performance – Page 32 – Robert Garnham

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.

There’s nothing more annoying than a WhatsApp group

There’s nothing more annoying than a WhatsApp group
A work based compulsory WhatsApp group
It turns your brain to mush
And if turns your mind to soup
There’s nothing more annoying than a WhatsApp group.

There’s a hundred people in it
And they all want attention
It’s ever so mundane
And there’s nothing they won’t mention.
Leave the phone for a moment, though,
For a shower or for a poop
There’s a hundred notifications on
Your work based WhatsApp group.

The mundanity of the things they post
Really gets up my nose
But every fiftieth message is important
Just to keep you on your toes.
I’d delete the app tomorrow
It’s such an annoying thing
I’m getting sick and tired of hearing
That notification ping.

Here’s Judy with her plant pots
And some grandkids I’ve never met
And have you been watching the latest drama?
No! Don’t tell me the ending yet.
And here’s the paint for the living room
And some magnolia for the hall
And just as j decide to ignore the group
Comes word of an urgent conference call.

I’m tired of their emojis, ping!
Just because we all work together.
You don’t have to keep pointing out, ping!
What day it is, or the weather.
So I bitched about it to a friend of mine, Ping!
And told her I’d rather be dead
Than read all this halfwitted crap all the time, Ping,
Mistakenly posted this to the group instead.

Zoo Poo

The skunk
Stunk.
The elephant
Was a smellyphant
The hummingbird
Was humming..
The flamingo
Had BO
And it had
Let one go
The goldfish
In their tank
Were all rank.
The octopus
Was noxious
A flock of bats
Of which there
Was an abundance
Were all pungent.
The arachnid
Was acrid.
The squid
Was putrid.
The giraffe
Had never had a bath
The puffin
Lived on a cliff
And it didn’t half whiff
The river otter
When it was a little hotter
In the middle if Devon
Stank to high heaven.
The swan
Didn’t half pongs
The puma
Had an aroma.
The kangaroo
Smelled like poo
The tortoise
Lived a long life
But it was rife
The mouse
As well as squeaking
Was reeking.
The Mink
Let off a stink.
On his fifth day in his new job,
The zookeeper ran out of air freshner.

My grandad is a drag queen

My grandad is a drag queen
He goes to lots of shows
He sings Aretha Franklin
Badly, through his nose.

My grandad is a drag queen
Wearing glittery frocks
He’s only short but he looks quite tall
By standing on a box.

My grandad is a drag queen
My gran at first was aghast
Ten years ago she said it was a phase
And it probably wouldn’t last.

My grandad is a drag queen
I’ve seen his act, it’s riotous
He has them dancing in the aisles
Depending on his arthritis

My grandad is a drag queen
With his perfect comportment
High heels and a sequin dress
While digging in his allotment.

My grandad is a drag queen
He hits the club dance floor
He twists and vogues and breakdances
He’s just gone ninety four.

My grandad is a drag queen
He says it’s a nice little earner
He enters contests, shows and things
As Tina Afterburner.

My grandad is a drag queen
I know it’s not traditional
Sashaying to the shops each day
To buy his Werther’s Originals.

My grandad is a drag queen
He gets on stage and kills,
Lip syncing to I Will Survive,
Which he won’t if he’s not taken his pills!

My grandad is a drag queen
He really couldn’t look any cuter
In a sparkly sequinned dress yesterday
At the shops in his electric scooter

My grandad is a drag queen
He makes me feel such pride
He’s fierce and cool and glamorous
But he’s still my grandad inside.

The Farting Wizard

He exudes magic.
He exudes spells.
He exudes smells.
He’s the farting wizard.

Hocus pocus
Abracadabra
Someone grab the
Air freshener
He’s the farting wizard.

He can make anyone disappear
He can make anyone vanish
But there’s no magic involved,
Just a high protein diet
He’s the farting wizard.

He’s more stomach churning than merlin.
He’s more hanky over the mouth
Than Gandalf.
He’s more Harry Potty
Than Harry Potter
He’s ever so fond
Of his magic wand
But I wouldn’t want to see his pants
He’s the farting wizard.

He fights evil.
His farts are evil.
He’s strong and silent.
He’s silent but violent.
He lives a hermits existence
In a cave
I wonder why
He’s the farting wizard.

There’s a certain magic
In the air
There’s something else
As well
He’s the farting wizard.

He’s hardly ever petulant
But he is quite flatulent l
His spells might be virulent
But they’re also pungent.
He’s the farting wizard.

Izzy wizzy let’s get busy
Fluffy guffy let’s get whiffy
He might grant you your wishy
But try not to have a sniffy
He’s the farting wizard.

Last Thursday I needed an incantation
To guard against fire breathing dragons
He lit some scented candles
I said, is that a part of the ritual?
He said no, they were for another reason
He consulted his book and said,
By the grace of magic sublime, be gone!
Foul dragon, be gone!
(Pffffffffffgllllllbbbbbb!)

And do you know, they’ve
Not been back?

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.

Moon Simon

This is an old poem from 2013 which I’ve only just got around to recording. It was great fun to make this video. I hope you like it!

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

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.

An Ode to Swindon

There’s a little town I visit
I go from time to time
Every time I go there
I come home feeling fine.

I arrive and I’m ever so happy
Get off the London train
I see the sign on the platform
Swindon is its name.

A pulsing rhythm drumbeat
Where nothing gets you down
You can shove Paris up your arse
Swindon is a proper town.

It’s got a lovely coffee shop
Somewhere in the middle.
And according to a friend of mine
It’s got a kick ass Lidl.

The tower blocks they built here
Look like their balanced on stilts here
No one ever wilts here
In this jewel of Wiltshire.

Going into Swindon
Always makes me hyper
Knowing it was the birthplace
Of Billee Piper.

No other place compares to it
None can barely complete
It’s like a night of hot hot sex
In Brutalist concrete.

The Edge from U2 almost bought
A pair of trousers here
The man in the pub has got no arms
He plays the piano by ear.

I’ll give my heart to Swindon
That’s my solemn vow
It’s got more canals than Guildford
It’s got more soul than Slough.

My friend Jeff gets an orgasm
Every time he sees the place
Unfortunately he lives there
He keeps his curtains closed just in case

He gets a glimpse of Swindon
You can hear it when he does
Every time I visit the place
I get a real good buzz ( so does Jeff).

It’s a place of lust and urges
And a sense of unbridled passion
I’m starting to think that this whole town
Will start to come back into fashion.

(This is a rewrite of a poem which I wrote originally during the interval at the Swindon Poetry Slam about five years ago. Amazingly I got to the final and just missed out on winning the damn thing.)