I remember it as if were yesterday
VE Day...well, not exactly
but, close enough for me
The actual surrender of Italy
May 2, 1945....but the **** Americans
Always the Americans wanted May 8
So, it's May 8th, but I'll always remember the second
We were in Milan...I love Milan
****** was dead, Mussolini was dead
I was alive, and in Milan
Rumours were out that the war in Europe was almost done
Nobody had told the Gerry's that though
Word came from Lubeck that they'd surrendered
I was twenty one years old, going on 50
War ages you...and not in a good way
I was in 6th Airborne and ready to go back
When the word came down
I remember kissing the waitress at our cafe
I kissed her hard, and with as much passion as a 21 yr. old can have
I didn't want to let her go
It was over
I kissed her for myself, and everyone in Milan
I kissed her for my folks in Clapham
I kissed her for her folks, wherever they were
I kissed her because we were free, they were free
I kissed her for my Uncle, who we lost early in 1941
Lost him during the blitz in London
England lost 430 people, we lost Uncle Cyril
That was enough, I was signing up
Now, it was over and I was moving on
I kissed her for everyone still waiting for the news
But, most of all, I kissed her for Leslie Testro, Rfn (18yrs)
Lance Cpl Thomas Wray (22 yrs), Lt. Dennis Edmonds (21 yrs)
and all the others attached to 6th Airborne
Who wouldn't know it was Victory in Italy
They were lost, not forgotten, never forgotten
Forever in our minds, our roll of honour
We celebrate them annualy
Few of us left now, but, those that are
go back to Italy every two or three years
back to Milan, and we toast them all
My waitress, Rosa Testrini
She was there as well, every year
Until five years back, we lost her
Now we toast her as well
We all have our honour roll
She was on mine
I found her again in 1950
We were on our second trip back
She met my wife, and I her husband
He's still there, and we talk
My Italian is better than his English
But, we talk as well as we can
I miss her, and the others
But that day, that glorious day in May
I've never kissed like that since
And my wife knows it
Sometimes she reminds me...
I laugh, and remind her....
What that day means...if it hadn't happened
We may not be kissing now
so, she'll never get that kiss
Only Rosa
Rest In Peace my waitress

The coffee stain
would not come off
the wall, dear, when i scrubbed
it only the peeling wallpaper
came off in my hand.

It flaked down like
snow onto our rug.
Do you remember, darling,
when we bought that rug,
it was an old place
in Clapham with
threadbare
walls and the old man smoking
a pipe asked if we were together.

We didn't know what to tell him,
babe, but when you asked me
the other day
where I had put the
lost keys I thought of us.
They have been lost
a few years now,

We lost the keys somewhere
incomprehensible
and I cannot get in.

The coffee stain will not
come off the wall, dear.

If there was a Sidcup onimbus many eons ago
would it differ from the Clapham one?
That's how far away you are in my thoughts.
The insignifance is almost wreckless
when played such as these.
I'd rather wear my white dress
and yellow flip flops
just to spite you.
I can't  play your game
but I  convey to you
luckily your nothing but a one off
deemed quite not parfait enough

It pains me to say that chicanery reigns in the palaces that we once admired,
bought off by some toff that sits in the tower and showers down false accusations.

They may wear fancy clothes to the function, but skulduggery rules and in or around Clapham Junction the rooks have a feast.

Anyway
news from the hunt will soon be front page,

they shoot elephants you know and I know
that's a sideshow



the real killing goes on behind
closed doors.

Beggars to the left of me
beggars to the right
into the valley and
out of the light
out?
or that might be okay for some but
not this ***.
I'm going to spitroast a rat
let the lawmen have that
and I'll eat the best
sod all the rest
this is about yours truly
unruly and ill bred
fed on disillusionment
and slept in tents on
Clapham common,
common land for the common man?
ask the man when he bangs bracelets on your hands
and slaps you in lockdown
locked out of town,
beggars to the right of me
what's left of me?

I was always told that
Angels fell to earth right out of the sky.
But I’ve just seen some plough through the street
In a soft-top GTI.
They wear no halos or feathered wings
Just low cut tops weighed down with bling.
They reach for offerings from higher powers
Whilst blurting out a verse so sour

From the radio distortions
Where the treble and bass don’t mix.
They fester in daddy’s fortunes
Refuelling on Marlborough kicks.
No reasons to care or give a ****.
No schedule. No curfew. No back up plans.
Because the coke’s *****, the merlot’s cheap
They dance until they dare to sleep.

They own the roads and highway code -
They drive however they like.
Be it a classic Sunday saunter
Or ripping up bends at ninety-five.
No care for  what’s wrong or morally right -
Not the subtle difference between concrete and ice.
Their fate is held by a suspect man
With a shrouded face and a scythe in hand.

His mercy waveringly alters
At the flick of a delicate switch.
He knocks it upwards violently
With the most convulsing of kicks.
No red alert! No alarm bells ring.
No saviour. No hero. No Prince Charming
From Clapham to Clacton to save their souls -
They’re at home watching rich boys banging in goals.

The lightest clouds from brighter skies
Can’t cushion them from their fall
The sight of a hematic sunset
Is the last thing they shall recall.
No blessing, swan songs or final words,
No final pleas to be willingly heard.
It’s up to Daddy if they get to relish
His delicacies – or the unspeakably hellish.

No barons down in Earls court and no Surrey in the quays
the underground's a mess if names are things that please
in Raynors lane there's rain again
in Catford there are mice
in Epping it is epic and I think that's awful nice,
In Battersea there is no sea
in Clapham they don't clap
at shooters hill they don't shoot guns
and Network East's a trap.

