Synopsis of a Novel I Wrote When I Was 24

I spent my teenage years writing comedy short stories. Eventually I would join a writers’ circle and read these out, but that’s as far as they ever got. Around the year 1999 I decided I wanted to become a serious writer, and got into some very pretentious high literature, such as James Joyce, or Juan Goytisolo, and I dreamed of literary stardom and making a difference. I conceived of a book which would be so special that it wouldn’t even have a name, that’s how pretentious I was back then. At the time, I was young, enthusiastic, newly out, with my first partner and my first flat. My hobby was travelling all over the world, and I really thought I was going to be the most famous writer who ever lived. Ha!

I wrote the book between 2000 and 2004 and then promptly never looked at it again. I never sent it anywhere, and I never let anyone read it. The only thing I did with it was to take the entire second part and make it into a play, ‘Fuselage’, which actually won a theatre writing competition and was performed / rehearse read over two nights by a professional company at the Northcott Theatre in Exeter. That was in 2008. And I hadn’t looked at it since.

Until the other day, when I found the damn thing on a memory stick. It was saved in twelve different parts, so I’ve just spent all of today gluing them together as a word document, (I didn’t use word back then), and the book is now complete for the first time. I’ve decided to give it a title, too – ‘Orbs’, after one of the main characters.

Anyway, I’m not going to do anything else with it. But I thought you might get a kick out of reading the synopsis so that you can see just what a car crash the thing was. It was written in Devon, Copenhagen, Toronto and New York, which is probably the only notable thing about it!

Orbs

Robert Garnham

Part One

Chapter One : Cassandra meets Lucas on a train. She is, apparently, recently bereaved of her boyfriend Aaron. The chapter is narrated by Mister Collins – apparently an ex-lover of Cassandra’s. On the train, the conversation between her and Lucas is overheard by Orbs who announces that Lucas can, if he wants, bring Aaron back to life through literature. Of a sudden the train grinds to a halt.

Chapter Two : Lucas insists on leaving the stranded train. They walk through the woods to a mansion house where they are expected by Mrs Ohspander. Cassandra is insistent that Lucas write Aaron into existence for her. They stay the night. Over dinner Lucas decides not to do as he is asked. Orbs arrives and takes Cassandra out to a chapel in the grounds of the house dedicated to the life of Aaron. Orbs explains that Aaron – (despite being dead) – is the narrator of the chapter.

Chapter Three : Cassandra is distraught. She wanders in the forest and returns to the house. She cannot find her way in. Instead, she spends the night in a heated greenhouse. Lucas arrives and they make love. They discuss the re-invention of Aaron and Lucas declares to her his love. Cassandra drowns Lucas into the pond and returns to the house. In the library she meets Orbs who says that Mr Collins has been watching her. Orbs hints that Cassandra is, in fact, dead, and that it is Mr Collins who has invented her for a character in a book. Aaron is very much alive.

Part Two

Chapter One : Lucas and Jakub have crashed in the desert. Jakub is injured, Lucas cares for him, and a bond of love develops which Jakub does not reciprocate. One day Orbs arrives and cures Jakub’s injured leg, finds them food and water and solves many of their problems. Lucas is convinced that Orbs is an evil spirit intent on separating them. When no-one is looking, Lucas sabotages the radio equipment.

Chapter Two : Orbs organises the makeshift camp and ensures that food and water are available, and Jakub’s leg begins to heal. Lucas is afraid that this will result in the end of his association with the older man. He remembers the cacophony of their crash-landing. A sandstorm blows in and, unnoticed by Jakub, Lucas murders Orbs.

Chapter Three : Jakub questions Orbs’ disappearance, Lucas finally admits to killing him. He walks off into the desert and is rescued, eventually, by Grainer and Shelley, who come back for Jakub and drive them to the nearest city. Grainer asks where Orbs is but Lucas remains silent. Jakub then admits to having crashed the plane on purpose.

