Claim Madness

“THIS PLATFORM SLOPES TOWARDS THE TRACK. IF YOU HAVE A PRAM OR WHEELCHAIR PLEASE APPLY THE BRAKE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY”

So says the latest tannoy announcement on Platform 3 at Hereford Railway Station. In the offing, I’m told, is:

“PLEASE BE AWARE THAT GUSTS OF SOU’ SOU’ WESTERLY WIND MORE THAN TWENTY MILES AN HOUR BETWEEN MARCH AND SEPTEMBER CAN CAUSE DISCARDED GREGGS BAGUETTE WRAPPERS TO WHIP UP AND BRUSH KNEECAPS AS THEY HEAD NOR’ NOR’ EAST, LEADING TO AGGRAVATED ARTHRITIC DAMAGE AND THE POTENTIAL FOR MAJOR KNEE SURGERY.”

I made up the second announcement. But the first is true, and verbatim.

Talk about pandering to the whims of Claims Companies. Do our daily lives really need to be determined and controlled by US-style paralegal touts intent on profiting from the most unlikely misfortunes?

I say: gather together all Claims Company cold callers, place them in a giant supermarket trolley at the top of Platform 3 – and release.

Paul Costello  July 2017

http://www.paulcostello.me

Euro Star
The Yellow Box  by Paul Costello. A wicked trip through Eurocracy. Ledbury Theatre 15/16 Sept. www.themarkettheatre.com 

 

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

Hell-o, hell-o – Mrs Costello?

My name’s Jake, and I’m here to make your life more secure,

For which I’ll take some of your money.

Any trouble with a domestic appliance

At ‘Great Big Insurance’ we’ll see you’re all right.

Imagine your Hoover packing up,

And the dust and grime getting thicker and thicker,

And the bugs in the grime make you sicker and sicker

Till you’re too ill to cope; it’s a slippery slope.

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

 

No.

 

Well for only seven ninety-nine, payable monthly for each appliance,

A total amount of a hundred and four,

The pleasure is mine. Can I take it that’s fine?

 

Yes please.

 

I’ll retail your details to friends in the business.

They’ll soon be in touch to see how you’re doing,

Make sure you’re not rueing a miserable life

With a faulty spin drier or a bulb that’s gone on the living room fire.

 

Thank you.

 

Hell-o, hell-o – Mrs Costello?

My name’s Davey-Boy; Jake retailed your details.

How are you today? Good, good – you can’t get away

From the need to insure anything that may go wrong when you least expect it.

Say, if you detected a leaking tap or an iron that wouldn’t press things flat.

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

 

No.

 

You need to know where you’re at, keep things safe,

And that’s where we at ‘Phenomenal Premiums’

Can help you out. Let’s have a chat.

A hundred a month is all you’ll pay to hold domestic risks at bay.

What do you say?

 

Yes please.

 

Hell-o, hell-o – Mrs Costello?

My name’s Mikey from ‘Crikey Full Cover’.

Are you insured for each household appliance?

They often go wrong, you must be prepared; it’s not rocket science.

Imagine a faulty fridge thermostat stops keeping your cheese at the proper degree.

The rotting camembert starts to waft up through the house and into the loft,

A volatile mix building up to the point where the roof blows off.

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

 

No.

 

If you’re happy to pay ten pounds a day, the risk of explosion will soon go away.

What do you say?

 

Yes please.

 

Hell-o, hell-o – Mrs Costello?

It’s Terry here, but call me Tel. Jake said to call; I trust you’re well?

But it might not always be like that.

Can you imagine a faulty TV,

Nothing to watch, sitting alone with a cup of tea, a silent room and a stale old scone.

No stimulation, nobody calling, life becoming quite appalling

Till you wonder if it’s worth carrying on.

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

 

No.

 

Through ‘Warranty Wonders’ you overcome this.

We’ll make sure you don’t miss the TV programmes that keep you alive,

For a monthly nineteen ninety-five you’d have total reliance on every appliance.

I could sign you up now.

 

Yes please.

 

And to show that we mean it, you’ll receive in the post

A dustpan and brush, a gift from us to a customer we trust.

 

Thank you.

 

Hell-o, hell-o – Mrs Costello?

It’s Tel here again.