In Stepney there are several steps
in deptford they sink under debts
nothing gets me on my way than to pass through Green lanes, Harringay, now I don't know many gays down there but I'm friends with some
up in Sloane square
no Knights in Knightsbridge anymore
no Kings at Kingly court
Bradford's not in Bingley either
neither here nor there nor in Trafalgar Square will you see any ships

But the underground's a fabulous place for going out on trips.

There's always the revivalist meeting, but
I think that I'd rather be dead

nihilists seem to have more fun
when all they do is die in their bed.

We're being shortchanged for all of our labour
We're being shafted by those at the top
all I want is some fortune and favour and
for the banjo,
that's playing to stop.

If we're doomed from the very beginning
why bother to start anything it's a pain
why not head off to the junction at Clapham
and stand in the front of a train.

Ah,
but there's always the revivalist meeting
where the realist reaches out to the wall
and when he's touched on the perfection of living
realises
it means nothing at all.

Saying nothing to no one
about nothing you could know,
let the time slow his wits
not yours.

In the cauldron, we'll all turn to smoke
and then something or nothing
will make the joke
and we'll laugh as we go around in circles
looking for the flue,
smoke turning to blue
as it does.

I heard you at a bar down in Clapham
you had a hat on,
a trilby
it killed me,
but you were good
the audience applauded and
the girl is the sequins bought you
a Martini.

When we die as we do
doing what we know
going on with the show
because that's what we do,
we do it and enjoy it
that little bit of death, the fear
that brings breath to your lungs.

I slave away each day and wonder what was it that the slaver would say to me as he cracked the fat whip at me and suddenly as the lights are turned white when the night checks in
I see the grin on his face and there's no place like home.
ask Toto he knows and nothing or no one says nothing that they know
except me,
slow-witted
pitted against the world and its wife
I live it and that's life
to me.

I used to dream of bidding you farewell
And wishing you on your way
"Goodbye, traveller, bye for now"
I'd force myself to say
But somehow you persisted
Punching thoughts out of the way
Ambling to the forefront of my mind every day
Almost real
Almost there
Until the moment
Somewhere
On a train between Woking and Clapham
When a new journey had begun
I grieved no more for melting snow
I worshipped the sun
And I let you go

They're fiddling the figures
they're cooking the books
they think nobody notices
because nobody looks,
but I see them paper traps
odd
numbers like
springing traps which
wraps it up
for me.


Fire in the hole.

We drink tainted water
they drink margaritas
the world teeters on,
on the brink.


High heels or hobnails
fishnets or tails
they've all got their
snouts
in the trough.

It goes on 'til it stops
when the cops come to
nick 'em
and who picks up the
pieces then?

House comes to order.

Chew
chew
that's what they do,
gnawing away at
the man's working day.

We call in the rat man
a fat man
from
Clapham,
he's no ******* use
to me,
things will be
or they'll not
I've got time to
watch it
and see.

'Reggie' and the real desserts
(remembering Leonard Rossiter)

I wonder if urban decay is available on YouTube or Blu-Ray,

I see you crumble and rearrange your molecules to reappear as something new as if the old was ****** right out of you and
the designs of your history
were altered and irrevocably so.

But you look cool
able to fool
the sightseer
not the soothsayer though
because she knows the truth.

And I loved a girl once
From the same place as this band I like
I hear her sweet missives in the angsty twang of their songs
And when someone talks of New York
I picture her running about the streets
Before she knew me
Breathtaken in the easy newness of it all
And when I think of southern England
I think of the trip we took to the coast
Her bright eyes leading me from London
Hands steady on the wheel and my thigh
And I can’t visit the town of my youth
Crochet myself through the crowds on Cowley road
Without looking for her by the house she used to live in
I see her body pushing mine into the red brick of the Middle Eastern takeway
On that warm night in April when she first showed me her longing.
And often when I'm in Clapham
Driving past the couples walking slowly in the grey snowed-grass
I’m haunted by the common, dusty with bottle tops
and the smell of smoking
Light august rain as she cried at my swollen tears

Dad always said you're either a MOD or a Rocker
Well after a few years of choosing I decided on the clobber
Pin stripe suit and a nice comfy parka
Not some grease monkey, slicked back hair, who looked like he'd not seen a bath yet
I preferred the music, the beat, the soul
They liked grit, the grind and the ***** rock and roll
And then came the final choice in which world you did bounce
Vespa, Lambretta or a Triumph in a way to announce
So did I look the hard nut sat on my BSA?
I'd rather look like Mr Cool, thinking I'm Ace Face today
Trip's down to Brighton for a fight on the beach
Before having our breakfast at an all you can eat
Those were the days where you could really have a laugh
Then a trip back home, best have my tea and an early bath
Stick on an album by The Faces or The Who
And up early for work, into town via Clapham then Waterloo
When nothing too much mattered and the world seemed easy
RAF target on my back, nice shiny shoes, that's how you'll see me.

JJB

Dad always said you're either a MOD or a Rocker
Well after a few years of choosing I decided on the clobber
Pin stripe suit and a nice comfy parka
Not some grease monkey, slicked back hair, who looked like he'd not seen a bath yet
I preferred the music, the beat, the soul
They liked grit, the grind and the ***** rock and roll
And then came the final choice in which world you did bounce
Vespa, Lambretta or a Triumph to ride, unannounced
So did I look the hard nut sat on my BSA
Or do I look like Mr Cool, thinking I'm Mr Ace Face today
Trip's down to Brighton for a fight on the beach
Before having our breakfast at an all you can eat
Those were the days where you could really have a laugh
Then a trip back home, best have my tea and an early bath
Stick on an album by The Faces or The Who
Then up early for work, into town, first Clapham via Waterloo
When nothing too much mattered and the world just seemed easy
Now the odd word out of place sends the offended quite queasy

JJB