Thursday, May 11, 2017

On The Town

My back teeth are floating,
That means I need a piss,
But I ain't going nowhere with this pint in me fist,
I'm out drinking with Daz,
He fights when he's drunk,
But I need a waz,
Got no time for this punk.
We go down Deansgate,
Spending our dole,
When you got Manchester mates,
Yer never alone.
We move to the Northern Quarter,
Daz wanting a fight,
With the students and yuppies,
Who are out tonight.
Thatcher's Britain, that's how I see it,
Us workers versus the the middle class shit.
That ain't my culture,
It ain't Daz's neither,
We're just out on Deansgate,
Looking for beaver.

This poem is sort of written in the voice of what some people might call "a scally" but their the blokes I grew up with. I don't advocate everything in here but I wanted an honest descriptive n and to be honest I think there's more poetry in looking a birds and having a good fucking ruck than in most so called poetry books 

Monday, April 24, 2017

Gary Neville's Tower

Gary Neville wants to build a tower
For hotels and offices and shops and that
Just up Deansgate from the Beetham Tower
Where his brother Phil used to have a flat.

Manchester's big, it's bold, it's brash
It's always had a bit of swagger
But people say this tower's too flash
Like Tony Wilson and Liam Gallagher.

They say this tower's too in yer face
Like Mark E. Smith and John Cooper Clarke
They say it doesn't know its place
Like Frederic Engels and Karl Marx.

But I say Gary shouldn't take no shit and
Build it into the Manchester sky
Because if there's one thing I know about this city
None of us say no to getting high.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

Her Man Chest

Her man chest
Was the chest of her man
With sprawling hair
In a master plan

From Sale on one nipple
to Ardwick on the other
And his Beetham Tower
Under the covers

She loved her man chest
And in a state of elation
She declared her man chest
God' greatest creation!

NB - Teachers, when reading this poem with your students please note that 'her man chest' is an anagram of Manchester and that is what the poem is actually about. I've been told by some fans that this poem was a bit too obscure on the first reading, but for me discovering hidden meanings is part of the joy of poetry, so I've decided not to spell it out and to let people work it out for themselves.

Me Dad Was The Best

Me Dad Was The Best
But he never took a rest
When put to the test
He passed, we were blessed
His shirts was pressed
And his hair never messed
Though at bedtime he dressed
In his kecks and string vest
He was distressed
At our kid's first arrest
He went and confessed
He'd become so obsessed
But the priest was impressed
With his Catholic prowess
And with that off his chest
He had a pint of Hyde's Best

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

I'm A Bin

I'm a bin
Drop yer litter in
The bottles banging make a din
But I'm mad for it
It ain't a sin.

Drop in yer needles
But don't drop the ball
Coz I'm a bin
And I've seen it all. 

The Smiths or the Roses?
Which legends are finer?
I'm a bin
With a thick black liner

"Ich bin bin"
It's German you plank!
But I'm not a German
I'm a bin
And a Manc.

- composed March 2017

This poem was inspired by the new bins in God's own city of Manchester. If you are from the council and would like to use the poem please leave a comment below.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

A City United/United City

A united city in every way
Except of course on derby day
But even then we're Mancunians first
With a pint of Boddies to quench our thirsts

A city united around the Smiths
Of men (and some women) with Morrisey quiffs
Of Levenshulme lads in parka coats
And Mardi Gras floating Canal Street's boats

A united city, I don't know if you've seen
But City United's the name of our teams
That we watch with kebabs from Fallowfield's skewers
That we wash with our tears down Oxford Road's sewers

Friday, December 16, 2016

We ARE The People

We aren’t the people whose houses have butlers
We’re the descendants of the scuttlers.

We aren’t the people with money, the rich
We didn’t vote for Thatcher THAT BITCH

We aren’t the people of Oxbridge, the dons
University of Life is where we’re from

Poetry’s not about books and posers
Poetry is the Stone. Fucking. Roses.

So stuff yer cloisters up yer arse
We ARE the people, this city is ours.

I was inspired to write this poem when I remembered about an English teacher we used to have in our school who smelled and wore tweed and used to bang on about TS Eliot and stuff. It's thanks to him that I never knew what poetry was, not until me and our kid went to Spike Island. I hope you enjoyed it.