Regarding the gift of a dustpan and brush,

I forgot to mention at ‘Warranty Wonders’ we recognise

The risk of bending to gather up crumbs can put undue pressure on people’s thumbs,

Causing poor circulation, enhanced vegetation and everyday problems with inhalation.

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

 

No.

 

So shall we say fifty-nine ninety-nine payable monthly, to help you feel fine

And lower the risk of thumb amputation and perhaps suffocation?

 

Yes please.

 

On and on drove the hundreds, round and round they passed her name.

Railroading, frightening, charming, bamboozling,

Ducking and diving and dodging morality, skirting close to gross illegality.

The frail old lady was not respected, in spite of the comfort of feeling protected.

 

Until, until,

 

Hell-o, hell-o – Mrs Costello?

 

Who’s calling? Are you one of those appalling people who blighted the lady every day?

Well she died last night, possibly of fright,

I wonder you can sleep at night after what you made her pay.

 

Ah, condolences, condolences, most sincere.

(Thinks)

But while you’re here –

Did you realise the phone to your ear might cause radiation, degradation,

Even lead to your last exhalation?

You wouldn’t want that, would you?

Hell-o, hell-o,

Hell-o, hell-o,

Hell-o, hell-o,

Oh.

 

Copyright © Paul Costello  April 2017

http://www.paulcostello.me

YB Poster Main Proof5 030417

 

 

Above The Call

A waiter slops asparagus soup over my mum’s posh top, spits on my steak tartare and asks my dad if that’s a wig he’s wearing – which it isn’t. He now presents the bill for around £80 and asks dad if everything has been to his liking.

‘Splendid, thank you,’ says dad, making out a cheque for £90.

I witnessed this scenario hundreds of times during dad’s life. A routine addition of about ten per cent, rounded up, regardless of the experience.

‘It’s for the service,’ he would explain.

‘But what if that’s not very good?’ I’d say, trying to fathom it out. ‘And isn’t cooking the food and bringing it to the table what you’re already paying for?’

waiterThere seemed a touch of master-servant about the whole thing, a leftover from Victorian times – doffing the hat and placing a penny in the palm.

Dad’s benevolence especially showed at Christmas. People you never normally saw would knock at the door. The dustman (as he was then affectionately known) touched his forelock and dad handed him a small brown envelope; the milkman would find something similar in an empty milk bottle; and it was the only time the postman actually took an envelope away with him.

Tipping in taxis was also de rigueur. Failure to do so might mean the driver retracing his route a mile before letting dad out. Ten per cent to the hairdresser prevented an unwanted bald patch. And generosity towards chambermaids and bar staff during a hotel stay guaranteed clean beds and proper whisky measures.

While all this was going on, the doctor’s receptionist, sales assistant, bus conductor, deck chair attendant, train driver, signalman, street sweeper, telesales operator, left luggage handler, airline pilot, local government officer, hospital porter, travelling salesman, car mechanic, farmer, footballer, formula one driver, lifeguard, gardener, soldier, gravedigger and balloonist, and many, many others simply had to get by on basic wages, since their services were clearly of less importance.

Class distinctions are increasingly blurred. Christmas door-knocking is no longer fashionable. But tipping in the traditional trades continues, more under the guise of mock friendship than master-servant, but with scant regard for what it really means. Clearly, it’s not in the interest of those sectors to disavow people of the custom.

When I was younger I found myself following dad’s ‘easy route’, expressing gratitude and adding percentages regardless of the circumstances – a comfortable way out, making me feel kind of important and stupid at the same time. Annual Christmas cards from the Indian Restaurant (address written at their request on an Excel sheet during a November visit) reassured me that a lasting friendship had indeed been forged.

But as social rebellion kicked in I steeled myself to experiment with paying the asking price only. I was terrified that abandoning tips would mean losing these friendships. I expected the chef to come running from the kitchen with a machete, or the manager to ban me from his establishment. I waited for the taxi man to warn other drivers by radio. I feared a Sweeney Todd incident at the barbers.

barber Instead I was offered a loyalty card by the barber, placed on the priority list by the taxi firm and welcomed back to the curry house with open arms. I realised it was my continuing custom and that of my entourage they wanted, not the small change in my pocket. We remained friends.So, although tipping is still widely practised, in my world the random and pointless custom ended years ago. But I still feel bad about all those who remain tipless while the same old people cream off the ten-percentages. And I’m trying to do something about it.

