Willow

We headed for the broken house,
Eager and ready,
Stealing was our aim ~

Swathes of felled willow branches,
Alive on the dead bonfire,
Green and vibrant in the sun
A chance to continue our regeneration
Rummagers we are, using what's left behind.

It would cost hundreds Daisy explained,
Choosing the strongest branches,
To get this stuff in, but it's growth hormone
Is an elixir in gardening circles.

Deftly she rolled them into coils,
Filling several bags ~
I kept watch over the fields
For signs of misunderstandings.

And back to the car her heart
In her throat, bags of willow and nothing
But white vans on the road ~
Surely the owners of the dump returned.

But no, nothing but the road then
Desolate in Scottow. An unexpected shine
Of autumn's last act, and willow for us
To grow again, a fence to weave.

Throughout she smiled, knowing her
Choice was more than saving those coins.
"I'll use the thinner vines to tie" she said,
"So that the willow is guided the right way"

Benchmark ~

28 April 2013 at 09:37

    He fumbled for his keys. He had made a specific point of placing them definitely on his person. He thought with an awful honest plunge that he had lost them again. He paused at the door of the bungalow. All was silent. The sky was empty. A light moved only. In his stupor such moments gave him great pause. He teetered absently,the silence around him. It was comforting and he relished it. All worry faded and he forgot about his keys. He felt calmness. A calmness that he could never express to another. It would be beyond him, even sober, to express. It was childlike in many ways, like being safe and sound in the back of a family car.But he could only imagine such things. His own father had left him; his mother had placed him in many institutions over the years. He had a brother somewhere.Mumbling these useless memories he automatically grasped his keys and went inside. Above, the light had moved on and disappeared.
   When he came to,for he always came to, he never woke up, the temporary feeling of despair erupted upon his being, that he had done it again, that he drank, that he had no idea what day it was. That he was clothed and that he had pissed himself. At such times he was glad to be alone. It was one of the reasons why he was. The opening of his eyes was a rip of light into his dumbfounded world, the great challenge, the first step into another day. Opening his eyes. After this leap,his head responded, the awful bitter cruel thump at the very centre of his brain, a hot needle, then cold, spasming in all directions. It was dehydration of course. The brain itself minutely shrunken, causing pain between matter and skull. He didn’t know this. He didn’t know the pragmatisms of his ailment any more certainly than the reason why he even drank. He was primordial and sent his hand outwards to grasp something, phone, bottle. There was some left. He never really planned for there to be some left for the morning. It was another primordial reaction, a ground in function like needing warmth and shelter. He didn’t even look at the bottle, nor did he relish particularly the taste of the cider that passed over his awful tongue. Just that hit. Immediate. The alcohol from the day before fired up by more. The flow dwindled to a trickle. He placed his tongue into the bottle, getting every last drop. All this was before he had sat up. The booze began to ease the lead of his limbs and he raised himself slowly onto his elbows. The room looked grim. It looked unfinished. It sat there, utterly mute, with its piles of clothes, ashtrays empty cans and wine bottles like the writing on the wall. It was death to look at. This room, its squalor, was like inhabiting death. He didn’t think of it like this at the time of the day. Those revelations always came later. When he had once tried to be profound, when he had been given an insight briefly, he had scrawled on a bench in the garden, ‘welcome to the nightmare of life’.These progressions took time and he was in the process of medicating at this point. Sitting up changed everything. The world went from side to side a little. He turned his head upon its aching neck and saw the time. 07:23. But he was awake now. He never slept for more than a couple of hours.
   To his utter surprise he saw an unopened bottle of white wine. He had planned ahead after all, just like the keys. He tumbled forward, arms on wet jean legs and breathed deeply, head down. He dozed for a quarter of an hour, only being snapped awake by his body nearly giving into his fatigue, and then he was set again on his purpose. The wine was all he cared about, all he wanted. When he placed his hand around its neck, the smooth lines of the glass seemed other worldly,greatly comforting and for a moment he paused to appreciate the form. The bottle was perfect, the pale yellow liquid within gently sparkled in a sunbeam.He click, click, clicked the lid off and pursed his lips over the neck. It feltl ike ambrosia, hitting his filthy palette and striking such pleasure that he groaned as it pumped, mechanically, down his throat. He didn’t come up for air. His first bottle of the day was finished at 07:30. It didn’t touch the sides. After the hits of the slugs died down, the wine shifted its gears on him,  cohearsing the alcohol of the night before and creating an effect akin to being stoned. He began to wake up. He began to feel good. He stood up straight with a click here and there. Optimism and good feeling raced over his senses. He would clean up today. He wouldn’t need another, he felt fine. Unsteady on his feet but confident, he went to the bathroom to sort out the soiled clothes. The sun continued to shine in. The room seemed to breathe with him. This room was his. He had confidence. He had a whole world.

