tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59070968476654707802023-11-15T07:08:00.038-08:00Will Hames's BlogWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-81792920199597848652013-02-15T02:28:00.000-08:002013-02-15T02:28:16.698-08:00<br />
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<b>PURPLE </b><st1:stockticker><b>AND</b></st1:stockticker><b> </b><st1:stockticker><b>GREY</b></st1:stockticker><b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I guess you never meant for it to end the way it did</div>
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She couldn’t take it any more, that’s why she ran and hid</div>
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You should have left her where she was and gone your own
sweet way</div>
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But what you did is written in the purple and the grey</div>
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So now there’s nothing left for you to do but sit and cry</div>
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There’ll be no going back to say “I’m sorry” one more time</div>
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She’s gone where you can’t touch her… you know that’s where
she’ll stay</div>
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For what you did is written in the purple and the grey</div>
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</div>
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The awful price she had to pay for injuring your pride</div>
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It wasn’t nat’ral causes and it wasn’t suicide</div>
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And no amount of posturing can make it all okay</div>
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For what you did is written in the purple and the grey</div>
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You should have learned to keep it in while you were still
at school</div>
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You think you’re such a tough guy but you’re not a man at
all</div>
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And no one gives a shit for any words you have to say</div>
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So don’t you try to justify the purple and the grey</div>
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Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-83063503769960420532010-12-17T12:18:00.000-08:002010-12-17T13:19:48.356-08:00YULETIDE VILLANELLEBring out the meat, the pudding and the beer<br />You're so excited, even as you groan<br />This Christmas business happens every year<br /><br />When shelves of bread and milk all disappear<br />Make sure the empty larder's not your own<br />Bring out the meat, the pudding and the beer<br /><br />To absent friends we drink and shed a tear<br />The number grows who went their way alone<br />This Christmas business happens every year<br /><br />With vision blurred and feeling rather queer<br />From unaccustomed richness overblown<br />Bring out the meat, the pudding and the beer<br /><br />They stumble as the train is drawing near<br />Or cry for words of comfort on the phone<br />This Christmas business happens every year<br /><br />The angels told the shepherds, "Have no fear!"<br />We substitute a message of our own<br />Bring out the meat, the pudding and the beer<br />This Christmas business happens every year.<br /><br />Will Hames<br />December 2010Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-85227507828615176152010-09-20T22:34:00.000-07:002010-09-21T00:55:30.192-07:00Embarrassing ConfessionsAs a result of several close encounters with the medical profession, I am proud to announce that I am now a man it's impossible to embarrass.<br /> Almost impossible, anyway. There are one or two situations where even I still cringe, such as the moment in the supermarket when you stand there with your trolley piled high with goodies, only to be told that your card won't cover it. They never make it easy on you, do they? They ring for the attention of a key-holding harridan and project waves of frost at you while you wait. It doesn't matter how much you apologise, they never say, "Ah well, these things happen." You just get a stare, past your shoulder and off into the middle distance, as if they're fighting the urge to lunge at you with a rubber glove and a jar of industrial-strength mustard before the supervisor can come between you and break it up. And when Mrs Authority does arrive, it's amazing how much sub-text she can put into the simple act of turning a key on the till. "I was saving this key for a special occasion: it was going to be a surprise for my 90-year-old mother as a way of saying thank you for seeing me through some particularly difficult times. And now I'm having to waste it on you, <em>you</em> of all people. Trash."