(after Horace, Epode VII, Quo, quo, scelesti ruitis?)

Well, I tell you what, Neville Chamberlain was right.
What was the point, we were at peace?
There were enough of our lads killed in the first bloody lot,
(my own dad included),
without any of us having to risk our necks.
And what have we got out of it?
I’ll tell you what we’ve got, bloody rationing, that’s what!
A job for life my arse!
We’re being starved by our own Government,
still, what can we expect now Winston’s back?
Bet the Germans are laughing their caps off at us.
Even wild dogs protect their own;
but not us British – we do for ourselves -
the little man counts for nowt here.

Don’t know why you all look so shocked,
you know it’s true.

Come on tell me, what’s Churchill done for you?
four of you here have lost younger brothers.
Someone needs to knock the bloody Bulldog’s teeth out
before our kids end up in the same mess.

(After Horace, Epode VI – Quid Immerentis Hospites)

Why does he pick on her, he knows she won’t fight back?
Not so big now is he?
Let him have a go at me; set his lip up,
he’ll get as much as he gives
and I’m not scared of your big mouth either;
others might be; not me.
I’ll roll up my sleeves to anyone; you try it.
I don’t care who you think you are.
Your lot always have a go at the quiet ones,
but I reckon your bark’s worse than your bite.
Well watch it, ‘cos I’ve got your card marked now
and I’m just ready for a fight.
I’d like to remind you how I dealt with the ‘Close’ woman,
I made mincemeat out of her if you remember,
so don’t think your reputation scares me one little bit.
And we’re not leaving ‘till he says ‘sorry’.

(after Horace, Epode V, At, o deorum)

‘Oh God let me go! Please let me go
it wasn’t me, honest.
Whatever it is, it can’t be me you want
so just you get off me right now.
I swear on my mother’s life and on my brother’s,
that I never laid a finger on your precious pal.
In fact, I swear on the new school blazer I got last week,
and on our cat’s life and on the Bible.
Don’t stare at me with those beady eyes, our Sheila,
like you were a mad dog.’

Kenny was getting hysterical
in Sheila’s iron grip.
Over and over he begged his older cousin
to let him go.
But Sheila was having none of it; she had the bit
between her teeth.
Maureen was her best friend. Kenny would have to squirm;
a thump would be too good for him.
This little episode was every cousin’s dream come true,
something to blackmail him with for ages,
something to tell Auntie Nellie later
if he didn’t share his candies,
or better still, hand over every one,
in honour of the girls’ sweet friendship.

But Maureen was circling the two of them,
sprinkling encouragement over Sheila’s resolve.
She looked like some wild half-breed bitch,
or like a snapping terrier.

Without a second thought, little Anne scooped mud
in fistfuls from the common,
threatening to cover him head to foot
and leave him out to dry,
said she’d check on him morning, noon and night,
so he’d better just lie
and take his medicine like a man
while the Trafalgar Street girls
met in Maureen’s yard and decided what to do with him.
His pissing trick could not go unpunished.
Excited they dangled a Bounty before him
not letting him have even the smallest taste.

And Barbara was there from Britannia Street,
she knew all about lads,
well that’s what everyone in Trafalgar Street said,
and below the railway.
Barbara could twist any boy around her little finger
then make him look stupid.

Sheila now, her teeth thoroughly on edge
and chewing at her nails,
what did she have to say? What didn’t she?
‘Anne, Maureen, Barbara, friends forever,
hell’s fire, and you, Mary, of the crackling coal when
the flames throw boy-shadows on your wall,
come from your Prince Street scullery and cast a spell
on my dirty little cousin Kenny,
while curled up on your fender the black cats
rest and stretch and sharpen their claws,
let The Rocket lasses bawl and the lads make fun
of the one who dumped me,
he still has the smell of my Coty -
he’s definitely a sight for sore eyes.
But hang on, it’s no good rubbing him with trotters,
dad said it didn’t work
when Aggie smeared Billy’s neck in The Commercial
to scare his fancy-woman,
instead, she bragged it was the smell of love -
hung onto Billy ‘til he lost his job.
I won’t give up, I’ll root out all I know of our Kenny,
tell his secrets.
It’s his fault Dave and me broke up; he told him I was thick,
no girl will have him by the time we’re done.
I might not be able to get Dave back again
now that he’s in the tight clutches of Patricia,
but Dave, I’ll tell you this, I’ll get the last laugh yet,
not by changing my perfume or lipstick -
that won’t get you back. No, you’ll come to your senses,
you’ll be more frightened of me than your gang,
because I know all your little weaknesses; which bits of you don’t measure up,
I can tempt you with that:
and I’m sure, rather than risk your laddish reputation,
you would turn your world upside down,
ask me out again, tell me you love me,
as Patricia’s eyes turn to green’

Now Kenny stopped his pathetic pleading
with the wild girls,
although he didn’t have a clue what to say,
he blurted out his empty threats:
’You can torture me all you like, two wrongs don’t make a right;
what you lot do, won’t change Dave’s mind.
I won’t forget what you’ve done in a hurry; you’ll regret this;
I can’t forgive you.
Yes I’ll promise not to bully again,
but I’ll haunt you; hide round corners next time.
The threat of my piss will stick in your minds;
long-distance attacks are what we lads are good at.
Soon we will be joining forces,
so let’s see if that turns you on.
We’ll get you in the streets, the alleys, the common
and when our call-up papers come
we’ll go abroad; maybe we’ll have to fight for real;
maybe that will satisfy you.
But think; who’ll date you if we don’t come back?
Our parents will live through that.

