First the wind, and then the frost
Now the leaves have all been lost

Charlbury Beer Festival Song

It’s here, it’s here, it’s just once a year
The day that we’ve all waited for
With anticipation and great dedication
The beer is all ready to pour, to pour
The beer is all ready to pour

Hey Ho for Charlbury, for cricket and for beer
Hey Ho for Charlbury, our festival is here

There’s cider and wine and the hope of sunshine
But the beer is the belle of the ball
From all round these isles, and hundreds of miles
They’re here for the joy of us all, us all
They’re here for the joy of us all

Hey Ho for Charlbury, for cricket and for beer
Hey Ho for Charlbury, our festival is here

There’s dozens to choose from, like old Cherry Bomb
Red Hunter might run out quite soon
And we in the choir quite like Twisted Spire
And also Dark Side of the Moon, the Moon
And also Dark Side of the Moon

Hey Ho for Charlbury, for cricket and for beer
Hey Ho for Charlbury, our festival is here

Out on the wicket there may still be cricket
In here it’s too soon to declare
We’re sharing a tale over Roman Black Ale
And we still have some tokens to spare, to spare
We still have some tokens to spare

Hey Ho for Charlbury, for cricket and for beer
Hey Ho for Charlbury, our festival is here

We’re making a list of those not to be missed
And checking what’s still left to try
There’s only a few of our favourite brew
As we’re drinking the barrels all dry, all dry
We’re drinking the barrels all dry

Hey Ho for Charlbury, for cricket and for beer
Hey Ho for Charlbury, our festival is here.

England V USA

Oh, poor Rob Green,
Your World Cup dream
Is hanging by a thread.

A spillage here,
A fumble there,
Capello's seeing red.

For James or Hart
Will take your part
And gladly end your spell.

If that comes true,
Let's say to you:
'Farewell, young Rob, farewell.'

Bat and ball

Climbing and arcing and into the sun
The man at the crease adds some more to his ton
The ball is retrieved and with catchers all round
There’s strangled appeals at some in-between sound.

A drive through the covers, the fielders are split
The next one’s a yorker but this too is hit
In comes a bouncer, which rises head high
And duly despatched into clear blue sky.

End of the over, the batsmen confer
Up on the hill they’re creating a stir
The bar’s getting empty with each shot that’s played
As all gather round to see history made.

On comes a spinner, who gives it some air
Coaxing the bat from his well-guarded lair
Dancing towards it our great padded swan
Lifts it majestically over long on.

The fielders are sweating, hungry for shade
Another sets off at the flash of a blade
He chases at first but is soon out of hope
And watches it gently pop over the rope.

It’s now round the wicket, a quick change of plan
But onto the back foot it’s cut to third man
It’s three more to win now – just one big hit more
The batsman is itching to settle the score.

With right arm and over the ball is in play
And met by an edge that runs safely away
The fielder pursues it; he’s closing in fast
Of all his exertions this could be the last.

There’s two easy runs but they go for a third
A run out right now would be quite absurd
The keeper is ready, gloves over the bails
As in from the boundary the cricket ball sails.

The batsman is panting, still out of his ground
With one desperate lunge can safety be found?
A stump is uprooted, the chalk and dust fly
And all turn their trust to the umpire’s eye.

‘Not out’ is the verdict; the bats are both raised
The crowd’s on its feet feeling thrilled and amazed
It’s one for the records, a game to recall
A fine summer’s day with the bat and the ball.

At the PM's Door

One, two, three, four
Cleggy at the PM's door;
Five, six, seven, eight
Eating cherries off his plate.

Leaving No. 10

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, leaving No. 10
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, won't be back again
Most rich and poor want him no more
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, Robin Hood.

The man with the beard in Evenlode Books

The man with the beard at the back of the shop
Is writing down numbers and adding them up
He turns to the screen to elicit a code
Then fires up a browser and watches it load.

Somewhere in cyberspace orders are placed
Into the post a new package is raced
To make good the promise of books the next day
The Rough Guide to China, a new Broadway play.

