Trapped

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 blesséd 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.

The island of broken biscuits

Dashed to crumbs, my hopes and my dreams,
Where tropical colour’s not all that it seems,
Where reds and magentas turn beiges and creams,
Where crushing confectionery’s one of life’s themes,
And the water-wheel’s powered by fast-flowing streams,
And life appears normal out at the extremes,
On the island of broken biscuits.

On driving through cloud to Chirche to an Abba soundtrack

We slithered down the road to fate uncertain,
The clouds were thick and turns quite hard to guess.
Mama mia! Was this our final curtain?
Would we be sending out an SOS?
Black as night, we had no voulez view,
And thought we might well face our Waterloo.

The sad demise of Mr Jones

The pool’s roped off with yellow tape,
The day is growing dark.
Right now he’s just a starfish shape
Down near the eight foot mark.
His wife is in an awful way
Outside the poolside wing.
She blames herself, bystanders say,
For throwing him that ring.
He got a touch of cramp, they state,
And called for her assistance,
But seemingly the ring’s dead weight
O’erpowered his resistance.
Oh yes, it was a dreadful thing
That floored poor Mr Jones.
So which of you took that lifeguard’s ring
And filled it up with stones?

Dragonfly

The massive purple dragonfly
Sat humming by the pool.
He was an inoffensive guy,
Just trying to keep cool.
Then Emmet sent a tidal wave
Of water ‘pon its head,
And though we tried our best to save
Him, Dragonfly was dead.

Turbulence

The ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign came on
As we were flying to Crete.
The stewardess announced that one
Should go back to one’s seat.
The public took it in their stride,
The seatbelts all clicked true
And then the pilot came outside
And went into the loo.

"The only bleedin' turbulence is in that feller's stomach."