Just recovering from a week of the dreaded man ‘flu’ (snuffles and chesty cough), which, due to a heroic effort, failed to blight the festive spirit, but seemed to dampen the creative side. In order to send everyone my best wishes for 2018 whilst it’s still vaguely topical, I’ve cobbled the following seasonal ditty together. Apologies for the rough edges, which need a fine sandpaper rewrite. Nevertheless, I shall give it an airing at the Visyon “Headspace” tonight (3rd. January). Happy New Year!
We’ve had a traditional Christmas,
roast turkey and heaps of mince pies.
Round the tree, stacked up were the presents,
a surfeit of toiletry supplies.
We’ve passed through the dark winter solstice.
It’s been difficult to celebrate,
though the Christmas tree’s heavy with lights.
Like the world, we’ve too much on our plate.
On TV came a king known as Morecambe
with another, by name Ernie Wise.
On the news, we picked facts out from falsehoods
and statistics from damned, outright lies.
We’ve had highlights from the 2 Ronnies.
At 3, millions turned on the Queen’s speech.
Alas, Freddie M. dead and gone is.
That’s one Champion who’s now out of reach.
(There’s much at this time is traditional
so grammarians have nipped in the bud,
a future demand for the conditional
to be re-named the “Victoria would”).
With the roast we had all the trimmings,
pigs in blankets and stuffing and sprouts
and we toasted with glass over-brimming
“Happy New Year”, which common sense flouts.
By the 31st. of December
the bird had been curried, baked in a pie,
risotto-ed, the carcass dismembered
as broth and served up for one final fry.
We’ll go veggie, drink in moderation.
We resolve we’ll be radically changed:
that Nation shall speak peace unto Nation,
a pledge that may seem quite deranged:
Primrose pathway of good intentions
brings us back down to earth with a bump.
We fret over inflation and pensions
and Kim-Jung-Un and President Chump.
To the strain of Jules Holland and guest bands,
Big Ben’s chimes and a firework display,
we head into the New Year and link hands
and we promise to mean what we say.
In the old days, a dark haired first footer
brought in a coin, some coal, a mince pie.
Now on January 1st. hear me mutter,
“It’s Premiership First Footie on Sky!”