The other world ~

The other world ~

Tuesday, 25 June 2013

The other world,
Sense forming sense,

Love arriving into bedlam ~
A heaven,

A place of our altar,
A hedonism into dusk,

Love becoming,
The world waits ~

With breath,

You are mine.

Rising Camp ~ Michael, The Happy Dancer

Rising Camp - The Complete Michael the Happy Dancer

During most of last year and the beginning of this year, I was housed in a hostel for people with addiction problems. During my rehabilitation I met many people. Here is one of them ~

February 16th 2013 A delightful young man, fallen on hard times, has taken up residence at the hostel. He's a struggling dancer. Such was my affiliation with his plight, I let him put his milk in my fridge.

February 22nd 2013 Michael, the dance student down the hall, showed off his cut and blow dry last night. I must admit, he looked stunning. Purple really is his colour.

March 3rd 2013 Michael, the delightful student dancer, was showing me his swanky phone earlier. I warned him not to flash it around the hostel, 'no-one messes with me' he said, 'if I get angry, I get pissed off. I got my friend down on the ground the other day for pissing me off. She didn't do it again'.

March 4th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was again in the communal kitchen earlier, as I was defrosting my supper. 'My ex fiancée is bothering me,' he began, oblivious to my disinterest, 'We were together a month. If he comes round here, I'll scratch his eyes out' - I certainly wouldn't want to be the ex. Michael has the longest, sharpest, most expensively manicured fingernails I've ever seen.

March 5th 2013 Whislt scrambling an egg this morning, Michael, the happy dancer, came into the kitchen with a young man in tow, 'This is Darren' he began, oblivious to my disinterest, ' my ex. We've made up haven't we?' 'I don't know' Darren said, eyeing me up in my dressing gown and bed hair, 'is there a room going?' - I shall prepare breakfast in my room henceforth.

March 8th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, came back from a dance class earlier. 'Some blokes heckled me from a scaffold as I got off the bus!' I can't imagine why, the leotard wasn't that revealing.

March 10th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was discussing his work experience placement at his college earlier. 'I'll be in the bakery, selling what I make in the canteen.' - He then proceeded to demonstrate his sausage roll.

March 11th 2013 So, the DWP think I haven't lived at the hostel for the past few months. They sent the letter to inform me of this here, to the address they claim not to have. I shall send them a photograph of me, and Michael the happy dancer, waving infront of the building.

March 15th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, knocked on my door earlier, rousing me from my depressed stupor. 'Do you have a match? My sink is clogged. Darren is eager to see into my ubend. He needs to light up my pipe' - 'Oh come on,' I replied, ' that's a crude and obvious double entendre.' - 'not at all' he continued, ' we were shagging on the sink earlier and I knocked over the pot pourri' .

March 16th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was having coffee with me in the communal lounge earlier, when the conversation turned to gay marriage. 'Im a person aren't I?' he began, ' I have every right to marry the man I love.' I agreed and asked if that would be on the cards with Darren. He became unusually thoughtful, 'Darren is young. He has a lot to learn about the heart of a man' - I'll admit that this empassioned observation was moving, but would have been slightly more effective if he wasn't wearing a hip length satin dressing gown and bunny slippers, with his hair in a towel.

