Tag Archives: culture

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.

Toothpaste advert Dental expert Argues with god

She’s not an actress at all
She’s got a lab coat
And glasses
And she’s talking ever so slightly
To the left of the camera
About how various experts recommend
A certain brand

And god says lighten up
And she says go pro
And god says lighten up
And she says
You can feel the difference.

She’s persistent.
He’s omniscient.
Her lab coat is sparkling
Unbelievably white
Subconsciously saying to the viewer
‘Our toothpaste must be good
It must be.
It really must be.’

God hasn’t got time for this,
He’s got an earthquake to set off
In twenty minutes
In order to punish a small town in Italy
Because parliament has been
Debating gay marriage.
God is a bastard like that.

Ninety nine percent of dentists
Recommend this brand
She says
And god rolls his eyes because
Thirty eight percent of statistics are just
Someone speaking out of their arse.

I saw an advert the other day and
Some bloke was wearing a white lab coat
And I thought here we go, more toothpaste,
Butq he was a washing machine technician
And he was flogging Calgon,
Whatever the hell that is.

Dazzle with brilliant whiteness.
Thou shalt not question the ways of
Thy lord and master
Removes ninety percent of most plaque.
Thou start not
Covet thy neighbours wifi.
It’s all one
Meaningless slogan
After another.

Do you need those glasses?
Have they actually got lenses in?
Bold frames, aren’t they?
And that clipboard
Just keeping tabs on everything, eh?
These are the questions I’d also
Ask of god, along with,
Why should we worship You?
Even if you are our lord and creator,
Are you really so sensitive?

I said to the dentist,
Why do you always look
So down in the mouth?
At least you get to the
Root of the problem.
A golfer came in and said
Most of my teeth are fine,
But I’ve got a hole in one.

Sorry, that’s
My easily triggered gag reflex.

Why on earth was I made to join the Scouts?

Why on earth was I made to join the Scouts?

Why on earth was I made to join the scouts?
My parents hoped it would get me out and about.
The only thing it did
was implant in me a doubt
That I was anything like the other boys.

There was so much that I really couldn’t do
Like light a fire or paddle a canoe
The one thing it instilled in me
was being part of a crew
And the fun that I could have with the other boys.

It wasn’t the sort of place where I’d leave my stamp
Or go on hikes, across the moors we’d tramp.
Although in hindsight
it taught me everything about camp
From singing songs with all the other boys.

We’d cut down burly trees with a big old axe
And have to always strive to do our max
Dressing up in drag
singing along to backing tracks
Which is what I did with a few of the other boys.

It was a time of lust and strange hormones
In an age before we had any mobile phones
We’d use morse code
to feel somehow less alone
And chat and bitch about the other boys

We were taught that life could sometimes be quite bitter
And after camp we’d pick up all the litter.
Who on earth has plastered
the tent in tinsel and glitter?
That was me and one or two of the other boys.

We had to swear an oath to Baden Powel’s mission
Take a course in tying knots with deadly precision
We never went that night
cos it clashed with Eurovision.
Which I watched at home with all of the other boys.

Our leader started to think that things were amiss
Or maybe that we were probably taking the piss
Don’t look so sour I said,
just give us a kiss
And that’s how I left the scouts and the other boys.