Part Three

Chapter One : Rozetta is a curator at a museum of writers in Paris. Meek, ineffectual, she wishes she were more like Jakub, an adventurer who always gets what he wants. They are sent to the mountains in order to secure precious artefacts pertaining to the poet Michael Afff, but there is something about the small kingdom which they both find intimidating. Rozetta rests in her hotel room and hears footsteps approach, menacingly, on the veranda.

(The paragraphs of this chapter have been numbered and mixed up. The reader must choose from three possible combinations in order to read them. Only one is correct. Superfluous, ‘rogue’ paragraphs have also been inserted.)

Chapter Two : Back in the city, Rozetta feels herself changing into a confidant, brash young woman. Jakub, meanwhile, loses all his confidence. Rozetta also feels herself inundated with words and poems. A representative of the mountain kingdom, Orbs, reveals that, in an attempt to bring back Michael Afff, his DNA has been injected into them both. However, a mix-up has resulted in Rozetta being infected with Jakub’s DNA, and vice versa.

(This chapter has footnotes which explain Orbs’ motivations. The footnotes also have footnotes, which spell out a short poem. This, too, has footnotes.)

Chapter Three : (Takes place after Chapter One). In the mountain kingdom, Rozetta walks around, dazed. At the cathedral she watches the High Priest of a cult based on the work of Afff – Orbs himself. Jakub meets Orbs in the park – he explains that this was the only way to bring Afff back. It is hinted, though, that rather than being a mix-up, Rozetta actually is infected with Afff’s DNA, and the poet is taking over.

(This chapter is written entirely back to front. The reader must determine this for themselves. Also, a new mark of punctuation is used, the explanation of which is also contained within the narrative.)

Part Four

Chapter One : Deni is trapped inside a poem in ancient Greece. Rozetta is coming to his rescue armed with a copy of Micheal Afff’s poetry and a river-boat, deep in the jungles of the Amazon. The expedition comes across a statue deep in the foliage of Rozetta herself. Orbs appears in the poem and offers advice to Deni, and then he appears on the river boat as an interested observer. It is hinted, however, that it is Rozetta who is trapped in a poem and that Deni is the author.

Chapter Two : Deni, as the author of Rozetta’s adventure, is himself trapped in a cage in Vienna during a masked ball. Orbs visits him and implores him not to tamper with the narrative, it is having a negative effect on Rozetta’s existence. Meanwhile, in the jungle, Rozetta and Orbs investigate a mysterious abandoned city. Back on the river, their boat is attacked by natives and it sinks below the water.

Chapter Three : Deni is in a cabin of an ocean-going container vessel, he is also an amateur artist. Rozetta and Orbs are travelling through the jungle on an overnight train. In the restaurant car Orbs plays piano jazz, romance is a possibility. The container vessel picks up a man floating in the sea in a life-raft, it is Orbs. On the train in the jungle the brakes are applied – Orbs and Rozetta investigate and  discover a container vessel, lifted out of the water and placed one hundred miles from the sea in front of them.

Part Five

Chapter One : Deni and Robert are lovers, living in a caravan at a seaside town. They are conducting a theatrical experiment in which members of the public, unwittingly, are participants in a secret play. Deni’s ex-lover, Orbs, arrives, and they reminisce – Robert feels jealous. After a night of partying in which Orbs’ intentions are frustrated, they wake to find the caravan – and themselves – hundreds of miles away.

Chapter Two : Deni and Robert have been transported to a sand dune and a wide beach, a desolate landscape. Deni bemoans the loss of his desk and his project. Orbs helps reconvene the project in their new location. Robert sees Eeon, a deck-hand on a pleasure boat. Wandering in the sand dunes, he discovers Deni’s desk. Later, on the same pleasure boat, Robert tells Deni that he has seen the desk and Deni reacts angrily, forces the boat back and runs off into the dunes, never to be seen again.

