I never appreciated you
till it was too late
and now
Bicester
I do pine for you
on occasion, every other day
in which thoughts of spending my Monday morning
developing the two finger shuffle, Progressive
Rock gods in favour of Religious Education
in which I had no care, vinyl Heaven
for all eternity as King Crimson looked down
upon my young and eager tastes
and the sometimes berated Ian Dury album would find
away in panties, sex and drugs and rock n’ roll
Bicester was always a quiet town, somehow bordering on genteel despite the nature of calm rebellion installed by the teenagers of the area, the hush of anarchy that was forever blowing in their veins but somehow never getting beyond the point where the small population was ever worried that life was not somehow a picturesque version of some Famous Five novel. Sure there was a riot in the town but comparing that to the big cities, judging against history is like weighing up the difference between an oak and a sapling.
Across the table
in the Wimpy diner
I reacted to my dinner plate
being put down with
“Could you
pass the pepper please Pooh”.
Laughing
I added
“Could I make you any more alliterative?”
Pausing briefly, she replied,
“Possibly, but not before breakfast or brunch.”
Ian D. Hall 2016
What was it I came here looking for,
the opportunity to seek redemption,
for reaching Middle-Age with some resemblance
to passing, fading youth still intact,
before, like dust that gets lodged in the corner
of the eye, that sticks determined to the vestige
of the previous day, it is dislodged
and flicked casually without
a second glance
into the awaiting gutter on the street.
I once came here looking for ghosts,
I came here for a memory of you,
the sweet taste of bitter regret,
The teachers, the tutors,
the staff, the head, the unpaid support workers
all bend their head in silent prayer,
know that the God of school simply doesn’t care
about their plight
their lot in life,
their unsaid collective fear
that there will never be a person to emerge from any year
who will make the school stand out
give the badge and crest some polish and stout
who they can hold up as a shining example,
the one person for whom they can, with gushing pride, let new pupils sample
Oh dear God, we are back here again
on a Monday morning, the routine the same
put that fag out, get ready for gym
who’s kissing who, the chances of an A received so slim.
Dear God, the pupil’s friend
to whom unbreakable excuses you do send,
give us this day our daily bread
and let not the science teacher ruin our hard fought street cred,
let not our own personal bully, be it fellow pupil of sadistic teacher
see us today, let them not use us as a bottom feeding creature.
There is a shelter in the park that acted as a goal,
the football aimed squarely at whoever was unfortunate enough
to act as the keeper, imagining they were Peter Shilton, Ray Clemence
or in my case the great Gordon Banks or even
Bert Trautman.
Not that I often went in goal, I didn’t like diving
on to bare concrete and seeing my T-shirt
ripped to shreds in a strange, weird way of portraying machismo.
I made allowances when some of the girls that we knew
I need my next fix.
I need the needle to come gently down
and give me an escape route out of what could be
a boring existence,
if not for my not so-secret vice.
The odd burning cigar still lingers here.
Long gone is the bitter recrimination of a pint savoured and destroyed
and the gentle relaxation of something intangible
has not been taken for a while
as my friend in Oxford I haven’t seen.
I need my latest fix.
I first visited the dealer on my own far too young.
How many times does the opportunity arise
in which you can visit the ghosts
and smile with relief as a tear gently rolls down your cheek?
A bedroom door hides many a secret from the world,
the stolen, lengthy, beautiful snog with a girlfriend, heavy petting banned
in the local swimming pool, but a delight worth risking
when she cycles
over to see you from Wendlebury one summer’s day
in ‘85 and music from a band worth loving plays, crackles, skips
like my heart as she leans in again,
Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
Cast: Shaun Evans, Roger Allam, Anton Lesser, James Bradshaw, Martin Jarvis, Jenny Seagrove, Jack Roth, Craig Parkinson, Ellie Beaven, William Brand, Joanna Cassidy, Craig Els, Rosalind Halstead, William Houston, Jack Laskey, Maimie McCoy, James Merry, James Northcote, Darwin Shaw, Tim Stern, Abigail Thaw.