I see that South Africa will be playing England in the 2nd test on 2nd August. And may it be an interesting game!
In 1977 I was there – at Headingley, that is, to see Geoffey Boycott get his 100th 100.
Here it is, if you want to join me down Memory Lane.
Jonathan
There once was a nondescript swift
(Try this after several glasses)
Whose antics left other swifts miffed,
In partic’lar the swift upper classes.
Problem was: he didn’t do swooping
Or hanging round roof-eaves or gables.
And nest-boxes left his wings drooping,
Like the corners of cloths on fine tables. Continue reading “The renegade swift”
My close companion Backside has gone and done it. I was recently distracted by cherished colleagues’ voluptuous verses and he went and registered me at Twitter. Oldjanus@Oldjanus, as you might expect.
If you ever feel like following me, you’d better hurry because I can’t deal with more than a few thousand at once. Not that I’m saying much. It’s all very social, innit?
I’d like to congratulate all our poets this time round. Whether elegy, eulogy or epitaph, such passion is the stuff of poetry after all. So in order of posting, here are the seven poets with their eight poems:
Only 24 hours left for you to dedicate a few well-chosen words to a loved or hated one. So far we have seven worthy entries for the contest, representing a wide spectrum of styles, emotions and of course pets.
If you’ll be the laureate
Then you can’t procrastinate!
PS Extra kudos for poets who can name Andy Murray’s dog
With admirable pragmatism Stuart Pearce has not picked 37-year-old Beckham for Olympic football honours. And now the pundits are doing their accustomed ritual dance, which is more about sycophantic sentiment than sense. Continue reading “Golden Balls lose their lustre”
Looking out on another blustery grey day, I remembered this:
Hope you like it!
It’s called Sankt Hans Aften here, the evening before Sankt Hans, 24th June – alias St. John the Baptist whose birthday it purports to be. As usual the locals do it the evening before, like Yuletide, a kind of celebratio præcox, I suppose. And as usual there’ll be no trace of religion, even though it was nicked from the pagans yonks ago.
So we’re going north to stay with friends in Kerteminde on the island of Fynen, to do the hygge thing around a bonfire next to the fjord, although we probably won’t burn the effigy of a witch, the last of whom was so dispatched here in 1693.
And as in North Britain, it won’t be dark until well into the small hours and we’ll skim stones across the water into the setting sun, making a wish or two for the second half of 2012.
Bless.
Boadicea's Chariot 
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