Saga Louts

Saga lout

We are the grey haired army,
Abroad and on the lash again.
Walking sticks and lagers ready,
We wobble off ships and planes.

We’ve got our kids inheritance,
We’ve cashed in our pensions.
We’re getting obscene tattoos,
In places you shouldn’t mention.

Hopping in and out of hotel beds,
Laughing as we trash cruise ships.
Playing naked oily Twister,
Ignoring our dodgy arthritic hips.

Bill has only got one kidney,
Doris has a new glass eye.
But there’s no stopping us,
If some cheap sangria we spy.

We’ll riot as we drink the lot,
Pogo dance all through the night.
Shovel down kebab and chips,
Vomit it up, then have a fight.

Then when the holiday’s over,
We stagger home a little slower.
Our only holiday souvenirs,
Sunburn and hangovers.


I think I want to be a Saga Lout when I retire.

Full Metal Christmas Bladder


Birmingham Christmas Market Moose

I’m outdoor at the Christmas Market,
And it’s cold, so very cold.
Even though I’m in my woolies,
Wrapped up from my head to my toes.

And I might have been a bit silly,
Or maybe it was pure bravado.
So now I’m outside and cold,
Clutching a frosty stein of lager.

Just how cold is my lager?
Well let me tell you.
The cold has frozen it to my fingers,
As effectively as glue.

But to be honest that’s not the problem,
My real dilemma is this.
Frosty weather plus cold beer,
Means I’m desperate for a piss.

But the crowd is very thick,
And even if I could get to the loo.
I don’t know if my bladder would last,
In the very very long queue.

So I cross my chilly legs,
And try to ignore my bladder’s call.
I drink some more frosty lager,
And try to stand proud and tall.

For am I not a modern man?
Do I not have willpower strong?
Do I not have a full metal bladder,
Which I can hold all night long.

Sadly that last line isn’t true,
The real answer is no.
I hop from foot to foot,
To the toilet I should really go.

I think for the next few minutes,
It’s perhaps best a curtain is drawn.
I really only need to say,
That now at least my feet are warm.


My Hangover is a W.M.D.



My hangover is a W.M.D.
Threatening my bowels
And my stomach
With a chemical attack.

The United Nations of coffee
Fail to defuse the threat.
Despite the sacrifice of
A brave granola flapjack.

Operation Dr Pepper is launched
A sugar counter attack.
While a bacon sandwich
Leads a diversionary raid.

This gets off to a slow start
Until a red sauce sachet
Arrives to reinforce
The brave bacon battalion.

Fighting is fierce but brief
The W.M.D. is neutralized
And final resistance quelled
With an alka-seltzer carpet bombing.

It’s Beer O’clock.

Tick tock, tick tock,
It’ll soon be beer o’clock.
A nation of workers sit and wait,
With their minds on imminent escape.
And temporary relief from the rat race,
By getting completely shit faced.

Tick tock, tick tock,
Now at last its beer o’clock.
And at the bar a nation stands,
Glasses clutched in eager hands.
Dry throats now nicely wet,
Wages being quickly spent.

Tick tock, tick tock,
It’s now well after beer o’clock.
And the pubs now stand empty,
Bereft of the boozing gentry.
Who are staggering to the chip shop,
As it’s now kebab o’clock.

Once upon a time there was a chip shop….


Once upon a time there was a chip shop,
Where we used to eat a meal or two.
Remember how we scoffed away the hours,
And dreamed of all the things that we could chew.

Those were the meals my friend,
We thought they’d never end,
We’d eat and drink forever and a day.
We’d eat the food we choose,
Our trousers always loose,
Those were the meals, oh yes those were the meals.

Then middle age crept up on us,
We lost our fast metabolism on the way.
If by chance I’d see you in the chip shop,
We’d smile at one another and say.

That was the food my friend,
The fry ups that never end,
We’d eat pure lard forever and a day.
We’d eat the grease we choose,
And wash it down with booze,
That was the food, oh yes that was the food.

Just tonight I stood before the mirror,
None of my old clothes did fit me.
In the glass I saw a strange reflection,
Was that balding fat man really me ?

That was the grub my friend,
The kebabs that never end,
We’d eat at least one for every meal a day.
We’d drink the chilli sauce,
For our dessert course,
And next day never go too far from the loo.

At weight watchers I hear familiar laughter,
As the scales loudly speak my weight.
Oh my friend we’re older but no thinner,
As I still eat everything that’s on my plate.

There goes my waistline my friend,
And now I cannot bend,
And it’s a strain to try to lace my shoes.
I can’t now see my feet,
As I waddle down the street,
There goes my waistline it won’t be back soon.

The Man in the High-Vis jacket



The man in the high-vis jacket
So certain he can hack it,
Proudly swallows the last of his beer
And up from his chair awkwardly steers.
Towards the bar with a rolling motion
Like a tanker out on the rough ocean,
He slowly steers a careful course
As if guided by a radar source.
Until directed by the north star
He docks himself at the bar

Going to the pub is a rewarding past time for a poet, I mean not only is there beer but there is also the general public with their oh so many tics and quirks that keeps a poet like me in material.

I wrote this poem some time ago but had forgotten all about it till I bumped into the subject the other day, like all my people poetry it’s how I imagine someone is from my observations.