hot
And they left it, more for me!

I really am a bad uncle.
Let’s watch TV they said!
So many cartoons and great things to watch
I put on the Snooker instead.

I really am a bad uncle.
I thought that I knew how to treat them.
Let’s go out for the day, hooray they said
We went to the local arboretum.

I really am a bad uncle
I interrupted their tumbles and spills
And sat them down for a chat about how
To save seven to eight percent of annual heating bills.

I really am a bad uncle.
I seldom buy them a gift.
No wonder when I turn up at their house
They always look slightly miffed.

I really am a bad uncle.
I’m probably a disgrace.
They’ve never been to my house,
They’d clutter up the place.

I really am a bad uncle.
Let’s play football, uncle, they said.
Let’s not, I replied.

I really am a bad uncle.
I’m awfully glad they’re not mine.
I once was asked to babysit
They made me spill my wine.

I really am a bad uncle.
Come now, it’s time for bed.
But it’s only four in the afternoon,
One of the buggers said.

I really am a bad uncle.
I hate their high squeaky voices.
My sister seems so pleased with them
Who am I to question her life choices?

I really am a bad uncle
And as such on my record there’s a blot
The yelling, the screaming, the tantrums,
Those kids have to put up with a lot.

The A303 isn’t as long as it used to be (It shrunk)

The A303 isn’t as long as it used to be
(It shrunk)

In prehistoric times,
Apparently,
The A303
Didn’t stop at Exeter,
But kept on going.

Continental drift played a part,
Of course.
Dinosaurs, and then
The Romans
Used it to go to
Present day Nova Scotia.
There were tea rooms, so peaceful,
Very pleasant.
Mind you, no
Motorways in those days.

Genghis Khan
Got stuck behind a tractor.
Emperor Napoleon
Got stuck behind a tractor.
The Earl of Effingham
Got stuck behind two tractors.
And I bet he was
Effingham.

The Moon was slightly closer then.
Stone Age man
Worshipping cats eyes gleaming
Brighter on account of the Moon glow
Not quite so far
For Armstrong and co to go.

Cowboys in the layby,
And the hunter gatherer clans of Wiltshire
Refused to welcome outsiders.
Mostly we just
Left them to their own Devizes.

I’m no good at looking after stupid bloody house plants, damn things

I’m not exactly a gardener
My house plants all have died
One of them just kind of gave up
The moment I brought it inside.

The line up there on the windowsill
But by then it’s really too late
Their branches slump like firing squad prisoners
Suddenly knowing their fate.

I water them and try to keep them happy
And angle them to the light
I was woken at two o clock this morning
By one trying to sneak out in the night.

A luscious verdant fern
Over which I have bothered and fussed
One moment will look quite perky
The next it has turned to dust.

My crocus croaked, my orchid went rancid,
My amaryllis couldn’t take any more.
Sitting there watching TV one night
It just threw itself on the floor.

Sing to your plants, a gardener said,
Sing them some plaintive sweet verse
I did what he said and I sung to each one
They ended up looking much worse.

They all seem to just kind of give up
I’ve accepted it now as a fact
The cactus and lily at the same bloody time
In a kind of plant suicide pact.

It’s like a sentence of death
Though I pamper them all to the hilt
The moment I practice my poems on them
They suddenly start to wilt.

Bloody hell, turns out that Banksy is actually my mother.

All of those years I spent
Assuming that my mother was not Banksy
Were completely nullified
When I found the spray paints and stencils
In the potting shed.
No, I’m not Banksy,
My mother said,
And I hadn’t even been thinking that she was.
But I only thought that she was
When she said,
No, I’m not Banksy.

It’s the gritty urban depictions of life
In all it’s rich variety
Which previous to this she had only ever
Had cause to depict
In her crochet and flower arranging,
Now ingrained on those artistic
Renderings
On brick walls, she’s the
Voice of a generation, the
Conscience of a society
Feeding minds and souls the same way
She feeds with sausage rolls
And crisps.

Tracing the development of Banksy pieces,
They’re all on her bus route.
She has a stepladder for the tricky bits.
Why didn’t you tell me you were Banksy?
I asked.
I didn’t think you’d be interested, she replied.

And where did you get the name from?
Oh, I was in the bank, see.
I came this close to being called
Post Officey.

She had afternoon tea with Stormzy
The other day.
And he did the washing up, bless him.
And then she free styled with some hip hop
Grime lads
Incorporating a cracking recipe for steak pies.
I’m well jealous.
She never brings out the good China
When I pop round.

It’s hard being an iconic figure of mystique
And social conscience,
She sighed,
And keep up with my soaps.
But don’t you go telling anyone, now,
I’ll be ever so grumpy.
You can mention it in one of your poems, though.
They don’t get the same kind of exposure.
No offence.
Thanks, Muv, I replied.

None taken.

She’s off again to Bristol this morning,
An early train, her tartan shopping trolley
Full of spray cans and it
Rattles on the cobbles, all those little
Bearings in the cans a symphony of hope.
It all started twenty years ago
When she wrote the word Bollocks
On the wall of the bus station for no reason.
Don’t get arrested, I said.
Coming round for a roast on Sunday?
She asked.

Lily Allen phoned.
Is your mum in?
She’s popped out, I replied.
Say no more, she said, wink wink.

Juicy

https://youtu.be/KUP7KC3r-ZY

This is the show that I was supposed to have toured the U.K. with this year. Alas, it was not to be.

Life can be so juicy at times. Juicy like a sweet apple, filled with goodness. It’s the small things that make it so ripe for exploration, for prodding and poking. Robert Garnham’s new show is an hour or so of performance poetry and spoken word, comedy rhymes and whimsy by the bucket full.

With poems about life, LGBT issues, being envious of beards and the pitfalls of fancying a surfer, Juicy culminates in an extended theatrical piece about love and lust set at an airport departure lounge.

Multiple slam champion and longlisted as Spoken Word Artist of the Year in 2016 and 2017, Robert has performed everywhere from the Womad Festival to London Gay Pride. He has recently featured in a tv advert campaign for a U.K. bank.