I never went to Chester.
'Next Saturday, I'll see you there'
I promised falsely to the pair,
The squaddie with the greasy hair
His mate said 'Great!' - I didn't care.
The tiny slice of corner stage,
The acolyte, musician, page,
All waiting for the coming sage,
Trembling to enjoy her rage.
That minute, packed room, sudden still,
'Shardup! SHARDUP!' - a rasping drill,
'I wish your mother 'd took the pill!'
Foolish man - that voice could kill.
I never went to Chester,
I really meant to go...
I meant to ride my B.S.A.
Two hundred miles of road each way,
On a thumping junk-heap, hell to pay,
For a weekend drinking far away.
So silence grasped the jammed, packed throng,
2,000 volts of voice grew strong,
The squashed piano played along,
Making love to old jazz songs.
I never went to Chester.
I really should have gone.
Was it that I had feet of clay?
Or too much here to make me stay?
Some time I might, some time I may,
There'll always be another day.
Andy Morley 17th November
2006
A night
down the Jolly Butchers pub in Ber Street, Norwich.
(see also my pome about Black
Anna) I was a teenager and I got chatting to a
couple of squaddies who were due to be posted to Chester the
next week. I said I'd ride my motorbike up to see them the
following weekend, to go drinking. But I never made it. It's
also a poem about making the most of the moment.
Hear
Black Anna sing... (may take a while to load)