Academic Success

I went to London and it was shit,

Was told ‘it’ll be great’, that ‘this’ll be it.’

Got my 2:i, a creative job that was ‘fun’,

And went – but I didn’t like it, not even a bit.


I only hung out with my friends from home.

Three of us, making house and feeling alone,

We’d find ‘cool stuff’ to try – rooftop bowls! A fake beach!

Then drink the pain away with blue WKD and Patron


That some arsehole had brought to your last house party –

A twat disguising themselves as quirky and arty.

Don’t worry mate, don’t need to know your name.

I’m just not into this. I know. It’s a shame.


I can’t even talk about the rent or the dates.

It’s too hard! The pain in my poor heart’s too great!

I’d moan to mum, ‘come home, there’s a thought’ –

Until she got through. Perhaps I ought.


So I’m off to a new job – not glam, but less pain. Packed up;

Like Clark Cable in Gone with the Wind (thanks degree!), I wave from the train.

Smile on, breathe deep, sit down, no regrets –

Here I am, back home with Mum in Smallshaw Lane.

My Friend Stephen

Scarborough Beach.JPG

The thing about Stephen was he wasn’t like anyone I’d known before, when I met him first.

Scarborough 30 years ago wasn’t the same.

I started going when I was younger,

Maybe thirteen,

So that would have been.

I’m 57 now.

The 1970s. I was 27 in 1987, so you work it out.

Went with my Mum, Dad and sister every year.

We had a caravan, packed it up and went for two weeks in August –

My Dad’s factory what he worked in shut down for the holidays

So it was the same two every year pretty much.

Continue reading “My Friend Stephen”

Abbey Whitby



She was a young baby our Abbey when we started going Whitby. 3.

Never been off Smallshaw Lane in all them 3 years, ‘cept to Asda

Off Mayor Street. Oh. No. She got a drive in his Mazda once, before

Never Mind.


What was I saying. Yes. Whitby. She were a baby. 3.

Funny, we went to Asda to get our butties and she pointed at ham.

Hadn’t started talking yet really but that didn’t stop her moaning and groaning

in the Nissan, it were. I don’t know why she were so quiet.

Continue reading “Abbey Whitby”