Sunday, September 13, 2009


A couple of pints and I needed to go.
My bladder was straining and heaving and so
I made my excuses and rose from the table
And dashed off as quick as my fat legs were able.

One cubicle only, (there was no urinal,)
Beautifully painted in coats of matt vinyl.
I locked the door firmly and then (to be brief)
I had thirty seconds of bless├ęd relief.

And when I was finished, I turned (as you do)
And pulled the lock clockwise to exit the loo.
The lock slid quite smoothly around in the groove,
But when I pushed outwards, the door wouldn’t move.

I tried it again and I turned the lock back,
Thinking perhaps there was some kind of knack,
But though I pressed down and I turned and I twisted,
That thick and inert toilet door just resisted.

I glanced at the window but it was too small,
Off’ring no escape for a fat man at all.
And so I returned to the troublesome lock,
Half-hoping, half-fearing that someone would knock.

I hadn’t my phone and the loo was too far
From the clamorous singing that came from the bar.
No-one would hear if I hollered and knocked
So I gave out to God that the door should be locked.

Oh, how was I going to get out of here?
Would they phone 999 when I didn’t appear?
Would they think I’d a problem in holding my beer?
Or maybe assume I had bad diarrhoea?

At last, in the throes of my deepest despair,
I heard a small voice asking was I in there?
It was my nephew, my ten year old saviour,
Who I’d just admonished for his bold behaviour.

“I’m locked in the toilet!” I shouted with urgency.
“Go and find help, this is quite an emergency!”
“I know how the lock works,” he answered with guile,
And I well could imagine his broadening smile.

“I’ll give you two euro?” I took the large hint,
Thoroughly sick of my half hour stint.
“Twenty!” he said and I spluttered with anger
Quite at the mercy of this vengeful langer.

“No way!” I yelled back, more in wrath than in sorrow.
“Okay,” came the answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No wait!” I cried out, with my head in a tizz.
“You mercenary bollix you, twenty it is.”

“Turn the lock halfway,” my nephew replied,
And sure, it swung open the moment I tried.
He held out his hand and I paid with bad grace,
Ruefully watching the grin on his face.

So all you still list’ning, the moral is clear –
Spending a penny can end up quite dear.
Pay heed to my story, don’t do what I did,
Unless you aren’t bothered to spend twenty quid.

The dark dark shape at the bottom of the pool

We couldn’t make out exactly what it was,
The dark dark shape at the bottom of the pool.
Neil said he thought it was a chair because
He thought that the bar was missing a stool.

Sadly for us it was too far down
For any of us to investigate.
Emmet thought a ball, or a dressing gown.
“Doesn’t look like either to me,” said Kate.

Eventually we sought out Grandad’s advice
As to whether ‘twas a chair or gown or ball,
But though we went round the poolside twice
Alas! We could not find Grandad at all.