Friday, 1 December 2017

The View from the Packet Inn 12" version

‘Cross the bedevilled
Mahogany bar,
I fill and pour and fill and pour,
To chippies, cabbies,
Drinking plenty,
All bleedin’ shop talk
And rolls of twenties.
The plumbers always
Push their luck.
The joiners join t‘ sparks,
In not giving a fuck.
The plasterers question
Your pint pouring punctuality,
Then when plastered,
Your sexuality.
A gender imbalanced pack
Of specific wishes
All crack and racing
No hands washed pisses.
A job,
Wi’ as many fag-breaks
As time allowed,
But that was then
And this is now.


The carpet’s blood,
A working-class ghost.
The machine that dropped quids,
Pours Ethiopian roast.
The coiffured non-quaffers
Have moved on in;
They reserve tables,
Talk profiles in

The pubs interior’s
Not changed a jot
The punters, in a decade,
A fuck of a lot.
But the view from the
Hand-etched Victorian window,
Out to the cold, cold street,
That’s what chills my very soul.

It used to be, all
Dull traffic spats
And near collisions
Now it’s Hogarth’s
Living breathing visions.
As the politely heeled
Nest and root,
(Priced out locals
Given the boot).
In perfect correlation,
Across the way,
The desperate gather,
Beg and pray.
You’re about to meet some of them.


Wi' t' looks of Vic n' Bob's
Uncle Peter,
He's the social-fucking-baro-meter.
Matted hair,
Legs walk past
His dog's-eye view,
One pair,
Smiles for himself,
Reminds him of Donna,
Before this blitz,
On frozen pavers,
Can no longer sitzen,
The strange ignore,
And sometimes spitzen,
Whilst dreams are raw
So, stop, take time,
An' fuckin' listen.


"It's cold" we cry,
It's cold,
She cries.
Dispaired of
These Samaritime
Museum Mannequins,
Gawping reflectively,
In their
In their humanitarian
Gap-year educated
Boat races,
'Til rain, turns them to
Duck and cover
Camoflaging t' cries
Of someone's


Often wishes
His patchy fare,
Could be groomed
Like geezer's there,
But the fixed wheel of life
Allows, none of these
Pleasantries and platitudes,
He Angers up,
With their attitudes,
As one in a thousand does allude
To thrust a coin of a ten-bob hue...
But fails.
Plays busy.
Comes in for a pint.


Off the floor to walk around,
Past the old football ground,
Warm the feet, keep them moving,
Before they are involuntarily so.

Occasionally, he hears the roar
Of victory or lucky draw.
His old man once did tell him 'bout
Rental-shop-window tv crowds.
He ponders 'pon nostaligia briefly,
When life was beaten out 'im weekly,
In each round of the sweet FA cup.


Thrust into the gilded street,
Lily-White without the pictures.
Free-papered glimpse
At weekend fixtures.
He'll keep today's,
Might just need it.
He already knows the score:
Capital one.

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