Chapter Three : Robert, Eeon and Orbs are staying at a lighthouse. Robert continues Deni’s project. Eeon picks up foreign stations on his radio, incomprehensible speeches. Robert falls in love with Eeon. Orbs is worried about his place in the universe and his ever-decreasing sense of youth. During a thunderstorm Eeon and Robert listen to the radio – the speaker hints at religious and cultural conflict. Eeon feels lost and uneasy. The foreign speaker then starts mentioning aspects of their private lives, their deepest fears. Running to tell Orbs of this, they discover that it is he who is the speaker.

Part Six

Chapter One : Ostensibly a meditation on my own childhood, the autobiographical sections give way to a narrative based on the imaginings of Eeon’s own childhood in tandem with my own. A kindly relative, Orbs, has spotted the doubt in myself and proclaims to know of a solution – that life should just be lived.

Chapter Two : A comedy tracing the career of Cassandra, a modern artist working in New York, and Robert, a poet, each of whom has run out of inspiration. To advance Cassandra’s career, Robert spends a night in her studio and concocts works of art on her behalf, aided by the janitor, Orbs. On realising the futility of art in  life, Robert decides to kill himself by jumping off a crane into the river, but Orbs saves him. Arcs is revealed to be a manifestation of Orbs’ imagination. Examples of Arcs’ work as an artist are placed within the chapter as visual representations.

Chapter Three : Robert is a poet in New York, seemingly without friends or success. His sister, Cassandra, is the subject of a retrospective at the modern art facility. Robert feels left out. At the launch party, he feels distinctly out of sorts, until he sees Cassandra slumped in the corner, depressed by fame. The next day he goes back to the gallery with the help of the janitor, Orbs, and he replaces the works of art in Cassandra’s exhibition with posters of his own poetry. Lost in the gallery, he meets Stefan and they fall in love. Robert becomes successful and he and Stefan host a magnificent party.

Titanic / Flurgen / Orgasms : Three Live Poems, Torquay June 2024

Hello, here are three poems I performed the other night. Flurgen is a new poem and this was its first ever recital. I hope you like them.

Torquay June 2024

90 Seconds

That tiny mouth 
Screws tight like a cat’s arse.
His eyebrows arch down
Like wiper blades on a
Written off Citroen.
He closes his eyes screwed tight
And makes the same sort of noise
As the grunt my gran lets out
After banging her shin on
The coffee table,
And then he makes another sort of noise,
Similar to that uttered by someone
After they’ve realised they’ve
Stepped
Barefoot on a slug.
That’s noise number two
He wrinkles his nose
And some snot comes out.
It’s there on his upper lip like a green
Hitler moustache.
His shoulders are pale white
But there’s a semi circle of orange.
He smells of chip fat and fudge.
He quivers for a bit
Like an old fridge turning itself off.
Soaked in sweat, he
Collapses onto the bed,
The bouncing motion of which
And the big slap
He delivers to his own belly
Causes the moistness to fly off,
Flobber around the room
Like one of those big dogs with drool
When it shakes its head.
He then makes a noise
Which might be laughter but sounds
Like a
Cat about to throw up a fur ball.
Donald Trump
Enjoyed his orgasm.

Casserole

1.

You know what it's like.
It's just gone three in the afternoon
And you get a sudden pang
For casserole.
Not quite as full on as a stew,
Not quite as funky as a hot pot,
Not quite as opaque as soup
Nor even a broth with its
Meaty meaty chunks,
Casserole, winter warmer,
Dumpling soaker,
Casserole casserole casserole,
Mmm mmm mmm!

Traipsing round the supermarket aisle
Where is the casserole? This'll take a while
I tell you what will a-make a-me smile
A glimpse of casserole, I would run a mile
Like a character from mythology, a personal trial
Casserole casserole casserole,
Mmm mmm mmm!

Excuse me mister manager
Supermarket manager
Where is the casserole,
Don't hold it back!
Excuse me mister manager
Supermarket manager
Where is the casserole,
It's something that you lack!

Casserole casserole casserole,
Mmm mmm mmm!