 March 18th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was showing me his routine for a review he is doing at his college in the communal lounge earlier. 'It's to the music of Cheryl Cole' he began, 'fight for this love'. He then played the music on his phone and executed a number of vigorous gyrations and hand clenchings, drawing back into a fist at his chest, before twisting his hips like he was using a hula hoop and creeping towards me on all fours like a cat. I was flattered and moderatley uncomfortable. The two workman putting up scaffolding outside the window broke into applause.

March 21st 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was expressing his sadness at me leaving the hostel tomorrow. 'You've been a friend' he began, 'and haven't judged me like my family did. You've accepted me for who I am.' Nervously, he reached for a hug and I reciprocated, getting a mouthful of feathers from his boa. 'Perhaps we can keep in touch?' he continued, 'on facebook?' I idly wiped his lipstick from my cheek, 'Oh, I never use it' I said, 'I never use it'. 

Dreams ~

9^th August ~ Woke up this morning from dreams of school again to find Mille nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in her furry bed, or wrestling with the chest of drawers as usual. Fearing the worst, I jumped up and rushed to the garden, the tail from my Dalmatian onesy that I sleep in swishing to and fro. Not in the garden. Back in the kitchen, I decided to check the house...what followed was a montage of doors to various rooms and cupboards being opened with lights flickering on. To no avail, I returned from the'Graham Greene Appreciation Lounge' to the kitchen. As the lift door opened, I thought I'd have to do it. Enter the living room. I don't go in there at present, as the balancing presence of Daisy is temporarily absent, causing the forces that live in there to be unsettled. It's like the green screen effects of Tobe Hooper's 1982 classic 'Poltergeist' in there, and I have often had to duck and roll to avoid being struck by a flying 'Star Wars' toy. I have however, stored the properties for the show against the far wall. Entering gingerly ( I always have to don a huge curly ginger wig to disguise myself from the forces at work ) I saw with alarm a work table set up, paint tins opened and the radio tuned to classic fm...Millie was touching up the few props I had had to rush the night before, mewing in time to the 'Bolero' as she did so. For a moment we looked at each other silently. I slowly removed the wig so she could recognise me ( and was promptly hit on the forehead by Han Solo encased in carbonite that you had to send off for with vouchers. ) and tutted promptly.Whilst I appreciate her help, she hasn't got opposable thumbs and hence, can't hold a paintbrush correctly. The finesse was lost. I had to repaint.

11^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of school again to find Millie sat on my chest, staring into my eyes. I got up, made coffee and her breakfast, whilst all the time Millie sauntered behind me, to then position herself on a chair to again gaze into my eyes. Upstairs, checking the day's online bitchiness, she sat on the occasional table (which I occasionally use like a pretend steering wheel when I imagine I'm driving an Aston Martin as James Bond) to further peer into my eyes. Looking up, I glanced into my 'Cheeses of Norfolk' map mirror to see that the mascara from yesterday's performance of 'Dalmatians' had smudged in the night (I often leave it on to make myself look like Gary Numan) giving me the appearance of a hung over Panda that had recently been dug up by Gene Simmons. Thank goodness she pointed it out to me before I went to Church today. Although, to be fair, the vicar often borrows my stage makeup to go to sex jamborees in Suffolk.

12^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of needing the toilet in public places to find cubicles with no lock again, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. With horror, I leapt out of bed and rushed to the open window. The netting I had placed there to let air in but keep kittens safe was fluttering on the lawn below. "Millie!!" I called, rushing downstairs to the garden. Nothing. I stood in the morning air, my dressing gown undone, a cool August breeze dancing meditatively around my testicles, "Morning..." said Linda, our neighbour, with a look of restrained shock on her face. Inside, I found Millie again in the living room. She had set up my old PSOne and was loading 'Medal of Honor'...she looked at me with her big rich eyes and mewed. I felt sorry for her. It's a classic game but without opposable thumbs, she couldn't hope to operate the controller correctly.

