I sat in my seat,
Awaiting the announcements,
As what looked like a small stag do came on board the plane,
Bringing a cloud of cigar smoke with them.

Judging by their attire,
The party’s theme was either 80s or Armed Forces.

The man,
Who I assumed was the groom,
Was drowned in tacky gold jewellery and clad in camouflage.

His party forced him into his seat.
He wasn’t happy.

The groom was shouting how he didn’t want the plane to take off
And tried to climb out of his chair.

The group laughed
And pinned him down.

An air hostess,
Worried about the rest of the passengers,
Warned he’d have to leave if he didn’t relax.

The handsome guy,
The face of the group,
Charmed and calmed her down
While the mad one of the four squealed and howled as the grey haired member,
Old enough to be the groom’s father,
Although racial differences between the two suggested otherwise,
Took out a white bottle from his bag.

He poured liquid,
That he claimed was milk,
Down the groom’s throat.

The groom wiggled,
Smiled,
And drifted off.
‘Bailey’s,’ I thought.

An hour later the party started drawing on the sleeping groom’s face in marker pen.

One drew a cock either side of his mohawk.

I couldn’t help but pity the fool.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

I stepped inside my local store,
Where Fred the owner had strange things galore.
“Hello there, sir, what’ll it be?”
“I’m not sure, reveal your stock to me.”

“I’ve several crates of strawberry wigs,
And multi-coloured marble pigs.
Perhaps you’d like a cauliflower ear?”
“Heavens no! How would I hear?”

“How would you hear? Just listen please,
I’ve hearing aids sculpted from cheese.”
“That’s OK, my hearing’s fine.
Do you have some nice red wine?”

“I’m afraid I’ve sold all of my drink,
But do you need a kitchen sink?
I’ve got one here I think you’ll like,
It’s made of plaice and cod and pike”

“I’m sorry, Fred, I’m left confused,
No-one sells such things, I’m quite bemused.”
“You’re right young man, what you say is fair,
But look at me, do you think I care?!”

I looked at the man from his head to his toes,
I noticed he was wearing peculiar clothes.
“What have you got on, you funny old man?”
“My sushi shorts, they’re from Japan!”

“Well they smell rotten, just like your scarf,
Please remove it, or I might barf.”
“What’s wrong with my scarf? Just have a feel,
It’s made from genuine, jellied eel”

I tried to walk away from the stench,
As my eyes saw what looked like a garden bench.
“Dare I ask, what’s that over there?”
“A bench,” said Fred. “Made from old underwear.”

The bench was brown and stained all yellow,
“What’s wrong with you, you disgusting fellow?”
“What do you mean? They’re all the rage,
Just like this stuffing, it’s chocolate and sage!

“If you don’t like that, then look at these;
They’re fluffy gloves designed for knees.
Maybe that’s not quite your thing,
So how about this bacon ring?

“If meaty jewellery is not for you,
I’ve Klingon copies of Winnie the Pooh.
A thousand eggs sit on my shelf,
All were laid by a Christmas elf!”

“You can stop now, Fred, I must get back,
I only came in for a quick, little snack.”
“A snack you say? What do you desire?
I’ve humbugs here that taste like fire.

“Or how about some sugared squid?
It will only cost you 25 quid.
And in the back I’ve a special treat,
Lemon custard, smeared on meat.”

“Shut your mouth, you silly old freak,
The things you’re selling are rather weak!
They’re weird and gross and in fact quite dear,
Just give me a pizza or chips or some beer.”

“Get out!” he yelled. “If you don’t like change,
In here it’s you, not I who’s strange.”
He used a sausage to slap my face,
Before I ran outside with haste.

A dark cloud opened and rain hit my head,
As I started to think about the old owner Fred
It’s true he was odd, but I was unkind.
I just stood there cursing my sad, narrow mind.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The bell rings for Round Two: Boxing Day
Cold meats, pickles and the turkey come back out to play

For yet another day to drink and eat
And put those Christmas socks on both your feet

Families laugh and friends all gather
Pulling one last Christmas cracker

New films get watched and first bikes ridden
As the top from Nanny goes in the cupboard and hidden

What an excuse to remain drunk and merry
And not eat a single fruit or tiny berry

But I know a lady who once lost her Boxing Day
She woke up in pain and was suddenly whisked away

A strange bed was hers where she stayed on her back
While her fella almost had a heart attack

She cried: “Three weeks early, why can this be?”
Her husband laughed: “Perhaps he heard the Christmas tree”

The lady gave a push and a squeeze
As her family munched on festive cheese

It wasn’t long and the deed was done
And she held on tight to her new born son

So raise a glass for my old mother
Who 26 years ago, gave my brother a brother

© Carl Burkitt 2012

He’d never experienced feeling alone,
Not with his iPod and swanky smartphone.

But when the Twitter app froze and Facebook crashed,
He sat in the pub intent on getting smashed.

Six or seven pints for liquid relief,
Turned to those thoughts hidden beneath.

He dreamt of the girls who slipped through his fingers,
Some of them hot, but most of them mingers.

That kiss with Mark for a drunken bet,
His lips all pert, soft, warm and wet.

The machine that pumped his gran’s lungs with air,
As she lay in bed with lank, messy hair.

Daddy painting over Jen’s bedroom walls,
Mum packing up unused nappies, blocks and balls.

His phone vibrated and Twitter was back,
Thank God it’s Friday! Hashtag, feel like crap.

© Carl Burkitt 2012