On the Edge of Infinity: A Poem

I’ve written a poem to mark the occasion that The Edge of Infinity is back.

On the Edge of Infinity

Not from the beginning nor to the end of time

There is no time here

Not within any expanse of space

There is no matter here


There is just an existence

A peace

A calm

A tranquillity


This is the edge of everything

One step back into space

One step forward

Into nothingness


But the universe expands

Creating noise out of calm

Creating chaos out of order

Encouraging the battle for life out of peace


It is impossible to imagine an infinite time

It is impossible to imagine an infinite space

It is impossible to imagine an infinite nothingness

The total absence of space and time


The rush of time’s arrow as it is sprung

Hits the invisible wall and falls down

A vertigo inducing sheer drop

This is the edge of infinity


The legacy of Stanley Holloway

OK, so I’m going to post this again (from old blog) to see what you think. Stanley Holloway was one of my Dad’s favourite funny people, he loved his monologues. And so do I. Here’s my modern day version (to be read out loud with a Yorkshire accent – and a stick wi’ an ‘orses ‘ead ‘andle in t’hand):

Now, let me tell thee a story
O’ a young mother o’ teenage proportion
Happen ‘er name were Miss Drewery
And yon lass n’er heard o’abortion

A mother o’six and a quarter
Wi’ names abound to impress
Five sons and only one daughter
And six dads quite familiar wi’ ‘er dress

The first dad we mention, were yonder Master Drax
A’fore t’internet dating were thought ‘aughter
She found him on ceefax
Which happen be t’name of their daughter

The second, ‘e were a wrong’un
Like most o’ the rest, it has to be said
His name, it were Tom Wardman
And he sat wi a Nike cap on ‘is head

Their son, ‘e were a blessin’
But they called him nawt as much
And after a great deal o’ stressin’
After Tom’s dog, named him Butch

The third were David, nicknamed Spike
And as proud of his surname o’ Spinks
As he were as his motorbike
T’were shame it were coloured bright neon pink

Their son, had big brahn eyes just like daddy
And a cry that could pierce the ear
They loved that lil lad, named him Frankie
And, unlike dad, preyed he didn’t turn out queer

The next, a young tike name of Tyson
And a flyweight boxer t’were he
When he turned out to fight ‘em
he could sting like a butterfly, float like a bee

Their son a young boxer he could ‘ave been, eh?
A big lad and a beautiful colour
After the great man, they called him Cassius Clay
‘Til he got a boxin’ round the ears by grandmother

The fifth, Robert Chambers t’were he
For as long as a month they were courtin’
They met every Sunday in t’park under their tree
Wi a pile o’white powder for snortin’

The son from that courtin’ were a sickly bairn
Poor child had nawt but the runs
Even so they called him a good hearty name
Lil’Rory Fenton Hippo Master Vader Yoda Kirk Farquar Steelers Woo Woo *clap clap clap* Tuns

The last were ol’ sugar daddy James aka Jim
He had a band, he were a drummer
Now this grandda, she really did like him
Last of the young (and old) love of summer

Her youngest son had a flair alike his dad
He’d play all day long wi’ a guitar kit
‘til it drove poor mum just quite mad
But he sure lived up to ’is name o’ ‘endrix

As I come to the end of me story
And young lass’s seventh bound on it’s way
Well, wit Lib Dem, recession and t’Tories
Nah, she’s off to the clinic, they say!

(Well, it just made me laugh. Not least at the attempt to rhyme Hendrix with kit…)