Meanwhile a customer stops at a shelf
Hoping to find some escape for himself
His head is half-cocked as he studies the spines
Alighting on one and then reading some lines.

It looks from the opening quite a good choice
An interesting setting, an authentic voice
The story’s narrator, a boy in his teens
Has Asperger’s Syndrome, or that’s how it seems.

The customer pays and heads off round the block
The man with the beard glances up at the clock
It’s time to shut shop and head off for some grub:
A Good Food Shop sarny, a bite down the pub.

With all of the stock he has, what has he read?
He’s writing a novel, so somebody said
It’s maybe not true, but it also makes sense
Surrounded by books the urge must be intense.

They say he’s descended from chippies of sorts
Whose trade was in timber, and not people’s thoughts
Today, when it’s knowledge that gets you ahead
He’s full of resources to put in your head.

Sometimes when I see his display of new books
I’m certain it’s me he’s been trying to hook
It’s rare I’m not tempted to add to that pile
Of things that I’ll read, but just not for a while

Is he pleased to see me when I go in there?
He’ll treat me politely, though won’t call me ‘sir’
I guess that’s his style, which is just fine by me
I’m sure there are others that he’d sooner see.

I still have to thank him, if only I could
For spending a weekend with Margaret Atwood
And also at Christmas, much stranger by far
I spent New Year’s Day with that nice Andrew Marr.

It must be rewarding to think of the homes
Where bookshelves are graced with his CDs and tomes
And then when finances are making things tough
There’s always that gesture of 10% off.

Just where would we be without Evenlode books?!
That Tardis of culture, the first place to look
For last minute presents, like new DVDs
Biographies, music, all waiting to please.

The next time you’re in there and squeezing around
Uncertain of what little gems will be found
Be glad of the pleasures that wait row by row
And grateful the man with the beard made it so.

The first debate

Where were you watching, if watching at all
The moment when history paid us a call?
With nervous predictions of how it would go
That evening in April when Clegg stole the show.

The first time on TV the leaders had met
The rules argued over, and finally set;
Just who it would favour it seems we now know
The break with tradition when Clegg stole the show.

Whose lines would resonate, who would look best?
Who would be sharpest and rise to the test?
Would there be slip-ups, would one be in flow?
It seemed pretty clear once Clegg stole the show.

So on to the next debate, this time on Sky
In high-definition, we'll see the sparks fly;
But still we'll remember who laid the first blow
On that Thursday evening, when Clegg stole the show.

Grounded

Blue, blue, nothing but blue.
No vapour trails to scar the view,
No soaring jets to cut on through
The cloudless, boundless, empty sky
Where ashes float unseen up high.
Miasma of volcanic spew
In blue, blue, infinite blue.

Letter to David Miliband

Dear Mr Miliband,

I know this might sound silly,
and I hope you won't misunderstand me
setting out these views.

You and your kid brother,
Mr Miliband (the other), I've just spotted
on the cover of our local Evening News.

You're pictured in the photo with a poster
of an auto; it's an 80s' Audi Quattro,
kind of dated, but okay.

The poster has a banner, on the bonnet
David Cameron, I wouldn't wish to hammer on
about this, but to say:

If you think this election's lost,
you may be right, but what a cost you're paying if
you're fostering careers selling cars!

Brand new models might be fine, or something
from a classic line, but why are you both so resigned
when you're still rising stars?!

To turn your back on politics just when
you're mastering its tricks, to sell these
mechanised relics, just doesn't serve your ends.

Of all the tactics to employ, to use
the Tories' pin-up-boy is bound to puzzle and annoy
your former party friends.

It seems to me just crazy, quite disloyal,
rather lazy, that you're entering a phase
which Arthur Daley would prefer.

So please think of the voters and forget these
ancient motors; why not get yourselves a Lotus
and ride back to Westminster?!

