Glam Dad’s Lost His Rag
Those kids will never know the pain they bring
to Britain’s former foremost lie-in King.
Oh Sunday bloody Sunday, pig-shit head
his veins an ache and squirm, his tongue half-dead
and still they roar their push-me-pull-me blows
falsetto tuneless shrieks to Let It Go!
She kicks him in the shin, when will he learn?
A hard-faced three word gesture: It’s your turn!
Oh curse this house, this cul-de-sac, this life!
Oh curse my devilled off-spring! Curse my wife!
Oh curse the mirror! Curse the paunch and sag!
Oh curse my thirties! Glam Dad’s lost his rag.
A streak of pitch-black temper! Havoc wreaks!
Mascara smear across his grizzly cheeks,
he stumbles down the landing, knotted back
a slurring threat of discipline and smacks.
A raging monster rank with last night’s gin
his unshod sole impaled on tank engine.
All dressing gown on inside out, he tolls
Just grow up, will you! to his three year old.
Last night! Last night! Won’t someone take me there!
Thighs bulging in his drainpipes, back-combed hair,
Shakira-hipped, the snarling ghost of Strummer
his band of teachers, architects and plumbers
fucking nailed it! Big-riffed indie dream.
At times he felt like he was seventeen.
And how the lyrics from that cover’s set
come back to him right now: What do I get?
O what went wrong, this was never the plan!
We came third in Battle of the Bands
in Manningtree in 1999.
“They rocked” said The Braintree & Witham Times.
We supported Cast in Colchester
I’ve met the bloody ginger one from Blur.
Island records gave us demo money
I could have made it… what now? What’s so funny?
Beneath him on the floor his kids are grins.
A nervous sideways glance then it begins:
the stuttered giggles then the gasping laughs,
he catches his reflection in the glass:
a sallow, red-faced, stubbled, panda-eyed,
sack-stomached tragi-clown with gaping fly
They thump the carpet. Daddy! You’re so silly!
Your face looks funny, I can see your …
And now he’s laughing too, his ego shelved
time halts and for that moment he’s himself.
He gathers up his brood, it feels sublime:
Come on then you two, it’s breakfast time.