Notes:
1 The Rocket and The Commercial were public houses
2 Coty was a brand of perfume popular with working-class
girls in the 1950’s)

(after Horace, Epode IV, Lupis et agnis)

What makes her think that she’s better than me?
We’ve more in common that she thinks,
with her rough hands and wrinkled flesh
and hard skin on her knees.
She wraps herself in Marks & Spencer’s best,
but her tongue has no hiding place.
Has she no idea, as she makes her way to Church
with her wide feathered hat,
that everybody stares at her
because they don’t like her?
She had the broken nails of a cleaner
until she hired a domestic.
She owns her own property and a little car
and trundles up and down Trafalgar Street,
waving from the passenger seat,
acting as if she were a magistrate -
as if she owned the place.
When she’s around
why have we to be on best behaviour?
Is this jumped-up nobody the best we can do?

(after Horace, Epode III, Parentis olim)

I’ve just heard of the best curse for those who don’t respect
their dads, or give them cheek,
let them eat pigs’ trotters, they taste like poison.
Foundry-men must have strong guts
because if I eat them they make me heave.
I tell you, these trotters
covered in dripping, should be in a cauldron,
or else thrown to the dogs.

You remember that night when the two-till-tens knocked off,
and Aggie, an eye on her Billy,
met him in the snug, gave him a pigs-trotter hug,
made him stink from head to foot,
then as she left to turn their bed down, caressed his shoulders,
clasped her hands round the back of Billy’s neck?
The whole of that snug smelled to high heaven,
and poor Billy with it.
You smell like Stockton Abattoir, Bill lad,
was what all his mates said.

Now Anne, if you get any ideas about my bloke,
don’t be surprised if the next day,
when you go to get your best dress from the wardrobe,
it smells like the essence of pig.

(after Horace, Epode II, Beatus ille)

“ It’s a lucky man who can follow
his dad into the works,
tread in his footsteps, use his know-how
and not get into debt.
Why would you need an education
or little bits of paper?
You won’t be buying and selling shares
or knocking at Number Ten.

No, you’ll be hammering at white-hot ingots
welding them to each other
dirtying your hands; doing something useful
making the sparks fly,
or you’ll shovel the crackling, curled filings
to decorate fences,
or store them for another blast,
or sweep them into heaps.

When the final buzzer of the week sounds,
anointed with your sweat,
you’ll clasp your pay packet; the fruit of your graft,
rip the top off and pocket the small change.
You will be king of the bar, ruler of the snug.
In The Burton, or in The Commercial,
your homage to the bitter god will know no bounds.

You’ll love leaning your elbows on the smooth, hard wood;
resting hob-nails on the kick-rail,
watching while pumps keep the amber liquid flowing
and cares start drowning in the foam
and worries pop like bubbles on your lips
and every swallow means a deeper sleep.

When the low siren of Monday’s six-till-two
calls workers back again,
with a billy-can hanging from your side,
you’ll march off towards the furnace,
or run, so you won’t be quarter-houred;
earning every halfpenny.
You’ll pull your oily cap down over your eyes
and clock on – save your pay.
In the middle of such manly pleasures,
you’ll forget your problem love life.

But if you find a nice girl, get married
have a couple of kids, settle down,
someone like your Mam to look after you,
a lass who’s not afraid of hard work,
she’ll put a nice little home together,
have your meals ready on the table,
there’ll always be a clean starched shirt for you
and the cupboard will be full
There’ll be a bottle of brown ale waiting,
maybe a little rabbit pie.

I’ll tell you this, if I had going what you’ve got,
I wouldn’t bother with the fancy food
even if it was handed to me on a plate,
offered completely free of charge.
Nothing complicated, exotic or foreign flavoured
would pass across my lips,
or taste as fine as good old fish and chips
from Tubby Turnbull’s chippy
or twopenny ducks from Metcalfe’s butcher’s shop
or thickened, home-made chicken broth, pearled with barley
or pigeon freshly trapped and wrapped in brown paper
or ham bones from Bob Bartley’s.
What a fabulous spread all that would be for me.
How good to see your children thrive,
your wives, up to their elbows in the flour bowl
counting out the fadgies
while little ones buzz round them
waiting for ‘tasters’ straight from the oven.”

When landlords said all this to Trafalgar Street men,
pretending, trying always to be one of them,
they’d call in all their dues; the arrears,
and on the first of the following month put the rents up.

(after Horace, Epode I, Ibis Liburnis)

Shopkeeper, posh in pearls you ride in plush, hired charas
among your customers, poor as church mice.
Armed with a quip for the driver, you take the mike,
give your instructions.

What would we do without you? we’d not leave the street.
You take over, and you make us forget
the cheaper cuts of meat; the rent we haven’t paid;
(when we’ve saved enough to cover our separate days),
then we go along with your suggestions
to learn about the world.

We head out. Across Victoria Bridge
and the inescapable railway line.
To the crumbling cliffs of Scarborough’s furthest bay;
without a care, we follow you.

You wonder why somebody as reserved as us
should want to join you on your trip
Truth is, we’re better being taken for a ride,
because if we stay at home we’ll worry
that tongues will wag and jibe
or gossip about who we think we are.
They can’t whisper if we’re with them!

So yes, we’ll gladly join you on the coach
to fill the empty space.
Don’t load any extra brown ale
just for us,
although we’ll probably be ready for a drink
by the time we hit the moor road into Whitby.
We don’t want to impose on you; we’ll bring our own.
We won’t make pigs of ourselves.

Your ingenuity has given us enough -
We won’t take the experience
and bury it at the back of our minds
or treat it like just another day.