And the supermarket manager said

2.

I am the very model of a supermarket manager
We have so many bargains here we'd see off any challenger
We sell our food in tins and packs and sometimes in a canister
And if somebody makes a mess I have to call the janitor.
I am so damn professional I'm nothing like an amateur
Our shelves are always fully stocked, our sugar it is granular
I make a daily sales forecast with several parameters
We have a fine display in here of spoons and forks and spatulas
Our singles night is Wednesday the place is full of bachelors
I am the very model
Yes I am the very model
Yes I am the very model
Of a supermarket manager!

(He is the very model of a supermarket manager!)

I have so many colleagues here and staff and several underlings
I go straight home it's getting late I strip down to my underthings
I'm not about to come on to you if that is what you're wondering
Cos I'm a decent sort of chap though often prone to blundering
The music that I hear at night is shopping trolleys trundling
It fills me with a strange delight I cannot stop from shuddering
A queue of shoppers in a row, the slowest till is the one working
Our motto is Grab What You Can, a philosophy which underpins
Our shareholders and chief exec, our profits they are funnelling
I am the very model
Yes I am the very model
Yes I am the very model
Of a supermarket manager!

(He is the very model of a supermarket manager!)

But I don't know if we've got
Casss-errrrrrr-roooolllllle!

I'll ask Janet.

Oh, Janet?

3.

What?

You got any of the good stuff, Janet?

And iiiiiii-eeeeeee-iiiiiiiiii-eeeeeee-iiiiii,
Will always loooovee
Souuuuuuuuuupppppp.

No Janet, the other thing?

Oh yes.

(To the tune of Alejandro, by Lady Gaga)

I've looked everywhere
In the stock room
But I haven't got a pack n't got a pack.
In the freezer
In the stock room
Not even in the chiller on the shelf.

You know that I love casserole,
Hot like stew or a sausage roll
At this point I do suggest
Pot Noodle

Don't look like we
Have got any
Casserole -ole,
I'm not your babe
With casserole
Haven't got none,
Not in a pack
Nor in a box
Just a small back
We haven't got
We haven't got
Any cass'role.

Any cass'role
Any cass'role
Cassy cassy cass'role
Cassy cassy cass'role

Any cass'role
Any cass'role
Cassy cassy cass'role
Cassy cassy cass'role

Stop, please!
Just let me go!

I've got a spillage in aisle six.

4.

Tell me young man,
Why do you like casserole so much?

I live a life devoted to it
And it often gets me grumpy
That a common misconception is
That it's cold and ever so lumpy.

A casserole is different
And lifts me high anew
It fills me with a warmth inside
That you don't really get with stew.

And stroganoff can bugger off
Please take away that bowl
And if you really love me true
Just give me casserole.

I spent a night of bliss with Trish
So sexual so winsome so fetching
She gave me a plate of beef bourgignon
I spent the whole night retching.

Casserole casserole casserole
Just the sound of it makes me tingle.
Casserole casserole casserole.
It's probably why I'm still single.

5.

I'm sorry I can't help you
With that food that you do seek
The only thing that I suggest
Is to come back next week.

Our casserole it takes its toll
And I really don't want to harm ya
Perhaps young man I could tempt you
With a chiller fridge lasagne?

6.

Dinner.
I want for dinner
A dish that I can have with wine
It's the one thing on my mind.
Hunger.
Increasing hunger.
An empty stomach makes a growling sound
It's enough to bring me down.

This supermarket hasn't got any casserole.
And now I will take my leave!

Came in
Around 3.30
Thought it would only take a smidge
Headed to the chiller fridge
Empty
It was so empty
A gap where obviously it should have been
Everyone could hear me scream.

This supermarket hasn't got any casserole.
And now I will take my leave!

Stocktake,
The latest stocktake
It says you had some yesterday
Now they all have gone away
Checking
The best before date
This supermarket
Hasn't got
It hasn't got
Any casserole
This supermarket
Hasn't got
It hasn't got
Any casserole
And
Now
I
Will
Leeeeeeaaaaavvvvee!

