The Highams of Horsell are fond of a morsel
Of cheese,
And they go half-demented for curdings fermented
Like these;
They scoff Gruyere, Camembert, Old Amsterdam,
Red Leicester, Crumbly Chester, Brie, Parmesan,
Emmental, St Gall, ripe Gorgonzola,
More Gruyere, Saint-Nectaire and soft Cambozola.

They love, I'm told, a very old and maggot nibbled Gouda,
The green-blue mould of old Lymeswold just has them baying louder...
...for Mimolette, Pont Levecque, Brillat Savarin,
Le Gabitout, Port Salut and St Marcellin;
Tomme de Savoie, Le Sous-Bois, Venezuelan Beaver,
Stillsiter and Tilsiter and Portuguese Nisa;
Epoisses, Diliskus, Dragon's Breath Blue,
Charolais, Olivet and Timberdoodle too!

And now it gets silly, there's Tongola Billy,
Old Growler and Curdly, Brebette,
And Big B with chilli and Gorwydd Caerphilly,
And hand-made Yaks cheese from Tibet...

I'd like to continue but don't think I will do.
Rebecca is stifling a yawn.
And Karen is snoring 'cos cheese lists are boring.
Jim's wishing he'd never been born.
I shall end it right here... well... p'raps one more beer
And more cheese if you don't think that's naughty,
And I'll thank you my dears, to give three hearty cheers,
For Jim... who likes cheese... and who's FORTY!

I never was in such a place,
Running, keep-fitting and sweat,
Point-to-pointing on foot at great pace,
I never did understand yet.

Yoging and squashing and darts,
Have a point, I'll concede and enjoy;
Tennis is fine and football's an art,
But running's no fun for this boy.

Puffing and wheezing, at school, I recall,
Trudging through wind, rain and sleet,
Chasing a steeple for no point at all,
With half of the county affixed to my feet.

The only advantage that I ever saw,
In indulging in such a grim joke,
Was the occasional chance it afforded me for
Enjoying a pint and a much-needed smoke.

Now the fact that I'm perfectly spherically shaped,
Has coloured my view not a jot.
I'm sure if the thin man inside me escaped,
He'd just love to join in with you lot.

And now in this place 'midst a colourful life,
Where heat and humidity reign,
I'll just leave such things to my tiresome young wife,
(I retain at least part of my brain).

I knew a man portly and stout,
Who never partook any sport,
His keep-fitting friends, in kindness, no doubt,
Would pester him thus, and exhort:

"You have to do something, you have to keep fit,
You'll have to aerobe or thrust-squat,
You must run till it hurts, even suffer a bit..."
"FIT?" he would roar, "FIT FOR WHAT?"

Looking down can sometimes be,
Depressing when one has to pee.
What one's holding can look very
Small, a modest acorn-berry.

Foreshortening's a cruel joke
That nature plays upon a bloke.
But rest assured, viewed from the side,
His length and girth are multiplied!

So stand up straight and proud to pee,
With pride and smug complacency.
Whistle tunes, adjust your tie
Why, even give 'hands free' a try.

When crippled by our inhibition,
We take no joy in micturition.
Don't pee in furtive consternation.
But gush in manly celebration!

Elevated from the control, alone I glance about;
I elevate, relax control... I flatulate,
I squeeze a sly one out.
I stand.  I shake the trouser out.
I move around to move the air
About.

Consternated by the thick stench, in case my staff
Should come, refer a case, be struck dumb,
To know that I am one,
Who farts, that I am one,
Who to my baser nature I
Succumb.

Then just when that's dispersed,
I drop another one.

Young Jasper Jones was the cock of the walk,
And many's the evening we'd sit back and talk.
He'd tell me of birds and lizards he'd caught,
Of ladies he'd wooed and of rivals he'd fought.

He'd talk in a drawl that was more of a purr,
And he'd brag and he'd boast while I ruffled his fur.
He'd drink a Star Beer and sometimes he'd smoke,
A Sherlock Holmes pipe... while he told me a joke.

He'd speak of 'The Code' that all tomcats must follow,
(Tho' some of his tales were a bit hard to swallow).
He'd swore that he'd killed, seven rivals he'd slayed,
Dispatched some with the gun and killed some with the blade!

And naming no names, to protect reputations,
He'd hint of romances and love assignations.
He claimed to have fathered strong kittens galore,
On the ladies he'd won through his skill with the claw!

Though I loved and admired my young Jasper a lot,
I'm afraid that his tales were complete tommy-rot.
I know 'cos you see, I had had him adjusted,
So his masculine function was unused and rusted!

