is the 14 25 from …
Ernest ‘Platform One’ Boring, I man I once knew
who spent each weekend afternoon, again and again,
with notebook and pen, watching train after train;
then had chicken and chips, in a café in Crewe.
Ah, what came first, chicken or the egg? You tell me, old boy, again and again.
Ah, yes, poor old Ernest; who, in the morning,
when the alarm clock goes off at exactly four fifteen,
pledges loyalty to Labour, to Empire, the Queen;
a man who would have had a two-month old yawning,
Baby’s asleep again, amazing, baby’s asleep again, amazing, again and again.
A discourse on the merits of margarine and butter
might be enough to make the most gentle go barmy;
but instead of being a clerk, if he’d joined the Indian Army,
Mother Theresa, for certain, would have fled from Calcutta.
That Indian bint on Big Brother, I bet she uses butter to make chapattis, or ghee, again and again.
Always well turned-out, shoes polished, wearing a club tie, neat;
not the most chatty chap, but always polite,
wishing the neighbours a pleasant ‘Goodnight’,
in the way of Dixon of Dock Green, at the end of the beat,
I’ll be off now. Plenty to do. Goodnight, then, again and again.
In speech, you have a true gentleman of economy, of approach,
too much talk, things go to waste;
therefore, not too slow, nor in haste,
reminiscent of a new but boring National Express coach,
ha ha ha, that’s good oh, yes, ha ha ha again and again.
Using a modest amount of masculine cream,
a careful play with the razor theatre,
the smooth skin now feels much better.
The girls in the office, ha ha ha, will find me attractive, part of the team.
Use Jade perfume. Not them, me. (some hope),
again and again.
A careful comb of rich Brylcream thin hair,
admiring, in the bathroom mirror, a minor physique,
touching a now-baby ex-lieutenant smooth cheek,
thin macho-moustache, with a military care,
‘I shall return’. Montgomery, I think, or was it Rommel…? again and again.
With an old cricketing tea cloth for company,
that he bought on holiday on the north Yorkshire coast,
breakfast is butter and honey on perfect crisp toast,
with Quaker oat porridge, a pot of PG tips tea,
good enough for chimps, good enough for me, ha ha ha again and again.
The news, both here and abroad, counts for little or naught,
but, having to walk home when the roads were in ice
an experience that Ernest didn’t find nice,
he pays close attention to the weather report,
oh, that’s what I thought, I knew it, I knew it, I knew that, again and again.
Pin striped suit he bought in a menswear shop in Kew,
to work in a white shirt, grey tie, umbrella, bowler hat;
he bids farewell to part-time housekeeper, Mrs Gnat.
That woman just buzzes about the place,
ha ha ha, gnat-buzz, get it? Ha ha ha, he tells you,
again and again.
To the office where he works as a clerk,
with County Council chock-a-block table
to answer questions about cement, tar and cable
to work out the water rates of the park
that can’t be right, let’s try again, bloody solar calculator, don’t work here, again and again.
At 10 30, in a wedge of currant cake
with almost complete computer-like precision,
he makes, with much care, the type of incision
a top quality neuro-surgeon might make,
oh, perfect, just perfect, yes, perfect, again and again.
In quiet fashion, sips his one-sugar morning tea;
milk, a tiny amount, too much wouldn’t be right;
tea must be a firm khaki, or colonial copper, not off-white.
People these days should get a grip on reality,
GCSE, that's the problem, again and again.
At lunch-time, a modest spoon of canteen cottage pie;
he eats the wet, limp cabbage uncomplaining,
but chooses cauliflower when it’s raining,
then goes for milkshake in the teashop nearby,
How are you, my dear, you look beautiful, again and again.
On Friday, to make the luncheon complete,
whilst we enjoy work, the weekend is near;
in a half-empty pub, a cider or beer,
a strawberry yoghurt, a weekend treat,
I love the rich pink, gorgeous, oh, yummy, yummy, yummy, again and again.
Back home, shoes clean, jacket hung neat,
in apron, eating a best-buy tart, begins to prepare
the evening meal, with tender but uninspiring care;
frozen carrots, peas, corn, with budget cold meat,
hum, hum, hum, hum, I think I’ll cut my thumb, again and again.
He seldom will grill or fry, or roast;
it’s not just a question of ease, or health,
but one must be prudent, careful with one’s wealth;
therefore, a simple (but nutritious) cheese on toast,
go from coast to coast, with my cheese and toast, I love you, again and again.
