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Sunbury on Thames 1960s

Sunbury on Thames 1960s

Sunbury, Sweet Sunbury (1960s Dream)
by the banks of the Thames, where the willows lean low…

In Sunbury town, where the river would gleam,
And boys kicked balls on the village green,
The milk came clinking at quarter to eight,
And neighbours would nod through each white garden gate.

The sixties had come with its twist and its shout,
But in Sunbury, life just pottered about—
With the butcher, the baker, the shop on the bend,
And children who vanished till teatime’s end.

We rode our bikes with streamers and pride,
Past hedges and hedgerows, arms open wide,
The gasworks still rumbled, the pylons stood tall,
And the ice cream man chimed down the lane by the wall.

The corner shop smelled of mint and of dust,
Of licorice strings and halfpenny trust.
The Thames flowed lazy, in no frantic race,
Just meandering softly past place after place.

Sunday meant roast, and a flickering telly—
With Dixon or Steptoe or old Albert Kelly.
We dreamed of space rockets, of mods in the city,
Yet Sunbury stayed still, and stubbornly pretty.

Schooldays were chalkboards and ink on the shirt,
Of beetles in jars and knees caked in dirt.
Teachers with slippers, and slipperier rules,
And mums in their curlers outside of the schools.

The smell of the river, the hum of the train,
The fog on the towpath, the patter of rain.
A town in a pocket of time now long passed,
Yet the memory of Sunbury seems always to last.

So here’s to the town where the boathouses doze,
Where willow trees whisper old secrets they know.
Though decades may pass and the world rearrange,
Dear Sunbury’s soul—may it never quite change.

sunbury on thames 1960s
 
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Posted by on July 28, 2025 in sunbury on thames

 

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Owerri 1977-1978

Owerri 1977-1978

The Lines We Laid in Owerri
by Gerrard Wilson

I worked in Owerri, back in the day,
Where red dust danced in the heat of the clay,
And the palms would sway in a lazy trance,
While we gave the wires their chance to dance.

With spanners and schematics in greasy hands,
We dreamt of dial tones crossing lands.
Through humming cabinets, cables tight,
We built a world from voice and light.

The market buzzed with morning cheer,
Plantains sizzled, and goats drew near.
Children waved as we passed each street,
And shouted “Oyibo!” with stomping feet.

The exchange room echoed like a cave,
A hum, a beep, a tone so brave.
We tuned and tested, firm yet kind,
Chasing ghosts down copper line.

At night we drank by lantern light,
Tales of home and signal might.
Mosquitoes hummed a backing beat,
As frogs declared the rain’s repeat.

We patched the world with loops and wire,
Laced every call with quiet fire.
No fame, no fanfare, yet still we knew,
That something grand was breaking through.

Owerri’s air, so warm, so wide—
Still hums inside me, deep with pride.
A voice, once silent, spoke so clear—
Because we passed the signal near.

 

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The Ballykillduff Banger

The Ballykillduff Banger

The Ballykillduff Banger (A Mad Poem)

In Ballykillduff where the hedgehogs roam,
Lived Jimmy McGroggan in a bathtub home.
With a mind like a blender on setting “explode,”
He built a wild car that defied every code.

He cobbled it up from a lawnmower’s spleen,
A toaster, a tricycle, parts of a bean.
The wheels were all different—one square, one round,
One came from a pram that he found on the ground.

The steering was made from a bent frying pan,
The horn was just Jimmy yelling, “OUTTA ME VAN!”
It ran on potatoes, or tea bags, or jam,
And made noises like sneezing a whole Christmas ham.

It backfired at priests and startled the sheep,
It clattered and clanged like a robot with sleep.
It once outran lightning, then stalled at a bog,
And reversed on its own into Mrs. McGog.

The windscreen was glass from an oven that died,
The passenger seat was a toilet with pride.
He raced through the village, past bins and the nuns,
Screaming, “I’VE INVENTED THE FUTURE—WITH BUNS!”

The guards tried to stop him with road spikes and nets,
But he flew through the air yelling, “NO REGRETS!”
He landed in cabbage, still puffing with glee,
Shouting, “SHE FLIES LIKE A TRACTOR IN ECSTASY!”

Now tourists all visit to worship the wreck,
Which smokes once a week and pecks like a peck.
It’s parked by the pub, with a plaque in fine brass:
This banger was faster than gas, horse, or lass!