At Greggs yesterday a woman passed me my 85p sausage roll, asking if I wanted anything else and wishing me a nice rest of the day.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I must say this is the most exquisitely wrapped sausage roll I’ve ever had. You presented it with utter professionalism and a beautiful smile – more than I could possibly have asked for. Here’s a pound, and I want you to keep the change.’

As I left the bakers, trying not to catch the eye of the homeless people blocking my exit, it was ample reward hearing the woman enthusiastically recount our conversation to the girl on doughnuts.

Back at home, concluding a telephone conversation with the MakerMint Water Company, I said to the assistant, Trudy:

‘Frankly, I’ve never known someone handle a direct debit application with such grace and aplomb, offering me all the information I could possibly want, and making the experience so enjoyable. Trudy, you have performed over and above the call of duty. Please give me your BACS details immediately and I shall place £5 in your bank account.’

And on the London train today, when I’d felt compelled to mention the state of the toilet to the train manager, and he’d apologised profusely before single-handedly restoring the cubicle to its pristine condition, I said as he called me to inspect his work:

‘Young man. I know you didn’t make this mess yourself, but you stepped up to the bowl and took full responsibility. Watching you don those Marigolds and plunge wholeheartedly into the matter of the moment has restored my faith in young people and in the entire railway industry. I paid £29 for this journey. Here – take this additional £2.90 to spend as you wish.’

So far, so good. And three new friends already!

Next week: Part 2. Fly Tipping – What To Give Bluebottles.

Copyright © Paul Costello January 2017

http://www.paulcostello.me

In The Best Possible Taste

All around, the audience goes silent as a tender drama unfolds on stage. Shoulders are shaking, tissues handed round. Here are 10 great ways you can liven up those pin-drop moments at the theatre.

  1. Test the call sounds on your phone.
  2. Rustle deep in the plastic bag containing all you need on a theatre visit (see below).
  3. Slowly open a Werther’s Original wrapper (other brands okay), or the tightly sealed top of a packet of digestives.
  4. Crunch, not suck, the Werther’s or digestives.
  5. Develop a tickly cough – frog-at-back-of-throat style.audience-silhouette
  6. Pretend to answer your phone, loudly, with: Sorry, the signal’s bad – I’m in the theatre. Hello … hello …
  7. Very slowly open the top of a well-shaken bottle of Coca Cola. Repeat frequently. For a more instant effect, try a can or two.
  8. Tell the hard-of-hearing people next to you what’s happening up on stage.
  9. Play solitaire with a wooden board and marbles. Drop marbles in a metal tin when spent. If you prefer Scrabble, the tin can be used for shaking the letters.
  10. Deal with any tutting from audience or actors with: Oh, get a life! It’s a free world, isn’t it?

Then, why not review your experience on www.maverickmonsters.com? All reviews will be entered into a random draw, with the winning entry published in the next edition of Trump’s Tasteless Titbits.

 

Copyright © Paul Costello December 2016

www.paulcostello.me

 

 

Cool and Angry

Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote:

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. Travel for travel’s sake. And to write about it afterwards, if only the public will be so condescending as to read.”

I’m no Stevenson, but it’s true that escaping from daily routines into unfamiliar territory does create writing opportunities. I mean, if I were to write repeatedly along the lines of, “Today I vacuumed upstairs, and then cleaned the loo” – well, I know what it would do to my readership figures. If, on the other hand, I told people about a tearaway Tenby pensioner on a souped up mobility scooter, or a man chasing a chihuahua in Chichester – well, people might want to read more.

My earliest recollection of travel, from the 50s and 60s, is family holidays in the West Country. We often stayed in a Tintagel B&B – dear old Mrs Hooper, she made lovely jam tarts. I remember as much about the seven-hour journeys on minor roads, five of us hot and bothered in an Austin A40, as I do about the places we went.

At 17, self-determined escapism took over as I became cool and angry. I no longer wanted to be at school, and grabbed every opportunity not to be. In the space of a year I went from something of a ‘golden boy’ destined for Oxbridge to a pupil who “constantly refused to be roused, led or driven”.