<br /> But for me, the most embarrassing time I can remember was when I was at a trade union conference in Aberdeen. I'd never been to Scotland before, and I was there as interpreter for a small group of German conference guests.<br /> We'd done the serious business for the day, and the Scottish trade unions had laid on some hospitality for the evening. It started with a reception, where we all stood around sipping sherry and eating canapes - you know, those little pieces of bread with a slight trace of exotic stuff on top, like open sandwiches for Oompah-Loompahs. You try to make one of them last for three or four bites, despite the fact that you're bloody starving and could easily see off a couple of dozen of them, just to help the sherry go down. The idea is that you nibble them daintily whilst mingling and making small talk with the very people you've just spent the entire day talking to.<br /> It was not easy interpreting at this event, because people had run out of things to say to each other hours previously, and now they were asking me to translate things that no resident of Planet Earth wanted to hear at all, just to keep the conversation going. And being in Scotland added a whole extra stratum of difficulty, because the locals were not very good at making language concessions for foreigners. <br /> "Ja, tell me now, vot iss diss veekurit timrus beastie zey keep talking off?" I was asked. Either that or somebody would collar me in passing and say, "Ah'm tryin' teh explain teh oor pal here, what's German for See You Jimmie?"<br /> In a situation like this, I think you'll agree that copious amounts of single or double malt anaesthetic are called for, and I was comfortably up to my ankles in the sea of oblivion when there was a sudden hush in the room. Then it started.<br /> Hhhhhhhhooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggggg...<br /> From the next room, a lone piper sounded one mournful note that went on for no more than a second or two before another note was added to it, then a third, really high and eldritch, floating on top. And suddenly a dozen more pipers joined in to make the bass drone fill the air, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I felt immersed in a kind of eerie magic, and when the pipers in full Highland dress slow-marched into the room and gently broke into "Amazing Grace"... well, I was hooked. It was just plain bloody <em>glorious</em>, and if you think the bagpipes are nothing more than a device for giving your enemies the willies on a dark and foggy hillside, all I can say is that you had to be there. I'm filling up right now, just thinking about it. Choked up doesn't cover it. So I got drunk.<br /> And then we had something to eat and I sobered up a bit, and then the dance music started.<br /> I'm a sucker for country-dance music. I can't sit still and listen to it. At the very least, I have to tap my foot, and once that starts, it's only a matter of time before I'm jigging around, a slave to the beat. I don't actually know any dances, but I do have a pretty good sense of rhythm and, once my thirst has overcome my inhibitions, lots of energy. Some might say, too much. My children for instance. My eldest daughter once described my dancing as "like a frog trying to get out of a hot bucket".<br /> The band took a break, so we all filled up our glasses, then emptied them, then filled them again... and we kept on doing that until an announcement came over the PA, something to the effect of "Sninny wada hootnoot bolla granshit noo!" and people clapped. Then the band started up again, with one of my favourite pieces of Scottish diddly-diddly music, and I got up to dance.<br /> It seemed as if most of the other people were rather tired by this time, because there were only a few of us dancing. As I've said, I don't know any proper dances, but the people around me were really good. They were forming fours and twirling around and coming together in two rows and taking it in turns to dance down the middle and link hands over the top... and I looked around and saw that the rest of the people were just <em>sitting</em> there!<br /> And I thought, 'How can you <em>do</em> that? What's <em>wrong</em> with you lot all of a sudden?" And I went up to one of the tables where a friend of mine was sitting, and I tried to get her up onto her feet, but she wouldn't budge.<br /> So I thought, 'Screw you, then,' and went back to dancing, only now I was giving it the full Travolta, because I was going to enjoy myself, even if all those other miserable a*holes were too shy to let their hair down. And all of a sudden, one of the women who were doing it really well said something to me as she danced by.