THE KING AND THE LITTLE RED SHOP

          The King and the Little Red Shop

The day started with stacking sugar and honey,

“Thanks son”, “No, thank you Mr T, I needed the money”

To catch the bus to see the King in heaven,

But, first I’d have to run fast to be at Aunt Joan’s by eleven.

                                        ***

Either down Rubery lane, or through the grounds of the ‘bin’,

Wearing my stripes with pride, just like Cousin Vin.

Weaving through the crowds in the city with artful skill,

JEFF ASTLE
'THE KING'
1942-2002
361 GAMES
174 GOALS

To find a blue and white horde amassed at Snow Hill.

                                          ***

Going to heaven on the 79 bus, colours tied to wrist,

With our superstitions and folklore too great to list.

Travelling through Handsworth, that weird foreign land,

Strange coloured sweets and writing I didn’t understand.

                                           ***

One superstition we had to help win the game,

Was to spot then call out “Little red shop” by name.

A flaky, painted hardware store bedecked all in red,

Now no doubt, the shop, like the owners long, long dead.

                                            ***

Time to get off as we neared the ground,

The doors creaked open, greeted by an incredible sound.

A deafening roar from our corrugated blue heaven,

The tannoy calls bomber No 4, the King No 9 and Chippy at 7.

Another superstition, enter through the right side turnstile,

Then running up the steps of the ‘Brummie Rd’, our holiest pile.

With flags and scarves waving, arms aloft as they sing,

“The Brummie Road will sing this song, Astle is the King”

                                           ***

The King stands arms aloft, after heading another goal,

Then the ‘Bomber’ scores a rocket, we've joy deep in our soul.

Our King Jeff is magnificent; our opponent’s have been slighted,

The brilliant striped Baggies have just beaten Man Utd!

                                           ***

We walk back to town, lacking bus fare but basking in our glory,

Did the King realise the ‘Little red shops’ part in the story?

The last thing we did that day, despite our aching legs,

Was to celebrate the victory, by buying chocolate eggs.

(From Woolworths Soho Rd in Handsworth)

Phil Hall           September 2011

The legendary West Bromwich Albion centre forward Jeff Astle was my ultimate hero.
He died in 2002 and these gates were erected in his memory.



'The bin' was Rubery Hill Hospital, a mental hospital set in large grounds on the outskirts of Birmingham.
Children of the day referred to it rather unkindly as the 'loony bin' !
The 'Bomber' was Tony Brown and 'Chippy' was Clive Clark.
Mr T was a shop manager where I had a Saturday job stacking shelves.

             

EVERY SATURDAY

EVERY SATURDAY

Here are two examples of Acrostic poems. Easy to write and fun. Just try to make the content of the poem reflect the message. Read down each of the first letters. 

We

Every Saturday

Support our team

Thrilled when we win,

 Broken when we've lost.

Referee was poor,

Own goal

Mad!

Phil Hall          October 2012

Oistins Alive

                                      Brilliant,

                                      Azure sea,

                                      Rich with life.

                                      Bountiful fruits, oceans harvest,

                                      Ashes hot, cooks toiling.

                                      Dancing, dining, drinking,

                                      Oistins alive,

                                      Special.

                                      Phil Hall          October 2012

MY GRANDDAD FOUGHT WITH THE KING

MY GRANDDAD FOUGHT WITH THE KING

It was 31st May 1916, the titans met head on,
Like armoured knights at Crecy, the Danish coast so near.
My granddad, like the Duke of York on Collingwood,
Waited for their present, courtesy of Admiral Scheer.
                                ****
The battle lines were being drawn up,
Proud in combat formation, from blood to finest steel.
Tapered hull to towering funnel, the shipwrights art displayed,
Ironclad warriors amassed, forged in Devonport or Kiel.
                                 ****
HMS Collingwood, battleship of St Vincent class,
23,000 tons of warship, manned with 820 heroic men.
My granddad one of them, Prince Albert being another.
The pride of 1st battle squadron going to war again.
                                  ****
At 19:05 in the evening, Collingwoods cannon roared,
As German destroyers attacked, spitting torpedoes from the 6th and 9th flotilla.
A furious Collingwood all guns blazing, sent screaming shells in reply,
The APC's exploded and she became a killer.
                                   ****
A sailors life is shortened in that icy sea,
Davy Jones be merciful, place them in Gods warm hand.
As the German destroyers smoked in ruin,
The casualty list heavy with the dead of Jutland.
                                    ****
Then through the battle smoke came Derfflinger,
Spewing fire and hatred in a raging thunder.
But, Beattys Lion, one of the splendid cats,
Alongside Collingwood was determined to send her under.
                                    ****
My granddad and the future King sweating hard,
manned the turrets of the mighty guns.
Salvos ripping out sheets of Derfflingers decking,
Would Jellicoe finish off the battered Huns?
                                    ****
The greatest navy the world has ever seen,
Had the whole German fleet on its knees.
But, the over cautious Jellicoe,
Didn't see the wood for the trees.
                                    ****
After so much death had visited Jutlands water,
Granddad and the future King watched amazed,
As our mighty fleet turned tail.
Leaving shattered comrades in ships a blazed.
                                    ****
The Battle of Jutland, history will reveal,
So many dead, great ships forever gone.
The Dreadnoughts Black Prince, Queen Mary and Invincible,
Granddad and the future King shed tears as one.
                                   ****
My granddad Charles Hall served on HMS Collingwood in the Battle of Jutland and my Dad still has the medal awarded to all servicemen after that battle. my Granddad did serve with Prince Albert during the battle, but we'll never know if he actually spoke to him, (stammer and all).  prince Albert going on to become King George V1. Granddad also served on the mighty battleships HMS Resolution and HMS Renown. A hero from a bygone age, but my granddad and i'm bloody proud of him.
                  