At the butchers' shop

Three butchers stood around the block
Their knives all drawn, their eyes all locked
Upon the firm and fatted beast
On which the people were to feast

They all agreed, to their surprise
It needed cutting down to size
But one man's gristle, skin or bone
Was to the next a no-go zone

Exactly where the knife should fall
They just couldn’t agree at all
And worse, when one said “let’s start now”
Things turned into a might row

“You’re being far too hasty lad
“Your judgement really is quite bad”
So said the grey one, adding that
“We need, for now, to keep some fat”

“You’re wrong”, the young one then replied
“And see that stuffing there inside
“I would remove some straight away
“You watch, it will be quite okay”

The old one looked at each in turn
And then remarked, with some concern
“While you are fanning people’s fears
“You’re still wet behind the ears”

“Honesty is what we need
“The cuts will hurt, the beast will bleed
“The pain will linger, burn and throb
“It will not be a pleasant job

“You may well think that I don’t care
"But I’d cut some from everywhere
“It’s all a matter, if you please
“Of knowing your priorities”

“So let the people now decide
“And judge what should be baked or fried
“We’ll lay our wears out in the shop
“And each point out which bits we’d chop”

Although they knew that would be best
They played their cards close to their chests
And none could summon up the nerve
To clarify which cuts they'd serve

Springtime of discontent

A springtime full of discontent
Will not now mark the end of Lent
But still the RMT is bent
On letting feelings show

Another ballot will come soon
And then a strike in May or June
A chance for people to lampoon
The likes of Mr Crowe

As taxes rise and wages freeze
It seems that Britain's old disease
Is back to make the people sneeze
And bring them further woe

For Cameron it's heaven sent
The public's anger he can vent
And point to all the ill intent
Of those like Mr Crowe

Reduction in the public debt
is not something he'll help to get
Efficiencies will not be met
If he can make it so

For Crowie it's a chance to shout
And get the knuckle dusters out
To force a deal through union clout
Well, thank you, Mr Crowe

The safety card he's keen to wave
It's not about the jobs he'd save
The bosses are the ones behaving
Recklessly and low

Although the public will be used
To make a point and then abused
The jaw-jaw route has been refused
Oh well done, Mr Crowe

Old Crowie's got much thicker skin
Than Managment, who'll soon give in
He's only focused on a win
And having the last throw

There is no middle ground to take
No compromise that he will make
His arm is strong, make no mistake
Or so thinks Mr Crowe

But soon, perhaps to great applause
We'll get some bright new labour laws
Which trim back all the unions' claws
And not just those we know

The public then will shoot your fox
And put you back inside your box
Knock off your smile, if not your socks
So watch out, Mr Crowe

The mystery of the Cornbury treasure

Within the world of Cornbury Park
Down where the woods are deep and dark
There lives a creature, short and round
That makes its home high off the ground

Though no one's seen it recently
It once was spotted up a tree
Before it scurried round the back
It dropped a small but heavy sack

What fell to earth with clinks and thuds
Turned out to be some precious goods:

A lady's purse with silken trims
Some spectacles with golden rims
A silver compass, pointing east
A holy bible, torn and creased
A pocket flask if Cameron Brig
A thick and rather curly wig

T'was quite a fine and handy list
And surely something to be missed
Which might explain what happened next
And left some people quite perplexed

The bag of goods that fell to earth
Was picked up by a man called Firth
Who gave it then to his friend Liam
Curator of the town museum

And here, for just a modest fee
The hoard was put for all to see
But with the exhibition planned
Too few would see it all first hand

For in the night, we don't know when
The treasure trove had gone again
The one thing we can say for sure
It didn't go out through the door

For this was double locked, you see
And none but Liam had a key
The only bit of evidence
Seemed more of a coincidence

On looking for some proof of stealing
Someone pointed to the ceiling
There above their heads up high
They all could see a speck of sky

On studying the hole they spied
It measured just 5 inches wide
Which surely is just far too small
for any human thief to crawl

In came the police to look for hints
Like hair, or skin or fingerprints
But short on clues they went to knock
On all the houses round the block

And here it was they found a bod
Who recollected something odd
He was, he said, upon a bench
Alone with some young Spelsbury wench

While gazing up into the stars
They heard a sound like steel guitars
The twanging noise they saw instead
Were phone lines bouncing up ahead

And stranger still, they heard a clank
Upon the roof of the old bank
Just what was up there, who could say?
This didn't happen every day!