<br /> And I said, "Pardon?" but she was already gone, in among the other dancers. So I chased after her to find out what she'd said, except that of course I chased after her in the spirit of the dance, in time with the music. And every time I got near her, somebody would grab her and whirl her away, so I had to chase her right up the other end of the line, calling "Hey, I didn't hear you... what did you say to me just then?" And finally I got right up next to her and she hissed at me, "Sit down, you pillock! This is an exhibition dance!"<br /> And everybody else in the room - even those who didn't speak any English - had realised this, except for me. <br /> The interpreter.<br /> The one who was supposed to be a pro at knowing what was going on.<br /> And my table was twenty miles away, right at the other end of the room, and I made my way back to it through a sea of faces that refused to look me in the eye. And when I got back to my seat, I stayed there for the rest of the evening, drinking. <br /> And the next morning, I told everybody that the last thing I remembered from the previous evening was that magic moment when the pipers broke into "Amazing Grace".<br /> That was my story and I stuck to it. Until now.Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-88861999991312096292010-07-04T01:23:00.000-07:002010-07-10T05:03:06.491-07:00To Visit You Some TimeI'd like to visit you some time<br />And see the light of welcome in your eyes<br />As I walk through the door, the look that speaks of joy<br />For every second that we spend together<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />To sit a while and listen as you tell me how your life has been<br />How it is now, and how you'd expected it to be<br />Back in the days when it was your job<br />To dream of greatness, because you were a kid<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />To tend your wounded spirits, your sad flesh<br />Then smile as you thank me for my thoughtfulness<br />And tell me how much you look forward to my visits<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />Knowing that the hour or two I gladly give you from my busy day<br />Is solid proof of my worth as a selfless human being<br />With a huge, compassionate heart<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />And lift you out of your depression<br />By talking of the funny things I've seen<br />The silly conversations overheard on buses<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />And as I leave, tell you and mean it<br />That I really, really wish I could stay longer<br />And that I'd be counting the hours until the next time<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />And do us both a power of good<br />Celebrating a friendship that makes mere love<br />Seem pale and feeble by comparison<br />I'd like to visit you some time<br />Instead of spending twenty four hours of every day<br />Right here at your service, grudgingly doing the barest minimum<br />To keep us both going, while you lie there and wish I could do more<br />Care more, say the right things, wear the right expression<br />Fill you with enthusiasm from a boundless store of positivity<br />That drives away your misery without for a single moment<br />Seeming to trivialise your burdens<br />I want to run away right now<br />And build myself a life worth living<br />And when that is done<br />I'd really like to visit you some time.Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-63309762861110510702009-01-21T06:00:00.000-08:002009-01-21T06:22:13.983-08:00ReligionOn Monday through to Saturday<br />I often make the time to pray<br />I speak my worries and give voice<br />To all my little hopes and joys<br />And in despair or misery<br />My first words are, “Dear God, help me!”<br />I concentrate with all my might<br />To feel Him there, just out of sight<br />My trembling faith, now bright, now dim<br />Is just between myself and Him<br />The Trinity, the creed and such<br />Don’t seem to matter very much<br />And if the Bible on my shelf<br />Appears to contradict itself<br />As Dawkins and his ilk all say<br />Well, I don’t read it anyway<br />Not Monday through to Saturday<br /><br />I feel a presence, whole and pure<br />And even though I can’t be sure<br />Exactly what its name may be<br />No matter, for it seems to me<br />That something powerful and great<br />Is there, concerned about my fate<br />So many times I could have died<br />But someone must be on my side<br />Because, although I often think<br />My ship of life is bound to sink<br />For all the times I’ve erred and sinned<br />Some kindly current, helpful wind<br />In guise of fluke or happenstance<br />Provides me with a fighting chance<br /><br />So Monday through to Saturday<br />I do my best, but by the way<br />Enjoy such company as mocks<br />The bells and incense, candles, frocks<br />And scandals that we read about<br />Concerning folk who, though devout<br />Appear to be as flawed as those<br />Who never hear a church door close<br />Behind them, and then kneel in prayer<br />To something powerful out there<br /><br />And yet, when Sunday comes around<br />Unfailingly I will be found<br />With humble heart and bended knee<br />Inside my local C. of E.