7.

But they had some in Aldi.

I Wish I Lived in a Bungalow (Live, audio)

I wish I lived in a bungalow

I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
No upstairs for me don’t you see?
It’s ever so static
I’d feel so ecstatic
And going upstairs
Only leads to the attic
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My god it would be the best.
People would visit my bungalow
And ask, hey where’s the rest?
People would call
They’d stand in the hall
They’d look around
And say, ‘Is that all?’
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d go from room to room.
I’d only need one plug you see
When I use the vacuum.
It’s ever so static
I’d feel so ecstatic
And going upstairs
Only leads to the attic
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
Though people might think i was odd
Saying, “he lives in a bungalow,
He’s really a miserable sod”.
I’d have no cares
I’d ignore their stares
There is no cupboard
Under the stairs
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or perhaps a ground floor flat.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My bedroom down the hall.
Would I get bored of my bungalow?
No, not a chance, not at all.
It’s what I adore
I’d be thrilled to the core
My plan only has
One major floor
I wish I lived in a bungalow
And be closer to planet earth.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
Imagine the plaudits and glory
Like the Star Wars franchise the place
Only has the one storey.
It’s what I’d do
Without much ado
The downstairs loo
Is just called the loo
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Also, I’m ever so lonely.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My life would be a ballet
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or possibly a chalet.
There’s nothing I’d lack
A garden out back
The vibe it gives off
Is that of a shack
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
You try it, you can’t go back.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Perhaps in a cul-de-sac.
It’s made out of brick
I get such a kick
You can keep your stairs
They’re making me sick
I wish I lived in a bungalow
With Darren from the coffee shop.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
It’s something I’ll always regret.
Nothing better than a bungalow,
You can keep your maisonette.
That’s my intent
The hours I’ve spent
It’s one step away
From being a tent.
It wouldn’t be far
You can visit by car
You can come right in
The door is ajar.
I’d make my stamp
Buy a standard lamp
You’ll have to admit
It’s kind of camp
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.


Made for Each Other

Poem

They were made for each other.
He was a trainspotter,
And she was chuffed to have met him.
She was a Pisces
And he looked a bit like a trout.
They were definitely made for each other.

His favourite music was grime.
And she worked for Windowlene.
She liked doing jigsaws
And he liked eating biscuits.
They both started with the edges first.

I love you to the Moon and back, he said.
She said, what if it’s a full moon?
He said, I’ll come back when it’s empty.
He said this with a twinkle in his eye
Which he was due to see the doctor about.
He said he was an artist, a genius
when he had a brush in his hand.
She said, great,
I need the bathroom decorating.

He was a locksmith.
She held the key to his heart.
The other was left with a neighbour.
They composed a melody about Haribo Gummi bears.
When they were together
They made such sweet music.

She only celebrated World Book Day
Which is just as well because
He had a collection of atlases.
One day they were walking when a
Protractor fell from the sky.
He looked into her eyes and said,
‘heaven must be missing an angle’.

He was a pessimist.
She told him to stick his chin out.
It didn’t work.
The bus went straight past.
She told him that she was an optimist.
He said, so’s my sister.
She works in Specsavers.

She was so resourceful.
When the cat died she turned it
Into a footstool.
It looked awful
But at least it was made from Scratch.
They both loved animals.
He said, have you seen the dog bowl?
She said, yes, and he’s good
At snooker, too.

They had similar interests.
He read War and Peace
And she posted a lot on Twitter.
Both have 280 characters.
He was a terrible speller.
He made a big banner,
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
She said,
Who’s Mary?

He said,
Will you always remember me?
She said, yes.
He said,
Will you always always remember me?
She said, yes, yes.
He said,
Will you always always always remember me?
She said, yes, yes, yes!
He said, knock knock?
She said, who’s there?