Did I have to be built so efficient,
With fat storage second to none,
Built for fighting, at fleeing deficient,
But for withstanding famine, the one.

I'd rather my metabolism,
Were rapid and wasteful instead,
And my frame fit for athleticism,
And for getting the girls into bed.

"Mixed Mongrel" pooch of "short leg" breed,
A waggly-tailed unwanted pup,
With friendly face and kind, brown eyes,
A gentle, furry, snuffly mutt.

Your drum-tight sausage body stuffed,
To bursting point with chappie-chum,
Old squeaky-woof, our gourmet girl,
With wiggly, waggly, windy bum.

Dear Mitzi, doggy, hairy smells,
A woofly girl, now growing old,
For all your body's quite absurd,
Your shape conceals a noble soul.

Dear Mitzi, live for summer's more,
Keep running round to Jock's to play,
And push that nose in God knows what,
A puppy still, though deaf and grey.

Lovely Jennie left me pondering,
Our strength this autumn night,
Which has set my mind a'wandering,
Down some paths which just ain't right.

Shall I demonstrate my strength, dear?
Shall I show what I can do?
Shall I nibble on your ear, dear?
Shall I give that lobe a chew?

But perhaps I'm being hasty,
Writing cheques I cannot meet,
Though you're still divinely tasty,
My hot lurve has lost some heat!

So let's ponder this no more, dear,
Let us calm our passions restive,
Let us while away the night, dear,
With a cocoa and digestive.

The ref called ‘Ruck’ and the boys all heard,
The pile of their bodies steamed like a turd.
The vapour rose to the floodlit sky,
The pick-up-and-go, the held up try.
The five metre scrum wheeling ninety degrees,
Such is the bane of all ex-back referees!

© Mat Shenton 6/11/19

The backs are so swift, but they fumble their passes,
I gasp in the wake of the pack’s hairy arses.
Straining my eyes for those far-distant fouls,
Regretting last night and my grumbling bowels.
Lungs now on fire and that pain in my knees,
Such is the bane of all ex-pack referees!

Dismal afternoon and encroaching beer belly,
Stuck out in the rain while the rugby’s on telly.
Stumbling round to gather the line-out lock’s tap.
Fiery fungal rash from my sweaty jock strap,
My slowing fast-feet jinking and unwise heavy drinking,
Muscle straining mid-week training, what was I even thinking?

Thirty years of playing, new shoulder, wrists and hips,
My body’s still paying for the post-match pie ’n’ chips
And immoderate consumption of warm, flat jugs of beer
And perpetual resumption of behaviours I learnt here …
Rugby’s knackered me, cream-crackered me, my arse is in a sling,
And if it could live my life again … I wouldn’t change a thing!

© Tim Bridges 6/11/19

The camping stools at Rudimental
For Mat and me, proved providential:
A sturdy stool of tripod form
And canvas seat 'cross top-spans drawn,
Two wings each buttock safely swaddled,
And frontal cups our tackle coddled ...
We set them down and glanced around
At neighbours sprawled on cold, wet ground.
We gloated, crowed and smiled with glee,
And oozed with smug complacency.
And as we sat, we raised our glasses
And quaffed our draughts of sweet catharsis ...
The stools, three-square on Thetford's grasses
Then disappeared up both our arses ...

The autumn strumpet struts the equinox,
In plump and rosy ripeness clad,
The scarlet haws with luscious hips disport,
I look on these and yea, my loins are glad.
Along red-berry district hedgerows fraught,
With peril elders caution us "go sloe",
"Beware the crabs from which the bush do fall",
While girl-boy Hazel shakes his nuts o'er all.

Wild plums are growing thickly 'Bulace' it
Is said they're called; and on the beech the mast,
Grows full and strong, yet wilts and falls at last,
Leaves all for winter's frozen thrush and tit.

Christmas soon shall ring from festive chapel,
Orange phone and Blackberry and Apple.

Davey and Dottie are married,
Two turtle doves cooing in June.
For seven long years have they tarried,
An' it's not come a moment too soon!

Consider their torment dear reader,
This principled, pure, saintly pair.
'Cos David's a randy old bleeder,
And Dotty is fond of her share.

Frustrated for seven long years
Of abstinent, tumescent hell.
At times Dave sought solace in more beers
Than was good for him, Dottie can tell ...

Poor Dotty had no such diversion,
Teetotal (and strictly at that).
She suffered with calm introversion
And quietly chewed holes in her hat.

And so they resisted temptation,
Unsullied and pure, they were strong,
And Dot kept her good reputation,
'Cos that class of caper is wrong.

But now it's all come to fruition,
And David and Dottie are one.
And I hear that they've taken tuition
To enhance and add spice to their fun.