<br />I sing the hymns and read the Book<br />And force myself to overlook<br />Whatever doubts I may recall…<br />On Sundays I believe it all<br /><br />Will Hames<br />January 2009Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-22023304537956907712008-11-24T07:24:00.000-08:002008-11-24T07:30:00.591-08:00RescueLast night, I prayed for rescue, for an answer to my pain<br />It wasn't fair, I told Him, all this trouble, all this strain<br />I cried I couldn't manage, I was weak and I was lost<br />I couldn't face the future and I couldn't meet the cost<br /><br />I visualised a mighty hand that plucked me from the storm<br />And set me down upon a beach, where all was safe and warm<br />But then there boomed an awesome voice, I knew it came from Him:<br />"Get back into the water, son, you're learning how to swim!"<br /><br />Will Hames, November 2008Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-61946979741236995412008-11-06T08:18:00.000-08:002008-11-06T08:22:15.287-08:00Busy ManHe clearly is no thinker<br />Barely educated, little sense of humour<br />No way with words, no fine artistic skills<br />And yet he has his busyness, doing what he can<br />He wastes no time in dwelling on his limitations<br />Too absorbed in getting on with all the life he has<br />And who am I to look down on him<br />When my own mind and heart are filled<br />With all the things I cannot do?<br /><br />Will Hames, November 2008Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-6756732156017830442008-11-06T07:15:00.000-08:002008-11-06T16:27:26.692-08:00Who Rules the World?She has her wants, and some of them are needs<br />But who can tell where needs end<br />And the whims begin?<br />She is so vulnerable, fragility her strength<br />For who can stand against the needy and say “No”<br />When “No” is nothing but the truth?<br /><br />I have my wants, and some of them are needs<br />But all I crave is harmony<br />And so I let myself be ruled<br />Because to take a stand for what I know is right<br />Will lead to battles I’ve no stomach for<br />A world is shaped around the strongest will<br />And in her weakness<br />She is Queen<br /><br />How long can this go on? How long before the whimsy<br />Eats away the very bedrock of our lives?<br />Seen from outside, I am the ruler of this little state<br />I have the health, the strength, the wisdom drawn from time<br />Among real people, real objectives, triumphs and disasters<br />Unafraid to go out into the world<br />Whenever need or fancy call me through the door<br />So all the obligations fall to me<br />But all the power I could bring to bear<br />To carve our lives into a noble form<br />Lies uncollected at her feet.<br /><br />Will Hames, Nov. 2008Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-44107097565556534492008-09-30T21:37:00.000-07:002008-09-30T21:38:39.381-07:00Life on the EdgeI live on the edge, I’m a man through and through<br />A bit of a rebel, between me and you<br />I use naughty words when there’s no one to hear ‘em<br />I’ve never done drugs but I once went quite near ‘em<br />I stroll in MacDonald’s without even booking<br />Make signs at the wife when I know she’s not looking<br />I live on the edge, I’m a man through and through<br />And no one tells me what to do<br /><br />I live on the edge, I’m a free-thinking guy<br />I look my optometrist straight in the eye<br />I revel in things that are simply not done<br />“Don’t Walk On The Grass”? I prefer to not run<br />I wear a thick vest though we’ve got central heating<br />I’ll pay for a meal then run off without eating<br />I live on the edge, I’m a man through and through<br />And no one tells me what to do<br /><br />I live on the edge in a state of high tension<br />I happily fly in the face of convention<br />When out in my Volvo I find it amusing<br />To fill parking meters I’m not even using<br />I smile at policemen to make ‘em all crosser<br />And laugh when they call me a sad little tosser<br />I live on the edge, I’m a man through and through<br />And I don’t care who knows it…(between me and you!)<br /><br />Will HamesWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-21483972781777673322008-09-29T13:12:00.000-07:002008-09-29T13:15:19.618-07:00The HippoDon't ever bath with a hippo<br />He won't leave you room for a shrug<br />He'll keep all the bubbles up his end<br />While you get the end with the plug<br /><br />To bath with a hippo's not clever<br />You need something more your own size<br />He'll panic and squash you whenever<br />He gets the shampoo in his eyes<br /><br />An elephant's worse, I can tell you<br />The water all goes up his trunk<br />But don't ever bath with a hippo<br />And don't let him have the top bunk<br /><br />Will HamesWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-21491985084610575032008-09-29T13:05:00.000-07:002008-09-29T13:10:16.336-07:00BoredomI've