14^th August ~ Woke up from horrid dreams of school again to find I had lashed out in my sleep, bopping Millie on the nose as she lay on the pillow next to me. Poor kitten. We aren't talking at the moment. She's sat drinking her coffee in the Colorado lounge with her back to me. Of course without opposable thumbs she can't grasp the mug properly.

15^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of being slowly drowned in an iron maiden to find Millie nowhere to be seen. I leapt up (making sure my testicles were hidden this time) and hunted around calling her name...nothing. After searching outside in the maze, past the topiary animals and the croquet court, I returned through the north entrance, ignoring Hallorann who was lying on the floor, through the kitchen. Eventually I made it upstairs to find her snuggled up with Joseph, who had stayed the night after the soiree the evening before. Purring contentedly, she glanced up at me with disdain. Incredulous, I decided that neither of them would be getting breakfast. However, as Joseph doesn't have opposable thumbs, I don't know how he'd tackle the eggs benedict anyway without making a mess.

16^th August ~ Wokaupa froma sleepa to finda that Ima speaking likea Manwell froma FawltyTowers...Millie nowherea to be a seeny. I goes down to the .... que???The...'living room' and shes a sleepy on the soofa. I kick her offasoofa....she gets back on the soofa, I kick her offa. Misssster Fawlty no likethe cat hair on the soofa...then I find Millie hasa been in the...que??? 'Fridge'and to drinka ALL the milk! Buta without errr....que? 'opposable thumbs' she noholda the milk properlys anyways.

19^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of surfing behind helicopters in Vietnam again, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. After her greeting at my homecoming last night, I was surprised that I was on the hunt around the house for her. I entered the kitchen, deserted, aside from Millie's breakfast of quail and orange juice: untouched. Quickly, I turned on the internal CCTV system and scanned the various parts of Barton House : the billiard room, nothing, the pool house, nothing, the Aldous Huxley Library, empty, the Jim Davidson dental ward, nothing; but then, I saw a tail slink around a corner of the opening to the Rothko Room. I hit the internal camera. Millie hates the abstracts. She had spent the night turning the massive paintings to the wall and drawing her own representations on the backs. I admit, her rendition entitled 'litter tray at dawn' was remarkably accurate, done in the garconne style. But of course, without opposable thumbs, the lines were crap.

21^st August ~ Woke from dreams of fighting rubber lizards in a slightly camera tinteddesert landscape to find Millie nowhere to be seen. Her furry bed was empty and the MG was missing from the garage. Worried, I leapt onto the Harley and activated the homing beacon, racing down country lanes in a montage of revolving wheels, the speedometer gaining speed and the road ahead. Suddenly, as I screeched around Dead Man's Curve, there, infront, the MG was off the road. Millie sat on the bonnet, gazing at me with her big green eyes. Unhurt.

Time has passed and we don't talk of the accident. Millie goes about her business unwilling or unable to discuss the reason why she tore away, on a desperate escape mission, or a flight of fancy. The car is fine, undamaged. The investigation into the accident sits on my desk, Millie sees it and nonchalantly slinks away, feigning disinterest. But I know. I know what she is thinking. Paragraph three reads : ' MG undamaged. It is this investigator's opinion that the car left the road due to negligence of the driver and that not having opposable thumbs was a definite factor in the car losing control.'

S.M.Morgan 2013

Further Dreams ~ 

Woke up from dreams of solving the Acle Old People's Retirement Village Sandwich and Scone Caper (it was the janitor! All along! Of course, there was only one set of keys after all) to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the massage tray or in the conversation jar, so I called down to Mellors, the temporary groundsman, to ask if he had seen her,

"E, my John Thomas!! My old John Thomas!"

Disgruntled, I decided to walk the grounds and attempt to locate her again. The swans were basking by the lake and I paused to take in the scene. It was a beautiful autumnal morning, golden and bright. The bison herd meandered across the plain and even the flamingoes seemed happy. Above, flocks of Canada geese sauntered across the sky, heading south, and even the lonely parachutist, hung from the branches of the tall oak looked up from his kindle and called a "good morning!" ~ all was peaceful.

