When I was growing up
we had Flowerpot Men
On the television with Little ****.
Their names were  Bill and Ben
who were very strange men indeed.

They were made out of flower pots
and had a hat on their head to match.
This strange gangly flower lived between
It was an odd sight to watch
If you've seen it you'd know what I mean.

But we were glued to the black and white screen
Watching Bill and Ben jig around their pots
Little **** had a squeaky high voice for a plant
It needed the Woodentops dog with the spots
Who used to have legs that were on a slant.

Casey Jones used to put a smile on my face
With his stripy trousers and a very big wave.
Those were the days with Watch With Mother
The happiness and enjoyment it gave
As I sit now watching Celebrity Big Brother.

I need to be enriched on a Tuesday afternoon
I may begin to lose my grip if it doesn’t happen soon
The drama club was my first choice, little actresses and actors
But clearly I was overlooking certain other factors
They all think they’re DeNiro, Kiera Knightly, Judy Dench
But they’re so bad that all they do is make my buttocks clench
They constantly repeat themselves digging ever deeper
It’s a shame they have the acting talent of a railway sleeper
There is so much over acting, extra cheese with all the ham
But they like all the attention so no one gives a ****
The play’s a melodrama, a very moving tome
But I’m only moved to tears because I’m desperate to go home
I just have to tolerate it for a few more painful weeks
Despite the fact it grates on me each time one of them speaks
A soon as they perform I’ll be free of these woodentops
I’m actually counting down the minutes til this torture stops
I am so bored of hearing about Maria Marten dying
At least when she takes her last breath, I can finally stop the lying
Yes you heard me, all this time; I’ve lied just like a pro
I’ve told each and every child in here they’re vital to the show
I’ve told them their performances will make their parents proud
Despite knowing that their only talent is in being loud
There’s no way I could tell the truth, I won’t crush all their dreams
I know they’ll all learn soon enough that life isn’t what it seems
What sort of teacher would I be to tell them that they’re crap
To say their acting talent won’t ever put them on the map
To tell them that they have more chance of flying to the moon
Than of picking up a golden Oscar statue sometime soon
So I shall grit my teeth and paste the smile back on my face
And pretend that I’m in rapture at their lack of skill and grace
I shall say congratulations every night that they perform
And I’ll stand and clap for each of them until my hands are warm
I’ll do this all but don’t be fooled I really won’t enjoy it
I’ll be seething all resentfully as through each show I sit
I will forbear for two more weeks, just fourteen days of pain
And then I’m never coming near this drama club again
Next time I’ll pick more wisely, think more clearly before choosing
Or I suspect it’s more than sanity that I’ll be loosing
My grip on that is tenuous to say the very least
And working with these divas has woken up my inner beast
I think I’ll try a nice relaxing book or homework club
Or perhaps I’ll save us all the stress and just go down the pub
Yes… that’s what I’ll do

Crouched between the table & the wall
with his eyes in his hands
& his mouth in the shape of a small
barren island in the Atlantic Ocean
he waits for the blow to fall

Opposite him in the angle formed
by a filing cabinet & a drinks dispenser
a tiny furry creature does the rat-fink-a-boo-boo
its eyes blinking furiously
its ears revolving like an out-of-control radar station

Somewhere a radio plays
& a voice gabbles something about moonshine
& binge drinking & little green men out of Upminister
who are SERIOUSLY NO SERIOUSLY GONNA F--- YOU UP MAN

Later there will be music & lights & long legged
lovelies will strut their funky stuff across the walls
while a siren sounds in the street below
& the woodentops come calling
cudgels primed for some ******* ultraviolence

It's not a Banksy
it's a diversion sign
put there by the road crew
because that's what the road crew do.

Now what?
a portaloo at Waterloo
Napoleon on the throne
the Queen is in the stables
and Charlie's on the phone.

I miss the chicken shack
the giant in the beanie hat
the woodentops and postman pat,
I really miss that chit and chat
with the giant in the beanie hat
eating chicken in the chicken shack
not that much the woodentops or
postman pat
which surprises me no end.

Every programme rammed down my throat makes me want to puke, being a terrible judge of the character plot I look but don't see what the images do for me,
except maybe
give me some time to pen in a line to the editor,
'get with the programme'
but of course he already is.

The remote overheats as I
constantly switch from terrestrial
to satellite
morning to night and there's nothing, nada,
surely they ought to by now
be getting it right.

What happened to Andy
Pandy?
or Muffin the mule?
Playschool?
the Woodentops?
and so tragic
there's no
Animal Magic.

Emergency ward 10
will I not see that again?
and what about
That was the Week that was,
gone
because they think they know better,
time to pen another letter.

Dear Sir,
are you there?
what's going on?
obviously not the
programmes that
John want to see.

yours sincerely
Old Mother Riley,

nb
omitting the smiley.