done a jigsaw puzzle. It was mostly grass and sky<br />I've giggled through the window at the people passing by<br />I've counted up my marbles: all in all, I've forty three<br />I've chased the dog and teased the cat and had a cup of tea<br /><br />I've washed my hands a dozen times with Mummy's special soap<br />I've tied my sister to a tree. I used her skipping rope<br />I've called my cousin for a chat. It looks as if he's out<br />I've tried to play the wat'ring can by blowing up the spout<br /><br />I've slithered headfirst down the stairs and climbed the garden shed<br />I've tried to bash the boy next door, but he bashed me instead<br />I've written off to Santa Claus, although it's only June<br />I think I'll go insane if they don't fix the TV soon<br /><br />Will HamesWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-86199504206488786942008-09-25T14:15:00.000-07:002008-09-25T14:32:12.837-07:00Fridge PoetryA while ago, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, I picked up a little box of random words printed on fridge magnets. I thought my children might find them fun, and for about five minutes, they did. Five minutes was about the amount of time it took for them to establish that there were no swear words in the mix. I've just found the box stuffed under a small mountain of teddy bears and boldly aromatic socks in my son's bedroom. Nobody was watching, so I took the box down to the kitchen and started fiddling around, sorting out the nouns, adjectives and so on into different areas of our magnetic notice board.<br />This is what I came up with:<br /><br />TROLL FANG<br />Somewhere in the mysterious forbidden forest<br />I found a cold newt potion<br />Yet there was no rainbow fire carpet<br />No giant lizard for a troll fang<br />Ask a small screaming hobbit to leap & dance<br />These owls of gold are bloody fierce<br />It must have flown beneath my dragon house<br /><br />I think I'll leave this up on the board to remind me not to waste so much time. My children think I'm a mystic.Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-21087989162122320792008-09-25T13:23:00.000-07:002008-09-25T13:47:41.131-07:00Being a carerPeople often say to me, "You're such a noble person, giving up all your freedom and social life to look after your wife." I really don't know how to answer that. It wasn't something I volunteered for, it just crept up on me over a period of years. I used to have a pretty good job with an international trade union, well paid, challenging and varied. Gradually, it became clear that being on call around the clock at home didn't fit too well with holding down a full-time job. I think it was the third or fourth time I woke up with my head on the keyboard of my work computer that I realised something had to give; the job or the marriage. By that time, we had three children, so even if I hadn't continued to love my wife, it was a real no-brainer. <br />So here I am, going slowly out of my mind with boredom in these four walls and wondering why a person so glaringly unfitted to the role of home maker gets landed with the job.<br />It's not rocket science, of course. Any fool could do it and a lot of people with room-temperature IQs do it very successfully. What defeats me is the motivation. After all this time, I still have the feeling that I'm just holding the fort until somebody capable comes along and licks this place into shape.<br />If it weren't for the fact that I can escape into writing and, all too occasionally, performing my silly poetry at various gigs in and around London, I think I'd go crazy for real. As it is, all my latent insanity is channelled onto the page, where it sits and smirks at me.<br />My pager's just bleeped. I have to go and see what my patient needs. One bleep means, "When you can," two mean "Come now" and more than two mean "Help, I'm on fire!" So far, just one bleep has sounded. Oh no, there goes another one. Can I use foul language on a blog?Willhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5907096847665470780.post-39320386646432589392008-09-25T12:51:00.000-07:002008-09-25T12:58:56.617-07:00Thursday, 25 September 2008I'm new to blogging, so I hope this works.<br />Here's one of my silly poems for starters.<br /><br /><strong><em>I Could</em></strong><br /><br />I could eat an elephant on toast, for just a snack<br />I could climb an oak tree with both hands behind my back<br />I could whistle "Dixie" while I drink a glass of milk<br />I could comb a coconut until it's smooth as silk<br /><br />I could spell "chrysanthemum" without a calculator<br />I could build a house with two short planks and a potater<br />I could do most anything, and I could show you how<br />I could tell the truth, but I'm not in the mood right now<br /><br />Will Hames<br />IWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13625335820965303770noreply@blogger.com1