Brontes Country – By Paul Holland

I’m Squinting

With my glasses lost again

But I know enough to be struggling to see

God,but will I ever stop the drink

Once and for all?

 

Today I saw a Belfast man

Marching the road

Collarete on in the sun

The traditional

Tribal triumph

Seen in his swagger and away of shoulders.

 

But this is Spain

And the collarete was Instead ONCE

(Organización National de Ciegos España)

Tickets

Orange and yellow tickets to be sold

Their luck tacked to his waistcoat.

His swagger and away

Sadly as a result of the twisted racking cracking

Of his body’s being.

It spent moving

His spine choked frame in the ways of his days

Him I squinting saw

Not him then

Thran

With the self blinded

Hurray of the Cyclops.

 

Last time at home

A fella:

Brother to one in the company

Complained to the slow barman

-I’ll get you done!

But the bar was packed

And the barman

(Who I too, thought slow)

Was having none of his old craic.

 

-Get me done?

He hollered

-Get me done?

-You can fuck off,

Yer barred!

 

Old Belfast bashing

Hard man against the new.

The silence of naked fear

That such a statement

might once have entailed

Bloody death or at least a beating

Was gone

The bouncer gleefully bounced the

Soul scarred, jail tattooed poor twerp

Drinkless

Out into the night.

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When Bob’s On The Pot He Likes To Read A Lot (It’s A Man Thing!)

Hello,

I hope you enjoyed Christmas.

I got a new ointment for my rash, the box set of Smokey And The Bandit and a jumper. I wore the jumper down to the Pickled Filtrum for the traditional Xmas lunchtime pint. My mate Stabman used it to wipe blood up from the pub floor. He saw a man drinking Guinness. He has a thing about people drinking Guinness in confined spaces does Stabman. This and his psychotic condition make for uneasy bedfellows.

It was nice to have our son Lawrence home from the Young Offenders Institute for the day. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped the Ankle Tag cover Shirley had knitted for him! Although he appreciated the crafty stash pouch hidden in Santa’s beard. Thinks of everything does Shirl.

As I nipped in to the smallest room to unburden myself of the Brussels, Shirl stops me at the door, thrusts a can of Haze “Scents Of The Forest” into my hand and said, “Use this and get yer arse into town in five minutes.” This didn’t give me the time to study racing form. I had to settle on Substance Abuse in the 2.30 at Kempton (I thought Lawrence being home was an omen regarding drug use). It romped in seventh.

Why town? For some reason Shirley wasn’t too impressed with my gifts of a toasted sandwich maker and a wind up torch. Handy, practical and self cleaning gifts never seem to go down well. But I should have learned after the mobile dishwasher I bought last year.

But at least I kept the receipts and didn’t have the need of Stabman’s intervention in Argos last year. That was messy.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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