Last Monday was our “Macc Writers Does Christmas” seasonal reading at the King Edward Street chapel. It was well attended by an appreciative public and about 20 of us did 3 minutes (each) at the mike (which was tweaked up and down with amazing regularity and variable efficacy). Our chairperson is the formidably bubbly Zoe Quinlan who followed Jacky Spry’s rendition of suitably seasonal songs on the pianoforte with a summary of the past year. One of our number, known by everyone as Zoe’s mum (aka Judy Brocklehurst) re-introduced us to the word “wassailing” and for several weeks now, the seed of the following verse had been germinating.
Judy B: Mum’s the Word
What’s that fair-haired lady’s name? Her? She’s Zoe’s Mum.
She’s born and bred in Macclesfield. Right here is where she’s from.
That woman with the fringe whose hair’s got a golden glister,
who’s she when she’s at home? Why that’s nowt but Sally’s sister.
Well, she’s got a very pleasant face, a cracking looking piece:
her, the one that’s smiling now. Oh, Alan Brocklehurst’s niece.
I hear the grapevine’s buzzing. The rumours have been rife.
Those in the know say t’jury’s out on her, yes, her, on Les’s wife.
She likes a laugh. She’s sociable, partial to a glass of sherry.
Who’s that? The quiet, pretty one, David’s secretary.
Well, me, I’m off to chat her up, see if I can make it fly.
Evening, love, great music. And what name do you go by?
What’s that? Well. Judy B., let me tell you what I think.
That glass is nearly empty. Time to let me buy a drink.
I’ve not seen you here before. I’m wondering who you are.
You have lots of different names as I’ve heard in this bar:
“I’m Zoe’s Mum and Alan’s niece and David’s secretary,
I’m Sally’s sister, was Les’s wife, but on the cake the cherry:
I’m my own woman, Judy B., the one and only Judy free.
I’m that very special entity known variously as me.”