This set of pages is stuff I wrote ages ago - haven’t done this for a while and maybe it’s time I started again because obliging those who set themsevles up to be sent up is one of the joys of almost living.

Anyway, here are a few bits and bobs from an earlier age - although some of them are disturbingly relevant still.

Take these two, for example: if you know your Noel Coward you should find it easy to get the rhythm of them.

The Stately Trains of England

(with apologies to Noel Coward)

Here you see a group of us,

where there once was a troupe of us,

passengers who go by rail.

And since we hate to be alone,

each one has got a mobile phone

and all we’ll need for our survival,

pending our arrival.

Though this fate is befalling us,

yet our duty is calling us,

and although our senses quail,

while lesser folk take to their cars, we’ll not be skittish,

because we’re British.

Fortitude will prevail!

The stately trains of England, how grandly they process,

at forty miles a fortnight, from Hove to Inverness.

How delightfully redolent they seem

of a leisurely age that’s now a dream:

all the glory that was steam,

when we told ourselves

that it was enough to be

travelling hopefully.

A motorcar transports you with comfort, style and pace,

but British Rail escorts you with pure, unhurried grace,

so if leisure is what you’ve truly got, and you want to let it show,

then go by the stately trains of England.

We believe, potentially,

if not experientially,

this could be our finest hour;

for it is widely understood

the British always have been good

at meeting every kind of trial

with devout denial.

We’ll pretend not to care a bit

(though it’s human to swear a bit),

we won’t let it make us sour.

We shall convince ourselves that travelling at leisure

should be a pleasure;

we’re not obsessed with power!

The stately trains of England are best when standing still,

to give the hungry trav’lers the chance to eat their fill —

though the fries are just mash, pushed through a tube,

and the burgers were cooked in the autolube,

and they’re out of sugar cubes,

(but they’re bad for you,)

and tea in a cardboard cup

really bucks you up.

Although their food has lacked in nutrition, style and taste,

you’ll find that what it’s packed in is far too good to waste.

If vinegar laced with the taste of grapes is your favourite kind of wine,

then dine on the stately trains of England.

The stately trains of England, since journey times increased,

are haunted by the spirits of trav’lers now deceased.

There’s a phantom that rides the Brighton line,

who boarded in 1999;

now his seat’s become a shrine —

pilgrims flock to it,

and ticket collectors say,

one day they’ll make him pay.

The spectre of a pale guard who trembles near the door

rejected someone’s railcard in 1994,

but the travellers’ toast is the headless ghost

of whoever’s to blame for the strife.

That’s life on the stately trains of England.

© Michael Forster

not the

Poet Laureate

‘Someday my prince will come,’ many people wistfully sigh - but if they’re lucky he’ll let them get away. I’ve never seen the attraction of marrying into royalty - don’t people learn anything from the experiences of others?

Don't set your heart upon the throne, Mrs. Parker-Bowles

(with apologies to Noel Coward)

1

Don't set your heart upon the throne, Mrs. Parker-Bowles,

don't set your heart upon the throne,

for the monarchy's not quite ready for a scarlet Queen of Hearts,

and the bit on the side becoming the bride would overheat the tarts.

You're the wrong sort:

you're more intelligent than chic,

so don't you think you'd rather seek

A life to call your own?

Have some fun, Mrs. Parker-Bowles.

Run, Mrs. Parker-Bowles!

Don't set your heart upon the throne

2

Don't set your heart upon the throne, Mrs. Parker-Bowles,

Don't set your heart upon the throne,

When you marry a prince, you wed the institution, don't forget:

You'll be put in a mould, then left in the cold until you're firmly set.

It's a dream life:

unnervingly disjunctional

implicitly dysfunctional,

a nightmare all your own.

For your sake, Mrs. Parker Bowles,

wake, Mrs. Parker Bowles!

Don't set your heart upon the throne.

© Michael Forster

not the

Poet Laureate

August 1999

Yes, I know it’s old, but are you seriously going to tell me it’s not still relevant?