But after that the trail went cold
And none could help them, young or old
So with the case now filed and crossed
The artefacts were all deemed lost

From start to end it's all so strange
Some speculate, but theories range
While stories spread and rumours grow
The truth we just may never know.

High visibility man

A cold winter morning, the world still in bed
Two headlights stare out at the road up ahead
Down form the cab of a Post Office van
Emerges a high visibility man

His jacket of orange is caught in the beam
A dazzling explosion of reflective gleam
He loads up some mail bags and heads on his way
The start of a high visibility day

Down at the station the train is in sight
The engineers’ shift has been running all night
They stroll back to base dressed in lemon and lime
The end of their high visibility time

Up on the platform the man from Despatch
Tells all the people which trains they should catch
He makes sure the driver gets off in his slot
And stands there: a high visibility spot

Just near the church some mechanical sounds
Signal the bin men are out on their rounds
At the back of the lorry, where rubbish is hurled
One ponders his high visibility world

“Yes, there’s the grime and the noise and the smell
The frost in December, the rainstorms from hell
But soon you’re in March and can work with a zing
All set for a high visibility spring

“A desk in the corner of some civic centre
The lab and the coat of a high-tech inventor
An office canteen where the gossip is rife
Are fine if you want an invisible life

“Here’s to the boys in their hard hats and boots
Who silently sneer at the blokes in their suits
Some up on scaffolding, others down in holes
All have their high visibility roles."

“So give me a job in the great open air
A chance to work muscle and do it with flare
And playing the part wearing colours that glow
The star of a high visibility show”

At Rydal Water

At Rydal Water, by the shore
I met a man from Ilkley Moor
He said, “It looks like rain today
“You’d better go inside and stay”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, “I’m fine
“Look at this lovely coat of mine
“And this, my splendid sporting brolly
“I’m sure my day will be just jolly”

But starting with some gentle showers
The rain poured down for hours and hours
With Rydal now above my knee
I clambered up the nearest tree

But soon the water lapped at branches
And so I had to take my chances
Swinging by my lovely coat
I jumped into a passing boat

“You were lucky,” someone said
“Without my foresight, you’d be dead”
As I looked up, it made me shudder
Ilkley man was at the rudder!

But that was not the story’s end
For me and my new Ilkley friend
Fate had something else in store
Before we made it back to shore

From deep below the water stirred
Then gushing off the stern was heard
Of all the things we might have feared
The Rydal Monster’s head appeared

It stretched its winding neck our way
All seven feet of slimy grey
And with its mouth now open wide
His tongue invited me inside

“Oh no!” said Ilkley man in fright
“Looks like we’re someone’s tasty bite”
But thrusting out my big umbrella
I soon repelled the mighty fella

It’s many years now since that day
And ever since I’ve stayed away
If you don’t fancy slimy slaughter
Stay well clear of Rydal Water

The captain no more

John Terry scored a goal last week
He's scored a lot of late
But now he's lost the captaincy
And probably a mate

The meeting

Please, if you would, I'd like my name back
You took it just now and gave it a smack
It hung in the air and it swung to and fro
It's not yours for keeping, so please let it go

A taste of Holland

The funny thing about the Dutch
Is just how often and how much
They all indulge in bread and cheese
And knock it back with polished ease

Edam, Gouda, you will know
But many more will be on show
Hard or soft, and white or blue
For breakfast, lunch and supper, too

The rich and poor, the proud and humble
Share one thought when tummies grumble
Out come parers, plates and knives
To serve the staple of their lives

