Tag Archives: funny

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.

I’ve never once been on a hovercraft

I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
To be quite frank I’m shocked you even asked.
I’m not that bothered
I’ve never hovered
A friend went once
He’s never recovered
Though many people say it is a blast.

I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
The sound of it really is quite daft.
It’s got a big skirt
It lets out a spurt
according to some
It makes your fillings hurt
And my buttocks too so that’s both the fore and aft.

I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
And if I did I’d sit right next to the raft
I hesitate
To see if vibrate
I told my friend Sam
She couldn’t wait
Shall we do it? I asked, yes, she said, not half!

I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
They’re expensive I’d need to go into my overdraft
The thrills I seek
They’re kind of meek
I hope it doesn’t
Spring a leak
And then my god there’d be an terrible drought.

I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
It’s chilly I’ve heard I’d have to wear a scarf.
A sleepless night
It doesn’t seem right
Why the hell would I go
To the Isle of Wight
Just sit on the cliffs and point at it and laugh.

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.
Mooching round my bungalow
What shall I have for my tea?
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 to use one plug
Whenever I use the vacuum.
It’s ever so static
The fridge automatic
And going upstairs
Only leads to the attic
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or possibly a chalet.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
It’s like a home in half
Talking about my bungalow
Only makes people laugh
I ignore their glares
Or shout, who cares?
There is no cupboard
Under the stars
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or perhaps a ground floor flat.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
With roses round the door.
When people visit my bungalow
I say, this is the ground floor.
My heart is empty
Depravity
It’s easy to fight
The gravity
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d sleep closer to planet earth.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d get right down to business
Living there in my bungalow
No fear of altitude sickness
I’d make my stamp
Buy a standard lamp
I must admit
It’s kind of camp
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

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.

Lord Whatsisname Liked my Hollandaise

Poem

Lord Whatsisname liked my hollandaise
He really really like my hollandaise
I wandered round
In a daze
The lord he liked
My hollandaise
He also liked my vinaigrette
Peri peri sweet sweet chilli
I was a good cook and this had now been proved
My sauces they were all peer reviewed.

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.