Finally, I reached the summer house. And there she was, of course, how could I forget? Today was her modelling class. A group sat in a semi circle, copying the items placed on the pedestal in the centre; a vase, two oranges and the most challenging item, a snow shoe. The teacher wandered amongst them, nodding and quietly offering advice. But there, Millie perched, her work suddenly revealed as I entered, caught mid sculpt, green eyes wide. Aghast, the teacher edged away slowly...a gasp rippling around the other students. Millie simply began to wash herself. On her little table was a collection of sculpted thumbs, thumbs, thumbs, thumbs; human thumbs modelled from clay.
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'Woke up from dreams of being chased by Molly Ringwald from the movie 'Sixteen Candles' to find that Millie had refilled her litter tray with muesli. Or was it the box of muesli with kitty litter? Either way, it goes well with a banana....' ~

Simon M.Morgan first started incorporating his kitten Mildred into facebook posts in July 2013. Since then, the two have become world famous, with a television show, 'Paws for Thought' aswell as a hit movie, 'Star Trek, Into Darkness' in which Millie starred as Benedict Cumbersnatch's hair, numerous television adverts, internet virals and political campaigns. Relaxing in her New York apartment, Millie spoke of her process,
"To me, the art is the writing. You have to be able to paint satire convincingly, otherwise the message is lost. That's what my message is about, making statements about the detritus of the common man. Feed me."
Currently, Millie is working on a new series of 'Paws for Thought' with her opposable thumb assistant, whilst Simon can be seen by opening your eyes and looking at him.

They live in Norfolk with the gardenist Monty Don.

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Woke up from opium induced night terrors about huge ear lobes, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the Victorian Iron Lung I had picked up from Looses and converted into a comfortable kitten cwtch, nor was she in her study, working on her kitten chocolate formula. Concerned, I called to the new groundsman, Tom, who believes he is a character in a Pinter play, and asked if he had seen Millie this morning,

"No"

Pause.

I then asked if he would let me know when she sauntered around,

Pause.

"I lived on the old Kent Road once. In this bedsit. Couldn't get the work see...to...afford a nice place..."

Pause.

"Have you any cigarettes?"

Pause.

"I couldn't..."

Pause.

"Get the work for a nicer place."

Pause.

"I got plans."

Pause.

"Had plans then and got them now"

Pause.

"Could murder a cigarette, if you've got one"

Pause.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

Pause.

Eventually, I hung up to find Millie relaxing in the latex hammock, snoozing away oblivious to the morning ritual of hunting for her, a copy of 'The Caretaker' nestling between her

Paws.

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Woke up from dreams of chasing plastic bags and an endless supply of kibbles to find Simon and Daisy nowhere to be seen. I called their names (I haven't yet mastered the absurd language, seems to be all cooing and babytalk, even to each other) and jumped down from my number four daytime nap place (the windowsill overlooking the garden) to hunt for them. After twenty minutes stalking and attacking a sock, I continued looking through the house. Barton House is large, even for a 4lb kitten, but that aren't too many places they could hide. They weren't in their night time lie down place (that they seem to stay in until well past my breakfast time) they weren't in the large water place (that Simon stands in each morning to try to master his 'singing') or the food place. After ten minutes investigating the food place I noticed I was near to number five daytime napping place, ontop of the sofa. I'm sure they'll turn up when they get hungry. Trying to type this without opposable thumbs has tired me out. I hope they bring more kibbles ~ Millie

1. 
   

   Woke up from dreams of being marooned in a giant kitty litter tray to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the editing suite where I had left her last night (we're working on a short film noir) or working on her motorbike. Alarmed, I texted her but no reply. I tried calling, again, no answer. Turning on the laptop, there, she appeared as a screensaver. In the night she had somehow gotten into the computer through a USB port, no doubt looking for kibbles, but without opposable thumbs, she couldn't press the disc release button and escape. Kittens! They get everywhere!