For me, but not many others, this was great. Instead of attending 8.45 register, which I likened to a prisoner of war roll call, I’d be on my way to the Dyke Road Café to enjoy much-deserved thick tea and a Wills Woodbine fag (unfiltered) which the be-slippered Gladys sold singly at a penny a time. My accomplice, Pete Blanch, and I could be cool and angry together, and only repair to school when we felt ready.

The teacher taking the register was Mr Pratt. Today that name would make him a sitting duck, but the word prat as a put-down was not as commonly used then as it is now. Instead, he was known as Nolly, a play on the alcoholic beverage called Noilly Prat. This was intellectual grammar school humour at its finest. Bring back grammar schools, I say, so that more of us can be intellectually humorous. Yes – follow the lead of ex-grammar school Theresa May. She’s a bundle of laughs.

“… cocktails have exotic names like Shag on the Beach …”

Noilly Prat was one of those drinks like Martini and Dubonnet in vogue at the time. Nowadays it’s shots or cocktails. Shots come in tiny glasses I’d happily buy as egg cups in my local kitchen shop. The suspiciously-coloured contents, with names like Raspberry Ripple or Choc Mint, presumably taste like medicine, going by the speed at which young people knock them back and their screwed-up faces afterwards.

Cocktails are much more sophisticated. They come with exotic names like Three Times a Night, A Good Shag and Shag on the Beach. Or at least that’s what I heard young people offering each other when I inadvertently stumbled into a music bar the last time I was in Torremolinos, believing from the giant neon sign THROB and the rhythmic pulse from within that’d I’d finally found the heart clinic I’d been reading about in a magazine on the flight over.

About the same time as the Tintagel trips I’d had my first drinking encounter. One Saturday night when my parents were ensconced in the living room with Grandma and Grandpa watching the Billy Cotton Band Show (“Wakey Wakey!” for the initiated) I conducted an experiment in the dining room next door, taking great swigs from each bottle in the sideboard to see what this drinking thing was all about. After all, they were always at it and seemed very happy in consequence.

I remember becoming very flu-like and unable to stand properly, and braved interrupting Billy Cotton to tell mum I felt poorly. She soon spotted the cause, and like any good mum helped me through a dreadful few hours.

Another favourite escape from the tedium of education was nearby Seven Dials, a busy roundabout with seven exits. To me this exuded life in a way that school didn’t. Where exactly was the Corona Drinks truck going? What number bus would arrive next, where would it stop and what was its destination?

One of the seven roads led to Brighton Railway Station, a place of great bustle and excitement where, with steam hanging on alongside electric trains, I’d once spent many an hour with my Ian Allan book of Southern Locomotives.

A second road led past the wonderful but now-defunct Royal Alexandra Children’s Hospital, where I’d had a kidney operation as a young boy. My consultant, Mr Laust, was a household name for years, such had been my parents’ understandable concern for me at the time.

“Mr Laust – what a wonderful man. We owe him so much.”

This was true, though I suppose that ten years later, as a cool and angry young man, it didn’t cut quite the same ice rolled out time after time in front of visiting uncles and aunts.

Another road led to the intellectual school for girls, Brighton and Hove High School. Swapping my Brighton, Hove and Sussex Grammar School scarf for Pauline Dove’s High School one was to prove one of many factors that in themselves didn’t amount to much but strung together made a watertight case for my expulsion – in the school’s eyes anyway.

“… Blanch never got caught, the little shit …”

Here’s the thing – Blanch never got caught. It was always me. Blanch boxed clever, sometimes registering with Nolly Pratt before joining me for a cuppa, and sometimes getting his amenable mum to phone him in sick before handing him the cash for a bus direct to the café. He wanted to tag along all right, and reap the kudos. And don’t get me wrong, he was okay as an accomplice. But apart from one memorable bike ride he never really initiated anything. And never got caught, the little shit.

Late one evening Blanch pointed at a dirty old motorbike and said:

“Look – it’s a Triumph Bonneville! Let’s ’ave it!”

After glancing round furtively, we hopped on and headed away from his dark and dead Rottingdean estate towards the bright lights. Whenever Blanch accelerated I hurtled backwards on pillion, trying to hang on to something, anything.  A cool and angry young man would never grasp the boy in front, and there was no frame to grab at the rear, so my poor legs were left to do all the gripping. We roared along the seafront road, and before reaching Brighton, reckoning that word of the bike’s disappearance might soon get round, parked it neatly kerbside in Marine Drive before sauntering into the town centre for a late coffee. That was the only time I’ve ridden pillion; somehow it held no further appeal.