Except on Sunday, when for a change
May to October, he uses not one egg, but three
to make an omelette, a reckless gastronomy,
with supermarket herbs, but the eggs, free-range,
you think eggs can get bird flu? I mean, you think it might be …again and again.
Monday to Friday, the Richard Clayderman collection;
humming to Marriage d’Amour, he thought
of how Mummy really was pleased he had bought
it, stroking the toy piano with affection,
you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true, again and again.
But at the weekend, if there’s time to spare,
with one pound scissors, from Shanghai,
in immaculate way, he clips toe nails, fingers, hair;
then, with Optrex, washes out each eye,
one day, I’ll gargle this stuff by mistake, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, again and again.
The sock collection, of concrete grey
not one small hole, or hint of a tear
washing fifty two, time for a new pair.
They’re worn out; but thrown away?
Recycle, that’s what we do, don’t let it go to waste, no, no, of course we don’t, again and again.
for if filled with earth, they can produce
new plants - mustard, cress, parsley, thyme...
he had no success with prunes or lime.
The conclusion? Old socks are not without their use.
No waste, no want, reuse, reduce, recycle, that’s the way for Mother Earth again and again.
In a bed-and-breakfast (quite cheap) in Cumbria,
he met, a mature, retired dental technician from Neath,
of matron build; he enquired about scale, polish, gum disease, teeth;
the next morning, without a cup of tea, she left for Northumbria.
Why? Can’t fathom it out, getting on so well, wonderful body, big arms, rugby type, you know, again and again.
That was a fine holiday, a one-week break, he thought;
a peck on the cheek - no groping - to show his affection;
but, he sighed, quiet, when in recollection,
that his attempts at courtship had come to naught,
again and again.
(Did you manage to take off her …? No, I didn’t. She broke your thumb? Oh, dear me, old chap.)
The train at Platform One is the 14 25 from Newport, calling at Hereford (pronounced Herry-ford, pubs, horse racing , butchers, useless football team, cattle market, three choirs etc), Leominster (pronounced Lem’ster, old chap, pubs, horse racing, wretched platform, looks like Chuck Norris was practising there, a bank etc), Ludlow (pronounced Ludlow, pubs, horse racing), Church Stretton (pubs, pretty women on the platform), Craven Arms (pubs, pretty women on the platform), Shrewsbury (pubs, horse racing, three-pint Guinness Sarah doing The Telegraph crossword, scruffy platform, scruffy bloody train,) and Crewe (hotel bar, bar on Platform One, bloody cold wind, and me, Capt Ernest Boring…Ha ha ha ha ha , that’s me, Ernest Boring
I’m off to bed. With Ernest? Ha ha ha . With Ernest? Ha ha ha
Too long in the tropics, you know. Mother told you in 1989. Ha ha ha
Another gin? Ha ha ha, make it a double. Where’s Sarah? Did you kiss? Did you have sex? Ha ha ha.
I think you… oh, here’s the Brighton-Glasgow. It calls at Portsmouth, Winchester, Oxford, (bloody snobs) Gloucester, good rugby, or used to be, Malvern, public school girls, white socks, etc rather nice, Dudley, Worcester, wonderful racing, cricket too, Tene, Wolverhampton, grubby, well, used to be, meat depot type of place, ha ha ha, how do I know why, just sounds like a meat depot place, ha ha ha, no, why? Warrington, the less said the better, rugby league, ever watched it? No, too much of a snob, exciting, union’s got the edge, it seems to me, yes, you are a snob, met a chap from Warrington once, Malaya, engineer, Merchant Marine, amazing chap, Preston, used to have football there a hundred years ago, won the FA Cup in the 20’s or somewhere, Lancaster, why on earth they wanted a university here beats me, out in the wilds, must get a special type of student, probably got good canteen food and mixed showers, then Carlisle, amazing place in the evening, sunset, borders mystery, half expect to see a gang of Picts laying waste to the town, ha ha ha, then across the… Richard? Where are you? Richard? Richard? …Cad’s popped off to find Sarah, I imagine ha ha ha… oh, my goodness, look at that, look at that, don’t get that every day, that’s for sure, what a treat, made my day, look at that, there must be at least thirty cement wagons, where’s the calculator, oh, it’s in the bloody office, that’s ten tons per wagon…
