Wot with being educated in sarf London, one left skool not well-endowed on the grammar front. Upon realisation of how the wrong 2 can leave a whole sentence in complete error—‘knackered’ as they say where I come from—I recoiled in utmost terror.
With great Gusto, I tried to get much better. Gusto—guess what—did really great, while I just mediocre. Correct me if wrong, I’ll be glad. But a two-way street it’s apparently not, as discovered to my bad.
Madge, me and the Brixton Academy; the latest entry in the Diary of a Mad Pest Controller.
“I could be a writer with a growing reputation; I could be the ticket man at Fulham Broadway Station. What a waste . . . What a waste.”
I used to walk past that ticket man made famous by Ian Dury’s lyrics on regular occasion. Going to and from Chelsea matches at Stamford Bridge. It was always a man, as I remember. Not that I paid too much attention.
Except for one particular Wednesday night game against Continue reading
It’s said buses always come in threes. If you’re stuck waiting for one without anything in sight or are maybe on one and not particularly enjoying the ambience, here’s three poems about them to help pass the time at least.
A Life of Crime vs. The Free Market IV
The Mr T I worked markets with bore no resemblance to the mother-loving one in the video below. Mr T did a bit of this and a bit of that; a real-life ‘Del Boy’ if ever there was one. If you’re getting any ideas of me being the Rodney of the equation, you can Continue reading