   
   

   

   
   
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2. 
   

   More posts fr1

Woke up from dreams of being trapped down the back of a giant sofa to discover it had its own self contained shopping centre, ('Loose Change and Chips!') to find Millie nowhere to be seen. 

She wasn't in the studio, working on her clawed rendition of the cast of Star Trek from the episode 'Space Seed' (Khan needs work, right now he looks like a pony tailed David Cameron) nor was she in the bath, perfecting her campus technique on the shower curtain.

Perplexed, I went down to the temporary groundsman, Jonathan, who was stood in the shadows in a trench coat and trilby, smoking surreptitiously in by the bean wigwam. He believes he is narrating a crime novel. I asked if he had seen Millie this morning,

"He came up to me, tired, worried...he had the kind of look that said, 'I could moider some breakfast', but hell, I'd seen enough of moider, enough to last a lifetime...he was cold, no slippers, no socks, the kind of feet that said, 'I could moider some shoes' but I'd seen enough of shoes, the moider at the Clarks factory stayed with me, eating away at my waking moments like a goldfish in a bowl of Cherrios. He'd asked me if I'd seen Millie, 'no' I said, 'your broad? I had a broad once, a looker, she had the kind of look that said, 'I'm all yours for the right price' we weren't talking no Sunday morning stroll to Waitrose to buy some pot plants, capiche? She was a heart breaker, her price was the kind of money that didn't fold in the pocket, that always left you wanting more sugar in the coffee, more whiskey in the cold dark empty hell holes downtown; Moira, Moira...Moira was moidered, snapped out, she'd tried to kill me with a hairbrush, our one night together...Jesus...what a ride...but this ain't no choir boy love story friend, no story with a happy ending, life is hard pal, you have to look it in the eye, the kind of look that says, 'I ain't taking no crap off you', like a moider, a cold calculating moider, ah..Moira...I still have the hairbrush, couldn't hate her y'see, still have her hair too, made a wig, gives me a look, the kind of look that says, 'Hi sailor, new in town?' but this ain't no sunday school picnic friend...it has a look, the kind of look that says..."

I left him muttering and wandered the grounds. The bison were moving calmly across the horizon and the gnu enclosure looked lovely, having recently been re-wallpapered. The flamingos too had really mastered their line dancing routine, some taking a break to play ping pong. Even the parachutist was in good spirits, cooking himself an omelette as he gently hung from the tree, whistling the theme from '633 Squadron'.

I gingerly approached the summer house. Millie had recently been quite secretive about it's use, spending more and more time in the evening there. Plus, there had been deliveries that I wasn't allowed to open, parcels and packages. Well, I was about to find out. I slowly opened the door and went in.

All around were test tubes bubbling away, apparatus connected to each other, Bunsen burners, flasks of liquid...a blackboard held cryptic writings, symbols, paw prints and there, in a tiny white lab coat and goggles, was Millie. She slowly put down the clipboard as my gaze fell onto what she was working on.

On a table, tied down, was a robot version of myself. Where the hands should have been were two bowls full of kibbles. The stomach area was a huge bag of kibbles, that replenished the hand bowls all the time. The legs? Scratching posts. The head was a tin box with a crude photocopy of my face stuck on to the front, obviously acquired while I was asleep.

We stared at each other until an alarm went off, kibbles suddenly pouring into my bowl hands and onto the floor, breaking the tension.

Doctors

I had an odd experience this morning, which I thought would best be explained by a small homage to Pinter.

Scene. A doctor's reception desk.

_ Good morning, I have an appointment today with Louise? My name is Simon Morgan.

_ I don't know who you mean.

Pause.

_ She's a therapist.

_ This is just a doctor's surgery, I don't know a Louise.

 Pause.

- Ummm....it's for 09:15? This is West Pottergate isn't it?

- It is.

Pause.

_ It's through NHS Wellbeing.

_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.