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Phil Hall    February 2012

ELDERLY HEROES

                                                                 ELDERLY HEROES

As Harry walks to get his paper in the morning rain,

His stance still rigid, though his joints feel the pain.

Eyes rest on the “hoodies” blocking his path with disdain,

No respect for this hero, who survived hell at El Alamain.

                                 

As Charley peers from the window of his warden controlled flat,

He sighs at the rain falling and pulls on his hat.

Off to the corner shop, to buy food for “Rommel” his tabby cat,

A veteran of Tobruk, this hero was a desert rat.

                                   

As Ben pulls on his coat to go for a walk with the dog,

Salt and tar course through his veins, still the fire of “grog”.

Ignored by most, respected by none, if only they knew his slog,

Icy seas lashed this hero’s face, a mighty bulwark in Atlantic fog.

                                     

So please acknowledge them at the shops, park or station,

These elderly heroes, people who served our nation.

The unheard memories they have deny their emancipation,

Our Islands heroes of bygone days deserve our acclamation.

Phil Hall     October 2012

FINGER AND THUMB

          FINGER AND THUMB

The airwaves are throbbing with a constant whitter,

Endless drivel posted on social media, facebook or twitter.

From seeing pictures of babies that you’ll never meet,

To somebody with an I phone telling you what they eat.

Yet our schools are full of children, who cannot read,

Stuffing their faces with fast food, this throwaway breed.

Clutching their phones, in touch with thousands in faraway places,

Never looking up once at their neighbours faces.

The written word is being usurped and undone,

As abbreviations take over, spelling and grammar have gone.

“In Maccy D’s at mo, dis burger is gr8, lol”

Inane nonsense spewed out over the medium, taking its toll.

The elderly get lonelier; offspring ignore them in the scrum,

Where face to face contact is dismissed by finger and thumb.

The last generation chatted over fence and sent a letter,

Can anybody say that the future is better?

The advent of fibre-optic and high speed broadband,

Has brought people together from every distant land.

But, the truth is we don’t talk quite as much,

An Email or tweet doesn’t have that personal touch.

Shops where you can serve yourself and go,

To garage forecourts where no one’s on show.

E cards sent at Christmas without any thought,

Just press the button, the effort was nought.

No more chatting in ques, money out of the wall,

Playing a match on your own, no more kicking a ball.

Mans social skills are dying, let’s talk face to face,

Instead of hiding behind screens when contacting the human race.

Phil Hall     September 2012

COLD BUFFETS

             COLD BUFFETS

God, I hate cold buffet food,

But, you must take a plate so not to be rude.

I might try some cheese, or a slice of ham,

But, what’s that in breadcrumbs, I’m sure it’s Spam!!

                                 ***

I’m convinced that’s the reason I feel so glum,

Why do they cover prawns and egg in cold crumb?

Rubber chicken drumsticks all purulent and pale,

Egg mayonnaise sandwiches curled up and stale.

                                 ***

Black pudding, not so much black and full of fat,

A quiche with broccoli, that looks like a splat.

It’s just an awful interlude during a dismal night,

Listening to tunes by a DJ who’s shite.

                                 ***

Watching the drunkards staggering while trying to dance,

Then trying to ignore an ugly woman’s glance.

Please serve me hot food, and then all would be fine,

So at least I’ll stop at the party until at least half nine.

Phil Hall  Mar 2012

A PROPER MAN

A PROPER MAN

When is a man a proper man?

Can he wear hydrating creams and a fake tan?

Listen to Olly Murs instead of Wu Tang Clan?

What kind of man would drive a Renault Megane?

*

Does he eat steak, or prawn flavoured noodles?

Walk through the park with a pink prancing poodle?

Does he hold his lady’s hand and even canoodle?

Can he learn from experience, or does he need moodle?

*

Would he buy his lady flowers, is that wrong?

Would he think it effeminate and not very strong?

Would he work whilst humming a Kylie song?

On the beach would he don Speedo’s or tie dyed sarong?

*

All the above can be done by a proper man,

Maybe not listen to Olly Murs or drive the girly Megane.

Or, spend more time in the bathroom than your woman,

Exfoliating and creaming to look like Peter Pan.

 *

Hair done in the flat top style and not by Tony and Guy,

Where you’d look like Justin Bieber or the spotty one in McFly.

If my hair looked like that I’d truly want to die,

Keep your fancy canapés; I’d rather a meat and potato pie.

*

Now there’s ‘Meterosexual’, another ridiculous, invented word,

‘A man who takes pride in his appearance’, how bloody absurd.

All this preening and posturing, somebody should have a word,

A proper man doesn’t need all that, to stand out from the herd.

Phil Hall        November 2012

This piece attempts to differing trends and fashions of the day. The author despairs at the recent effeminate way men are portrayed in adverts etc in the media.