After seven years just chastely dating,
They've a lot of appointments to keep.
And tonight after all of their waiting,
This hotel's not the best place to sleep!

Today I slipped Dave a small token,
Just a slim pack of three, between men
And these years of frustration have spoken
"Pack of three? Make it three packs of ten!"

But enough of this smut - charge your glasses,
And drink to their future and joy.
Don't just sit there, get up off your arses,
Drink to Dotty, and David, her boy!

Tiring of Othello's isle, the tawny maiden came,
To Albion's south-east Kentish shore, there destined to remain.
And there she loved a minstrel man, a man of fiddling fame,
Called Russet-Richard, man of wind and flatulential strain.

'Twas there beside The Channel grey, the tawny maiden toiled,
While further west, on Folkestone's quay, the bearded minstrel boiled
With rampant lust and Linda-love, his passion yet unspent,
Where all he had to gaze upon, was Chaplinesque John Kent.

"Enough!" he cried "I'll make her mine", beside her Dover shore,
No other yet shall taste her charms, she's all I've waited for.
He pressed his suit (to press his suit), deployed his kipper tie,
Then skipped downstairs in flapping flares, a twinkle in his eye.

"Sweet lady come and share my life", the Lusting Lecher cried.
"Forsooth my pretty, be my wife, my loins won't be denied!"
He wooed her with his instrument and fiery, flashing bow,
And Linda felt herself respond, in regions down below.

Her feet! her feet! Ye dirty dogs, her feet began to move,
And casting off her trendy clogs, she got down with the groove.
The fiddler fiddled faster still and smoke began to billow,
And in the morning, Linda's hair, adorned his satin pillow.

Smug, replete and sated they relaxed between the covers,
Tangled 'neath the sheets they lay, those lusty, laughing lovers.
Dick relaxed ... and let one go "prepare yourself" he said ...
"This is your life", then flapped the quilt around her pretty head.

Now thirty noxious years have passed, but still their love burns hot,
And Linda's come to terms at last with Richard's windy bot.
But now and then, she makes a stand and plugs that passage narrow,
With corks or Pollyfilla or, a vegetable marrow.

So raise your glasses, one and all, and toast the happy pair,
With thirty more of laughs and love and tender, loving care.
From Kentish coast to Bangladesh and Stansted's awful hell,
This clam'rous throng, all join in song, to wish The Taylors well!

(First Verse and Chorus)

Oh, my old man's an expat.
He's on an expat's whack.
He's got three kids at boarding school,
And a swimming pool out back.
He don't pay any taxes,
And his house back home is let.
He moans and he groans and he longs for home,
But he won't go home just yet.

Oh, Mum's obsessed with servants,
"One just can't get the staff".
But her old man drove a grocer's van,
Kept the coal inside his bath.
Now see her playing Mah Jong,
And acting out the part.
She's squeaky clean like our own dear queen,
Smells of violets when she farts. (Chorus...)

Though my old man's an expat,
And he likes to live abroad,
He don't think much to natives,
And he comes it like a lord.
He plays the 'Albert Schweizer',
On his home leave down the pub,
But when he's here he don't go far,
Just work, home and the club.  (Chorus...)

He goes to posh receptions,
And he mixes with the best.
He asks the same old questions,
Like all the bleedin' rest.
"Oh, how long have you been here?
What does your husband do?"
You'd get better conversation,
From the monkey's down the zoo.  (Chorus...)

Oh, we can sing a song like this,
Let the syllables resound,
'Cos we're not like this are we?
No! we're politically sound.
And when we see a beggar,
We help her with a sub',
One thousandth part of what we spend,
In one night down the club.  (Chorus...)

Oh, I can't claim the high ground,
I'm just as bleedin' bad.
I'm a hypocrite and a parasitt,
Just like my dear old Dad.
So next time you hear an expat,
Giving it the moans and groans,
Don't sympathise! don't empathise!
Just kick him in the stones.  (Chorus...)

Enthroned in foetid isolation,
Seated on the do'nut throne.
Robed in peaceful contemplation,
Self-contained and all alone.

Poised above the placid pool,
Flatus clarion bugle sound.
Fibre-rich and flaccid stool,
Moving southward, sphincter bound.

God give us sufficient leisure,
To indulge in fullest measure,
This, our lives' most precious treasure,
Defecation's guilty pleasure.

Here's to Christmas fun and frolics,
Windy-puffs and tummy colics,
Turkey, stuffing, sprouts and cheese,
And big, rich burps and botty-breeze,
All these will the season bring,
When all mens' hearts... and bottoms sing!