Pause.

_ I was told to come here...( Produces letter. Receptionist takes letter. Reads it, hands it back.)

_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.

Pause.

_ Yes, you said. Could you look on your computer perhaps?

Pause.

_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.

Pause.

_ I'm sure that I wouldn't get sent a letter stating it was here at West Pottergate Health Centre unless it was.

_ We don't have anything to do with any other services that may or may not operate from out of the doctor's surgery.

_ Does anyone else know where it might be?

_ That's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.

Pause.

Louise appears from behind me.

_ Hi Simon, take a seat around the corner. ( I look around the corner, obscured from the reception desk, a sign reads 'NHS Wellbeing' )

-Well, that's it there! The Wellbeing Service.

_ Yes. The Wellbeing Service is around the corner.

Pause.

 -But it's nothing to do with us. This is a doctor's surgery.

Curtain.

Bert ~

Indeed, salt of the 'earf he was, like a whisper from a kitten he was, like licking a stamp he was, like drinking eggnog from a glass slipper he was, a true gent he was, he was the best of 'em, could hold his own he could, like a fish wife he was, a grasping bleeder he was, a sandy little cockamooch he was, walked the distance he did, liked the road he did, was a jumping arse he was, a fighting man's slagger he was, like a diamond in an alsatian's vagina he was, a dribbler, a whacked out drunken shit bag of a man he was, loved the rope he did, didn't mind tying the lace he didn't, he walked like two men he did, he was always several inches too short he was, like a stallion's gooch he was, a ribbed nightmare to the unbeliever he was, several sheets cut to the wind he was, a box of elbows he was, the best of 'em, always had a finger for a man, always had a slight leer on a wednesday he did...old Bert.
Bert ~ by ASAP 

3 men, 1, 2 and 3 sat on chairs respectively ~

1 : Good Bert
2 : Good old Bert
1 : Good old Bert

Pause

1: Salt of the 'earf.
2: A gent.
1: Don't make 'em like that anymore.
2: Don't they?
1: No.

Pause

1: Always had a kind word...
2: Wouldn't say boo to a goose...
1: No, wouldn't scare a goose for no reason.
2: Not unless he needed to.
1: True.

Pause

1: When did he need to?
2: That Christmas market.
1: The rugby club social.
2: That's the one.
1: The goose had it coming.
2: Wouldn't get off the stage.
1: Still, didn't ruin Bert's rendition of 'My Way'.
2: Good old Bert.
1: Spring chicken he was.
2: Make you a sandwich he would.
1: And did.
2: Would eat it too.
1: Right infront of you.
2: Fine man, honest man.
1: The last of the honest men.
2: The first of 'em.
1: The middle of 'em.

Pause

2: Loved a bet.
1: Oh yes, loved a bet.
2: But only if it as a sure thing.
1: Oh no, didn't waste his money.
2: Or spend it.
1: Or actually placed a bet.
2: Oh, no, well he wasn't the betting sort.
1: Mug's game
2: Any game.
1: Good old Bert
2: Salt of the 'earf.
1: A real man's man's man's
2: Man.

Pause

2: Liked it rough he did.
1: Could take it mind.
2: Women loved him.
1: Shagged my wife.
2: Aye, and yours too.

Pause

1: Didn't mind though.
2: It was Bert.
1: It was Bert.
2: Always had a hankie for a lady...
1: Always had a lathe for a carpenter...
2: Could always be found grooming a priest...
1: Salt of the 'earf.
2: A real gent.
1: Sadly missed.
2: Sadly
1: Missed.
2: Bert.

Pause

2: Remember when he saved that busload of kids?
1: ...yes...
2: You know, the bus driver had lost control of the bus and it hung precariously on the edge of the bridge? Bert flew up and saved them all!

Pause

1: That was the movie 'Superman'

Pause

2: Bert loved a good film
1: Aye, loved life
2: Bert
1: Bert

Pause

3: He owed me hundreds

Pause

1: And me
2: Me too

1: Bastard.