THE REASON I
DON’T WEAR SHORTS IN ENGLAND
My local pub is a wonderful place,
full of humour, wit and joie de vivre.
Folk of every and race creed and colour,
who laugh, chat and drink together.
I’m not so keen on football supporters, who
mostly loud, stand in your face.
They all assume you care who’s winning,
even when you look away.
Next door there is a coin-op launderette, and
a haberdashers, now closed down.
It makes it have an old fashioned feeling,
or is it just the people there?
I find it’s best when nights are quiet,
like being in an old style movie.
A row of faces all sat along the bar,
everyone with a tale to tell.
The wonderful old dyke with cigarette holder,
held aloft, now never lit.
Uncle George who’s a serious alcoholic,
always with a gin in hand.
John who cycles in from Palmers Green,
on a ladies bike with wicker basket.
Or the chap who’s always in the corner,
reading Philip Larkin prose.
Then the older drunken fellow, who would,
often utter this strange phrase.
The reason I don’t wear shorts in
is because of varicose veins.