The word for cheese in Dutch is ‘kaas’
Which starts with K and sounds like ‘farce’
You’ll hear it several times a day
When food and drink are on their way

At mealtimes they will raid the fridge
And conjure up a fresh sandwich
Some might make a double-decker
All will say their choice is ‘lekker’

This little word means ‘nice’ or ‘yum’
That something pleases mouth and tum
And soon after the bread is buttered
You can be sure it will be uttered

You’d be excused for thinking that
The average Hollander is fat
In fact, if anything, they’re thin
And this is why: now listen in

There’s nothing more the people like
Than travelling by pedal bike
Whatever dairy goods they eat
They burn them off out in the street

And one more thing, that isn’t all
The Dutch are so extremely tall
Although they have a modest girth
They’re still the giants of the Earth

Their homeland is a special place
A small flat world, a monster race
Where living can be quite a squeeze
And all the mountains made of cheese

The loneliest man in the world

Imagine, if you would, a man
We’ll call him something, let’s say Stan
He’s just your average sort of bloke
Likes a beer, doesn’t smoke

He watches football live on Sky
Is fond of steak and kidney pie
He’s takes the train to work each day
The job's quite good, but not the pay

He voted once for Tony Blair
Back when he still had all his hair
The man in whom Stan had such hopes
Now finds himself against the ropes

The steps that took us into war
He’s finally accounting for
Stan watches on the TV news
And weighs up the reporters’ views

This chap was once so keen to please
But now, to Stan, seems ill at ease
His face is taut, his lips are tight
He’s girded, ready for a fight

He starts off tense, his speech is slow
But soon the magic starts to flow
He’s warming up now to the task
Anticipates what next they’ll ask

His arms wave freely through the air
The man of old is now out there
The rhetoric is strong but measured
Skills his party once so treasured

The public sits behind his back
Inquisitors in front attack
The questions fly; he ducks and weaves
Somebody shouts abuse, and leaves

He’s making quite a firm defence
He knows, to some, he’ll cause offence
Repentant, no; defiant, yes
He’d do the same, despite the mess

It’s, in the end, a judgement call
He’s standing by it, standing tall
If there was just one crumb of doubt
It’s not something he’ll talk about

While people look for who’s to blame
Perhaps it was done in Stan’s name
And men like him who didn’t go
On protest marches shouting ‘no’

Who didn’t write to their MPs
Or pray to God on bended knees
Who might feel duped but understand
That someone has to take a stand

It must be lonely at the top
The place where all the bucks must stop
And leadership, as Stan reflects
Is what the average bod expects

Stan thinks of all the men that now
Will bear their consciences, and how
They’ll gladly talk, once things turned bad
Of all the doubts they really had

How they were really drawn along
Cajoled and pressured, into wrong
Their consciences are still quite clean
They were just cogs in Blair’s machine

So how much does Stan really care?
Blair’s now a multimillionaire
Still, rather him than me, thinks Stan
Who wants to be that lonely man?

In the attic

A drum, a whistle, an old tin hat

A box of medals for your chest, like that

A cap, a bottle, a bayonet

I'm the officer - and don't forget!

A belt, a buckle, a silver key

An old-fashioned monocle to help you see

A gun, a bullet: hands on your head

You're my prisoner - and now you're dead!

So long Mr Snowman

The snowman's staring in again
He's smiling through the window pane
He seems to say, it's cold outside
But that he's something to confide

I wait until it's after tea
And find out what he wants of me
By then the stars are shining bright
And snowman glistens in the light

He says, it's good to be your friend
But soon this chilly spell will end
So with the turning of the moon
Beware that I'll be going soon

Although it's true I'll have to dash
It might not happen in a flash
One long and lazy Saturday
I'll probably just fade away
And when I do, please don't be sad
Just think of all the fun we had

Rumours of snow

Ten pints of milk, please, and five brown loaves
Free-range eggs - two dozen of those
This shop today just seems so manic
I wonder what is all the panic?!