My Set Last Night in Torquay

Hello, here’s what I got up to in Torquay last night. The poems I performed were:

Badger / EastEnders

I Wish I Lived In A Bungalow

Seaside Soul

Instructions for my Funeral

Light Verse

Made For Each Other

Blue Walnut, April 2024

Ode to a Poet Called ‘Tom’

Let’s face it, there are far too many spoken word artists and poets called Tom. This poem was written about six years ago and it’s about one of them. Or maybe all of them. Or none of them. Anyway, you decide!

It was filmed about six years ago, too, by John Tomkins.

Tom

Chisel-chinned trendy wordsmith
All teeth and tan and hair
That looks like it could be easily quiffable
So young and clean he's probably easily sniffable
Thou hipster Ginsberg with a
Conscience so hot it can
Warm the coldest day with the
Fires of righteousness,
Whose words ooze sensibility,
How pained his outlook, this
Zeitgeist-bending Twitter-trending
Hot young thing, this
New kid on the writer's block, this
Prototype Byron with exuberant facial expressions
This slam-winning rhyme-spinning nonchalant
Thin thin slip of a lad with a gob that spews
Perfect indignation in just the right amounts
With controlled anger
And lots of dramatic




Pauses.

Oh god, I wish he was me.

I wish I could be him, I wish me and him
We're mutually interchangeable,
He's so brilliant, like the brightest object
In the known galaxy, a supernova,
A thousand fires of phosphorus force
Brilliant at what he does,
Brilliant at capturing souls
Brilliant at poetry
I bet he's brilliant at everything
I bet he's never lost a game of Buckaroo.

He's brilliant and sexy and worthy and oh so right
And sexy and coolly infused into the very now
And sexy and young with the most perfect skin
That he should merely stand at the mic and open
His mouth and utter two syllables for me to become as blustered
As a Victorian gentleman whose just
Caught his first glimpse of ankle.

And I want to speak to him, I want to commune with him,
I want to tell him: good stuff, man,
You've opened my mind to new possibilities
And then trampled on it with your youthfulness,
In your trendy converse all stars with no socks,
As you lift the night completely to the very pinnacle
Of absolute truth
And by turns reminded me that my own youthfulness
Is now as relevant and erroneous
As turning up at an otter convention
With a stoat.

Oh, this slippy hippy snake-like lad,
All very subtle and very emotey
If you didn't know any better
You'd think him a bit scrotey,
So slight and wild in the night,
Afire with the rhythms of poets past,
I want to speak to him
Whisper so subtly into his ear,
Blow me,
Blow me away with your words.
I love your body
I love your body
I love you body
Of work.

And at the break, people are talking,
Eulogising, rhapsodising
And it's all about him, oh,
For he's so intense and righteous and theatrical
And oh,
He's so vibrant and ravishing and clever
And oh,
He's so visionary and brash and emotional
And oh,
Not only that but he's got the kind of forearms
That could easily operate a butter churn with
Hardly any trouble at all,
(This gig being in an arts centre in Dorset,
Where butter churns are obviously still a thing).

I follow him,
Through this crowd of admirers and acolytes
Tiptoeing on the periphery
Of a youthful mini mob
Suddenly aware that I'm the only one there
Who remembers the millennium
Or tamagotchis
Or the 1984 Olympics,

He makes a break for the bogs,
And now we're at neighbouring urinals,
The Fluorescent tubes of this magical wazza
Gently caressing the soft hairs of his delicate chin,
His eyes scanning the blank tiled wall,
His sensitive nostrils
Taking in the pungent earthy aromas
In a venue where the Patrons are mostly
Vegetarian and as such
Relish the most intriguing bowel movements.
(As for myself, I've never
Had much of a sense of hummus).

His eyes almost feral and yet
With deep intelligence
As he concentrates in the matter at hand
With the same kind of intensity
He demonstrates at the Mic,
His pee stream strong,
And healthy, and forceful,
It sounds like the Trevi Fountain
And certainly just as aesthetically pleasing.
He doesn't even fart.
Is there anything
He's not good at?

