hero

If Men Were Gods

If the 200-yard walk while drinking tea was a sport
you would have been a world champion
I’ve never known a man since
who could time his brew from doorstep to doorstep
without spilling a drop
without breaking their mug
even better was your ability to puff a smoke
and stop for craic with folk you liked
between our streets

your soundtrack was eclectic
Elton to Abba
Hot Chocolate to Jimmy Nail
which I want to thank you for
because it rubbed off on me

I’ll always be envious of your moustache
because it made the smile on your face
all the more rich
but I don’t envy the shellsuits you liked
or some of the neon vests

Cantona once said
“I think I have a sense of mischief and that I can laugh at myself.”
he could’ve been quoting you
because your humour was only second
to your loyalty

You taught me so much
yet I’ve still got lots to learn
but I’ll do it with a glint in my eye
and a smile on my face
the way you would.

This poem is dedicated to my late, great Uncle Ray.

Crime Writing Class

For Christmas, my wife bought me a Crime Writing Class from CityLit.

I’m just over halfway through and it’s fantastic. I feel like I’ve learned so much already. It’s weekly over zoom and we receive peer feedback on our writing. 

One of the pieces of homework was a 250-piece monologue from a villain’s perspective after committing a crime. It was to justify their actions. I chose to have a corrupt cop who’d just killed a drug dealer for not paying a debt. 

Below is his internal monologue;

He had to die really. I had no choice. If I’m honest with myself, I was going to have to kill him sooner or later. At least I had a good excuse, no not excuse, a reason to do it now.  He disrespected me. The little smackrat weasel. Who did he think he was? He was getting too big for his boots. Plus, if I went down, who else would control this dogshit of a town. My arrest record speaks for itself. I get confessions as well. Sometimes they require a bit of incentive I admit. Like threatening to break a wife’s kneecaps if they didn’t admit to what was it again? Oh yeah, affray. What was I thinking of again? That’s right. Who’ll clean up the sludge and filth in this cesspit of a town? The DCI and his Conservative club friends? That new DC who’s feeding info to the police corruption unit and thinks I don’t know about it? Do me a favour. They’re not fit for the frontline. I am. But if this little junky rat gave them what he knew – well that would be it. I couldn’t cover that up. Too many handshakes. It’s right that he’s dead. And he died with the love of his life. Heroin. End of the day, one more dealer and junkie off the streets is a good thing. Burglary will fall a couple per cent. Bonus. I just need to make it look like I found him. Little weaselly scumbag.

I’d love to know your thoughts and welcome any constructive feedback you may have. 

Take It Easy

Paul