The summer after I was given permanent school leave, Blanch and I hitch-hiked to Malmö in Sweden. Hitching was popular in those days, and relatively safe. I thumbed lifts for almost a decade, and apart from a cleric in West Germany whose conversation turned quickly to small boys, and a dapper old man in a Jag near Reigate who wasn’t entirely sure where to find the gear lever, I was never troubled. You’d see queues of young people at every roundabout and slip-road, and though there’d be long periods of waiting you’d eventually get to your destination. It might not be the place you first planned – but that’s the unpredictability of travelling!

“… philately wasn’t cool and angry … losing virginity was…”

Ostensibly Blanch and I were in pursuit of two Swedish birds we’d befriended at the Starlight Rooms, a pleasantly gloomy basement club in a charmingly grubby Brighton back street. Still looking to lose my virginity, the only thing I actually lost was my stamp collection, which I’d taken Ingrid’s dad as a present after she told me he was a keen collector. I suppose I thought if I took him the stamps then I could take Ingrid. A small price, since philately was not for the cool and angry, whereas losing virginity was. It was of course a matter of days before Ingrid and I lost touch, leaving me feeling a little foolish.

When Blanch and I started arguing I hitched home separately, never to see him again. Some time afterwards I heard he’d got heavily into drugs. Serves him right, the little shit. I suppose I should be grateful he helped point me to the school exit, but it would’ve been nice if just once it had been him, not me, being hauled into the headmaster’s office.

After three terms of misdemeanour, on a day when I’d not only been spotted hanging around the Seven Dials again but was wearing an alien scarf, I received my ultimate summons. On this occasion, instead of heading for the cane rack Mr Brogden simply said:

“Costello, I don’t want you here any more. Goodbye.”

Understandably, my parents weren’t impressed, although they’d no doubt been kept informed of my wrongdoings and had witnessed their own share of ‘cool and angry’ at home.

“Look at it this way,” I said. “I can now go to the Dyke Road Café or the Seven Dials all day, and no-one will mind.”

Which for some considerable time I’m sure I did.

 

Copyright © Paul Costello October 2016

www.paulcostello.me

 

Passing People By

I’m never sure what to say when asked for ‘a few pence’ by people on the street. Usually I say no, sometimes I give something, and only occasionally do I offer money without being asked. My emotions swing between guilt and self-satisfaction depending on how I’ve responded. But the underlying feelings are irritation for being put in that position and confusion about how to handle it.

I think to myself: Should I respond to people sitting in doorways differently from those who walk up to me? Does it matter whether people offer a reason, however unoriginal, like they have to pay for a fare home? If I knew their circumstances, should I distinguish between those who left home by choice and those forced by circumstances? Or between the mentally ill and the not, and whether mental illness led to their homelessness or is because of it? Should I take account of how they ask or what they look like or their personal hygiene? And does self-help carry any weight – are Big Issue sellers more worthy because they have to pay for a supply of magazines to sell onwards?

Some passers-by offer street people food and drink instead of cash, perhaps not trusting how they’d spend it. If I did this, should I ask what they’d like and take them with me to the shop? Given that they might be alcoholic, should I buy them the bottle of wine they crave? And who am I anyway to specify how another human should spend their money, given that my donation is their income?

Then there’s the question of what to say when I give money. Given that humanity might be all we have in common, a courteous ‘hello’ seems enough, and let the money speak for itself. But I wonder if I should offer more, get into a conversation, recognise rather than ignore someone. And if so, should I offer the same cash and conversation to others along the road or, having given to one, is it now okay to ignore the rest?

And how to say no when asked for money. ‘Sorry mate’ sounds over-friendly and a little patronising; a brisk ‘good morning’ is blatantly ignoring their request; and pretending I haven’t seen them feels cold. Should I be upset if they say something rude or sarcastic, and am I entitled to be rude back? Their blitzing of passers-by carries little personal feeling, so why should I feel bad? Can’t I be as mechanical to them as they are to me? Or if it’s usually the same person, can’t I say: ‘We discussed this yesterday, if you remember?’

But talking would in any case be awkward, I think to myself, and they might resent me for being better off or they might be drunk or violent and threaten me, particularly if they thought I was being patronising and they have a dog. In any case, do I really want to build a relationship? No – so saying nothing is perhaps the safest bet. In reality, anything I do say is trying to make me feel better, not them.

