Darryl Ashton Dec 2017

From boobs and tum, to
builder's bum
This flashing of flesh is
distracting.
Men in vests, or with
bare chests,
The need to bare just
seems to be catching.

Less was supposed to
be more, but not any
more.
Let it all hang out
today's off-cried motto,
Unless it;s thigh high,
'old fashioned', they
cry -
Show your knickers
when you fall down
blotto.

Just why would you
believe, or ever
conceive
A bare midriff that
wobbles is appealing.
Those rolls of fat, are
opposite of that,
There's some things
that are not for
revealing.

If ever you chance, to
watch Strictly Come
Dance,
The costumes leave
nought to the
imagination.
From a man's derriere,
to a costume barely
there,
It's eye-popping just
too much information.

Am I little Miss Prim,
buttoned up and trim,
Just too sanctimonious
to go daring?
No, just a little old
dear, 84 next year,
I'd be locked up if I
tried to do baring!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Darryl Ashton Dec 2017

Silently falling from
dark laden skies
Swept on the wind
like white angry flies
Swooping and settling
and covering the town
Its weight on the cables
starts bringing them
down.

Roadways are blocked
by the deepest of drifts
Railways are stopped
and nobody shifts.
Gritters are out on the
road the next day
Dodging round cars
that were left in the
way.

More motorists try to
get out on the roads
Blocking the progress
of lorries with loads.
Before very long, the
jams are too great
More of the vehicles
are left to their fate.

Airports are closed
and passengers moan.
They can't fly away
or even go home.
The airport says sorry,
it's doing its best
So please have some
patience and try to
rest.

Amazing how mighty
a snowflake can be
Disrupting life that
was once orderly.
A small piece of ice
which shows that it
can
Bring instant chaos
to 'superior' man.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Darryl Ashton Dec 2017

My grandma frowned and said
to me,
(For I had not been good),
'Lily, I'm afraid you're not
Behaving as you should.

You've been a naughty little
girl
And it is my belief,
That it is time to mend your
ways,
Turn over a new leaf.'

Mend my ways? What did
she mean?
My sewing was quite poor.
I often used to drop my
work
And kick it round the floor.

I saw that mending ways
must wait,
The second ploy I'd choose.
I went into the garden for
There was no time to lose.

Grandma's frown was
fearsome and
It could go on all day,
So I must find a bright
new leaf
And turn it straight away.

I searched around, alas,
alack,
The leaves had all turned
gold.
They were so very beautiful,
But also very old.
I picked some up, the
colours shone,
I turned them round
with care,
And took them in to
Grandmamma,
For she was waiting
there.

'I couldn't find new
leaves,' I said,
'I've turned them, will
they do?
I think that old is
beautiful,
I've brought them in
for you.'

As I said that my
Grandma smiled,
(It was a welcome sight).
And I was pleased
because, for once,
I had done something
right.

And now, when in my
family,
Someone's been bad
or bold
We rush into the garden,
and
Turn a leaf that's old.

I am now grown and
my memories are here,
Memories of my Grandma,
I shed a little tear.
I stand in my Grandma's
garden which is cold,
And I turn over a leaf
that is old.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Darryl Ashton Dec 2017

It's one of life's great
mysteries
How frequently, at
night,
The TV lulls one off
to sleep
Despite the noise and
light.

But all this changes
when it's time
To snuggle down in
bed,
Husbands snore with
maddening ease,
While one counts
sheep instead.

The old brain starts
to churn away,
And think of this
and that,
Like Lily's wedding
coming up,
So should one buy
a hat?

The front door needs
a coat of paint,
Would blue be best
or grey?
Then Buster has to
see the vet,
And what's for lunch
next day?

These thoughts keep
coming thick and
fast,
Impeding any sleep,
The feeding of
exhaustion is
Enough to make one
weep.

Oh no! The wretched
rubbish truck
Is trundling down
the lane,
It's time to get the
children up,
And face the world
again.

If there should be
another life,
I'll come back as a
cat,
To curl up in a comfy
chair
And doze off, just
like that.


BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Darryl Ashton Nov 2017

Let me introduce myself. I am Detective Plod of Fairyland Police and I have been commissioned to investigate the Sleeping Beauty case. I have interviewed Ms Beauty and I am convinced several crimes have been committed. First of all, there is the question of criminal damage on the part of Prince Charming, for cutting down part of the thorn hedge around the castle.

Then there is breaking and entering. Add to that the charges of trespass and non-consensual contact with the said female. I've made my recommendations to the Crown Prosecution Service, but I have to add a word of warning to Ms Beauty.

A counter charge may come from Prince Charming's defence team that Ms Beauty may have to answer the charge of inappropriate relations with a minor. After all, she has admitted she's 100 years his senior.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Darryl Ashton Nov 2017

No sunburnt skin -
no buzzing bees.
No airport queues -
no pollen sneeze!
No mad March
winds – no April
showers,
No mowing lawns -
no pruning flowers.

No traffic jams -
no feeling faint.
No legs to wax -
no toes to paint!
No bikini body -
no salad days,
No designer
shades – no summer
haze.

No barbecues -
no charcoal suppers.
No piles of plates -
no washer-uppers!
No spring cleaning -
no Christmas
cooking.
No one's washing
windows – no one's
looking!

No silly season -
nothing strange.
No resolutions -
no need to change!

November!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Darryl Ashton Nov 2017

((WE'RE THE SWEENEY AND WE HAVEN'T HAD ANY DIVERSITY TRAINING!))


Scotland Yard is offering civilians the chance to become detectives without the formality of ever having to pound the beat in uniform.

