Ray and Terry

“Eh, move your fat fucking arse mate!” yelled Ray at the prostrate form in front of us. I sighed and began pacing up and down the court, bouncing the shuttle cock against my racket. My paws clenched tightly around the pine as my tongue ran across my jowly lips. I regained composure and glanced back at Ray, who was still raging, still screaming in his strong northern accent at the mass of brownie-grey fat that was sprawled across the centre court. The empty bottle by its trunk betrayed the beast’s condition. I was about ready to give up and go home, “Leave it Ray” I bellowed at the distant, blurry form of my companion, now lost in the great canvass of leathery flesh, thudding his small paws against the great hide. The elephant was not awakened, rudely or otherwise, by Ray’s fit of rage and so was evidently quite sedated. One wondered quite how the intoxicated creature had found its way through the considerably smaller doors that led to the indoor courts. It didn’t do to dwell on the logic, it made my brain hurt. I marched over to Ray, who was now pounding so vigorously at the elephant that sweat soaked his fur and ran down his back, leaving a large bedraggled patch just above his arse. “He’s being a reet bastard, loike” he exclaimed through wheezing breaths. I convinced him to yield, forced him to stop, despite many protestations. The question of how to spend the rest of the day now reared into contention. As we sat in the changing rooms, removing our head and wrist sweat bands, Ray was clearly dejected and frustrated “I was reet oop fer that game, Terry lad, naw what the fuck we gonna do?” I heard the low murmur of misery in his voice and noted the glassy appearance of his round, black eyes. I sat in a slump down beside him on the bench. I put a comforting paw on his shoulder, then slowly withdrew it as i recalled his overriding irrational homophobia. I sat there in silence, struggling to think of an activity, something to do on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. “Ive got it!” I exclaimed with glee, “lets go to the Sealife centre!” Ray met this with a sigh “I fucking hate living in Scarborough”.

Less Talk of Oceans

Chitter, chatter away gasbag
More mephane for merciless mercenaries
Who’ve seen no more of war than
What appears on their nightly news
Their views askew as

They buy the agenda, whichever agenda
Is sold to them, the consumer, a consumable
An expendable asset in the war of error
Where an enemy becomes an ally when you add oil
Bold boys, big bags of blood from British barracks
Buy another inch of sand

Young men with hopes, dreams and cares
Families, such young families
Two bags for two gallons of the black
Blood money because oil runs thicker than water
Whilst the red runs and stains the soil
Strap a medal on it and call it honour

So, less talk of oceans
Crossed, paths found and plowing a furrow
When you’re just digging graves
In which we bury common sense and
Two twenty year old lads from Scarborough
Who saw a flash ad and a paycheck to show their girls

There are no trenches here
We’re on new battlefields now
This is a new kind of war
Their war against us
Whoever we are
Whatever our skin
Culture, creed or god
When their god is viscous fluid

So fight the good fight my brave boy
Infidel, imperial with a bulls eye on your back
And a price-tag round your neck