For sure, homelessness and begging is a worldwide issue, perhaps even more prevalent in other cultures. It’s been that way throughout history – except during an event like the Olympics when entire city centres are miraculously cleared of ‘undesirables’ to give visitors a good impression. Isn’t it part of nature’s pecking order? Can’t I simply accept that street people have their world and I mine, and that individually trying to change things would make no difference?

Anyway, in the absence of government interest, aren’t there charities that support homeless people? Isn’t their focussed approach better than anything I can offer? Aren’t they responsible? Oh, and if I contributed to such bodies I could deflect street approaches by saying: ‘It’s okay mate, I’ve already got a direct debit with Shelter – good eh?’

Yes – I think I see clearly now. Street people are not my problem, so I can ignore them with a clear conscience.

Except, I wonder what drove me to such self-examination …

 

Copyright © Paul Costello August 2016

http://www.paulcostello.me

 

Daresay

two_old_ladies-at_bus_stop_western_rd_brighton_uk_p_maton_14-06-15

Chilly this morning, they give rain later

They’m usually wrong, don’t know why they bother

No point sayin’ something that turns out another

Overpaid’s what they are them weather forecasters

They should be ashamed, payin’ all that money

To them as should know if it’s rainin’ or sunny

While we all get wet, it’s usually pourin’

Then get on the bus sittin’ an’ drippin’

Still – ha ha – they’m trying their hardest, daresay

’Ee’m late today, held up in traffic

I expect, that’s the trouble, them roads full of potholes

The Council won’t fix ’em, no money they say

Austerity they say, not like in my day

It’s them politicians, that one like a weasel

Wears builders’ helmets to get in the papers

Tighten our belts he says, bloomin’ cheek

I’ll tighten ’is belt and then watch ’im squeak

Disgraceful it is in this day and age

Still – ha ha – they know what they’m doing, daresay

My appointment’s ten thirty, ’ee’d better come soon

You know what they’m like in them hospital rooms

Waitin’ an age to get in in the first place

Then sittin’ five hours with all them strange faces

Not knowin’ who’s next, doors openin’ and closin’

Trolleys and scurryin’, no sense to it all

Until your name’s called

More and more people and most of ’em foreigners

Not enough money for nurses and doctors

It was never like this before

Still – ha ha – least we’ve got a Health Service, daresay

The doctor’s surgery, that’s another thing

Whenever I ring it rings and rings

And then when it answers I’m told to ring back

In the morning, didn’t used to be like that

I could see my doctor whenever I wanted

It’s all them foreigners that’s what it is

There’s too many now, they come over here

Take up all the places, and schools it’s the same

They should stay where they come from

That’s what I think

Still – ha ha – most of ’em’s decent, daresay

Where’m ’ee got to, ’ee’m never this late

Bet it’s a crash, someone goin’ too fast

Them young lads is worst, my neighbour ’ee says

They’m doin’ a hundred along the bypass

They’m too young to drive, they don’t care you know

They’m just showin’ off to the girls in the back

It’s all very well but think what they do

To their families and friends when the the car hits a tree

They should stop ’em before they get killed or maimed

I dunna remember it being the same

When we were first startin’

Still – ha ha – that terry-ostrone, daresay

I sees in the paper they’m gettin’ a new Aldi

Comin’ next summer, cheap they are too

We’ll be better off, mind you foreign stuff

You just don’t know where things come from do you

Africa ’n that, don’t matter really

Long as it’s fresh and don’t cost too much

We need a new one, there isn’t enough

What with them foreigners

And all them new houses they’m buildin’

I dunna know where it’s all leadin’

Still – ha ha – we’ll always get by, daresay

Ah ’ere’s the bus now, not before time

Was startin’ to worry and I’m runnin’ out

Of things we all like talkin’ about

Someone point out that we was ’ere

Before them people over there

Don’t let them on first, it isn’t fair

Foreigners an’ all, they’m pushin’ in,

They dunna use the bus like us

We’m here every day, if they makes a fuss

Someone should tell ’em it’s our bus

And they can wait their turn

Still – ha ha – they’m polite enough, daresay

Copyright © Paul Costello June 2016

 www.paulcostello.me