They will be fast-tracked into the CID and could be investigating crimes such as burglaries and even rapes after just six months' training. Within two years, they will be eligible to take part in murder inquiries and join the anti-terrorism squad. The direct entry scheme is designed to tackle a serious manpower shortage and will be open to anyone educated to degree level who has lived in London for at least three of the past six years.

Successful applicants will spend 18 weeks in the classroom and work alongside retired detectives to hone their skills.
Darryl Ashton was invited to sit on one of the first induction courses, conducted by a seasoned senior officer....


SHUT IT! My name is Jack Regan, and I was formerly an Inspector in the Flying Squad, also known as the Sweeney. You can call me 'sir', 'guv', 'guvnor' or 'Inspector'. This is my lovely assistant, retired Detective Sergeant George Carter, to be addressed as 'sarge', 'skip' or 'skipper'. Give us a fag, George.

I've only got one left, guv.

I only want one.

You don't half take some liberties.

That's because I'm an Inspector and you're not, George. And stop bleating like a constipated fishwife and fetch me a drink. I feel like a rabid wombat has crawled up my digestive tract and died. There's a bottle of Glennhoddle in Haskins' top drawer, left over from Hyphen-Howe's retirement bash.    
Right, guv.

If you're sitting comfortably, children, then we'll begin. Yes, love. What is it? You thought the Yard was a what – a smoke-free environment? Well, you thought wrong, sweetheart. If you can't stand the smoke, you'd be better off in uniform helping old ladies across the road. Do I make myself crystal?

Now then, ladies and gentlemen, before we go on, a word in your shell-likes. We're the Sweeney and we haven't had any dinner. The pubs open in half an hour, so pay attention. Lesson one: an efficient detective squad runs on its stomach. So, here's your starter for ten. You're chosen as a driver for the Sweeney. What's your number one responsibility? No, not making sure the tank's full and the tyres are pumped up, though obviously that goes without saying. Unless, of course, you want to run out of petrol or have a blow-out when you're doing 90 on your way to nick a gang of villains in a shed down at Heathrow.

If you're driving me, I want the glove compartment filled with Mars bars. Wine Gums and Jelly Babies. And ham sandwiches – the sort that comes in Cellophane packets. And sausage rolls. But no potato crisps. They interfere with transmission. Got it? OK, let's get a few things straight. I don't approve of taking people straight from Civvy Street and sticking them in the Sweeney. This isn't the girl guides. If the top floor hadn't wasted so much time kicking in the front doors of journalists who were only doing their job, and chasing superannuated disc jockeys for having naughties with a go-go dancer 40-odd years ago, we might not be in this mess.

It's anarchy out there, but all the Hyphen-Howes of this world were bothered about was fitting up former politicians for fictitious sex crimes. If you think you're joining the Met to round up octogenarian nonces or nick some spotty youth who's written something nasty on the internet, then you're on the wrong course. Nor have I interrupted a well-earned retirement on the Costa del Boy to teach you how to investigate computer crime. Neither has George. He doesn't even know what a cursor is.

Yes, I do, guv. It's someone we nick for using foul and abusive language.

Shut it, sergeant. And pour me another Scotch. Yes, love. What is it now? Transgender toilets? What's a transgendered toilet when it's at home? I see. And why are you asking me?

Guvnor. A word?

What is it, George?

Careful. I think that's the Yard's first non-binary recruit.

Eh?

Neither fish nor fowl, guv. Didn't you read the briefing notes?

When have I ever read the briefing notes, George?

Well, if you had, you'd know that this bird isn't a bird. Well, not all bird, anyway.

What are you talking about, George? Is it a bird, is it a plane...?

It's a transwossname, guv. Half man, half biscuit, or something. Doesn't answer to 'he' or 'she', just 'they'.

They? You mean there's two of them?

Nah, guv. Just the one.

What's he, she – sorry, them – doing here, then?

Official Met policy. They especially want to hire transwossnames, what are under-represented in the ranks.

Why?

Beats me, guv.

Remember that time we nicked Warren Mitchell for trying to make a getaway in his bird's dressing gown and high heels?

How could I forget it, guv? His Doris didn't half have some lunch on her.

True, but that's not the point. He could barely walk in those shoes. What good's a copper in Jimmy Choos if chummy is having it away on his toes?

Fair point, Jack. But look on the bright side. Next time we want to search some blagger's missus, we won't have to wait for a WPC, you can ask DC AC/DC here to slip into a frock and Bob's your uncle.

Or, rather, your auntie.

Precisely, guv.

OK, ladies and gentlemen and, er, they. Now we come to arrest prcedures. What is the correct mode of address when apprehending a suspect who has just gone over the cobbles with a sawn-off Purdey? No, young man, it isn't: 'You have the right to remain silent, blah, blah, blah.' The correct approach is to slam him up against the wall and shout in his boat race: 'Put your trousers on, you're bleedin' nicked.' Or in the case of transwossnames: 'Put on your best dress, baby, you're bleedin' nicked.'

Nice one, guv. Good to see you embracing diversity.

No choice, George. The whole job's gone diddle-o. They've even got a female commissioner now. Name of Dick.

Dick of Dock Green?

I wouldn't let her hear you say that, George, or she'll come down on you so hard you'll have to reach up to tie your shoelaces. As for me, these days I wouldn't last five minutes in the Sweeney. I'd be stuck at Elstree, directing traffic and wearing a tall hat. Instead, I'm reduced to this. Sod it, I've given the best years of my life to this job, got 18 commendations, and I end up playing Miss Jean Brodie to a bunch of fast track, wet-behind-the-ears civilians who think police work is about ticking boxes and investigating non-existent, so-called hate crimes on the interweb. If I didn't need the money, I'd tell them where to stick it.

Don't do it, guv, it's not worth it. Anyway, it's your round.

Shut it!


THE END


WRITTEN BY

DARRYL ASHTON

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