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

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.

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

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. 

A Manc in Heaven

Me and my mates went to the gym in Moss Side, 

With our Johnny who is a mile wide, 

Boxing and skipping and then going for a pint, 

In the Northern Quarter or Longsight.

We're all from Manchester where people bloom, 

Inside a bedsit on a road in Hulme, 

Anthony H Wilson was fond of saying, 

The world is right when United are playing, 

And Oasis, the Mondays and Duretti Column, 

And Canal Street with the guys who like to bum.

I bought a fag lighter in a shop on Market Street, 

And found out that United got beat.

But Saint Anthony knows we're all one people, 

From Rusholme to the Town Hall's steeple, 

Steve Coogan and Mani and Maxine Peake, 

They all know of the heaven of which we speak.