And I want to tell him
That I loved his poems.
All of his poems.
His poem about oxygen
Was such a breath of fresh air,
His poem about raspberries
Was surprisingly bitter,
His poem about the Mona Lisa
Was a masterpiece,
His poem about the perfect serve in tennis,
I couldn't fault it,
His poem about being woken by the smoke alarm,
Such an eye opener,
And I want to tell him
That I got the joke he put in
About de ja vue,
Even though I'd heard it before

And I want to tell him
That he's changed the way I look at the world.
And I want to tell him
That he speaks with a clarity of conscience so concise
He makes the Dalai Lama look like a mardy
Self-centred premiership footballer,
And I want to tell him
That his voice is so silky smooth,
Listening to him is just like
Nuzzling a mallard
And I want to tell him
That I'd pay him thirty quid and a packet of Frazzles
For just a very brief snog
And I want to tell him
That his skinny jeans really
Leave nothing to the imagination.

And I want to tell him
That his work evokes such feelings within,
Destiny and timelessness,
The sheer manic dance of life,
Magic in the mundane,
A pounding euphoric oneness
That weaves us all into that
Inescapable yet brilliant tapestry of life,
This is what I want to tell him,
But instead I stare at his nob.

We wash our hands at the sink
And as I wait for the hand dryer
Which has all the power of
A gnats fart,
I say

Hey, good set,
And he says,
Cheers


A Ride on a Traction Engine

Poem

He said if I were lucky I could win
The main prize in the raffle,
A ride on a traction engine!
And though I was hoping more for the bottle of
Cheap red
Which would knock me as blotto as a
Hippopotamus,
I was one number out, and wouldn’t you know it,
I’d won
A ride on a traction engine.

And by the way, they said,
It’s compulsory.

I wanted to get it over with, I mean,
Wouldn’t you?
Flat caps always make me look like
A farmer with a penchant for porn,
Yet there I stood mid morning with mild mannered Matt
In a field near Yeovil,
Matt,
Whose passion for traction engines far outstripped
Any passion of my own save that I have long harboured
For Walls Viennettas.
Honestly, said Matt,
In his jaunty hat,
As we climbed into the cab,
This will be better than sex.

It went
Chugga chugga latty boom boom
Chugga chugga latty clank
Boom boom ranching boom boom ranching
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.

Just like sex.

Chugga chugga latty boom boom
Chugga chugga latty clank
Boom boom ranching boom boom ranching
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.

Here we go, said Matt,
And it juddered, and shook, and rattled
And lurched forward and
Soon we were chugging across the field
Boom boom wadda wadda boom boom wadda wadda
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.

And Matt yelled,
What do you think?
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.
And I yelled
I think my filling just came out
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.
And Matt said
When was the last time you were jostled
And battered and oscillated in such a manner?
And I thought of my Steven
In the days when we used to do it
Like turning on and off a tap
But now we haven’t done it in quite some time
And I touched his leg the other night and he said,
As if I were a dog about to eat a cigarette packet,
No!
And to be honest
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.
I’m thinking of dumping the bastard.

But isn’t that just like me?
Boom boom ranching boom boom ranching
And Matt’s busy manhandling various
Gears columns cogs wheels vents
And we get to the end of the field and he
Turns that fucker around and we
Come all the way back again.

Chugga chugga latty boom boom
Chugga chugga latty boom
Boom boom ranching boom boom ranching
Pop quizzy bang quizzy bang quizzy pop.
Ca-chur
Ca-chur
Ca-chur
Ka-ping!
Oh, blast, said Matt,
And we shuddered to a halt.

It’s blown a gasket, Matt said,
Brian will have to come over with his tool box,
And I clambered down from the cab
And I wiped the grime from my borrowed dungarees
And I grinned in a way that I hadn’t since
Last October’s orgasm
When I’d shouted,
One hundred and eighttyyyy!
And Steven had said,
Will you keep it quiet up there?