So raise up your spanners and sing, if you dare,
Of Jimmy McGroggan and his wheeled nightmare.
For though it made chaos, and startled ten cows—
It’s the pride of Ballykillduff even now.

 
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Posted by on July 23, 2025 in ballykillduff, banger, car

 

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A collection of cosmic horror

 
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Posted by on July 23, 2025 in cosmic horror, Horror

 

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A dark and terrifying tale of alien horror

A dark and terrifying tale of alien horror

The Ballykillduff Incident


Ballykillduff was a quiet place. Nothing much ever happened there, unless you counted old Mrs. Dunne’s cow getting stuck in the bog every other Tuesday, or the time young Declan swore blind he saw a banshee combing her hair by the churchyard wall (it turned out to be his granny in a nightie, sleepwalking).

But that changed one moonless night, when the stars vanished.

Not behind clouds—no, they simply blinked out, one by one, like someone was snuffing candles in the sky.

Then came the humming. Low, deep, and wrong. It rattled windowpanes, stirred glasses off shelves, and made the dogs howl until their throats gave out. At precisely 2:06 AM, the power failed. Phones died. Radios hissed static. The whole village went dark—except for the bog.

A light rose from it. Not a flickering will-o’-the-wisp or the distant glow of a torch—this was blue-white, searing, pulsing like a heartbeat. People peered from windows, too scared to speak, as something… vast… emerged.

It wasn’t a ship like you’d see in films. No saucers or flashing lights. It looked like a cathedral made of bones and glass, covered in thorns that dripped black ichor. It hovered a few feet above the bog, and beneath it, the earth boiled.

Then they came.

Tall as lamp posts. Skin like rotting velvet. Faces like melted candles with too many eyes. They didn’t walk so much as glide, legs twitching like dying spiders. And worst of all, they smiled—wide, toothless grins that split their heads open like a zipper.

Father Malloy was the first to go. He stumbled out of the rectory, clutching his rosary and shouting prayers in Latin. One of the creatures tilted its head and whispered something that made his body turn inside out without spilling a drop of blood.

The creatures moved street to street, house to house, marking doors with something thick and red that steamed. Those marked were never seen again. Sometimes you’d hear a scream, cut off mid-breath. Sometimes just a long, wet chewing sound.

By morning, the light was gone. The ship too. And so were forty-seven people.

The rest of the village was untouched. Untouched, but changed. The survivors don’t speak of that night. They’ve boarded up their windows with iron crosses. They won’t leave their homes after dark. And no one goes near the bog anymore.

But if you’re foolish enough to visit Ballykillduff on a moonless night, you might hear the humming.

And if you hear the humming, it’s already too late.

 

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Aliens Landed…

Aliens Landed…

**The Night the Aliens Landed in Ballykillduff**

It was a dark and stormy night—well, in Ballykillduff it’s always a bit dark and damp, but that’s beside the point. On this fateful evening, just when you thought the small town couldn’t get any quirkier, aliens decided it was their time to shine… or, more accurately, their time to land and hide. Yes, you heard that right! Aliens landed, and I really don’t kid!

Now, Ballykillduff isn’t exactly known for being a hub of extraterrestrial activity. In fact, most folks there had never seen anything more exciting than Mrs. O’Leary’s cat stuck in a tree. But on this particular night, the usual sounds of distant sheep bleating and the odd rustle of leaves were interrupted by a strange humming sound—like a swarm of bees that had taken up jazz music. Little did the residents know that behind those hedges, cloaked in darkness, intergalactic visitors were trying to figure out where the heck they ended up.

The aliens themselves were quite the sight to behold. Picture this: they were about three feet tall, with heads so big they could audition for a role in a poorly made horror film. Their skin glowed a faint green, not because they were sickly, but because someone must have overdone it with the glow-in-the-dark paint during their travels. They wore silver suits that looked suspiciously like something you’d find at a discount Halloween store, complete with oversized ray guns that looked like they were made from tinfoil and old soda cans.

Now, while the aliens may have expected to land somewhere more glamorous—like New York City or perhaps descending onto a gathering of scientists—they found themselves in the middle of Ballykillduff’s main square, right next to the statue of famed local hero, Old Man McGregor, who famously discovered the town’s “mystical potato”—those are its claims to fame, folks!

After checking their intergalactic map, one of the aliens, who called himself Blorp, said in his best (and rather wobbly) English, “I think we’ve made a wrong turn at Jupiter.” Meanwhile, his partner, Zog, was busy taking selfies with Old Man McGregor’s statue, insisting that this ‘potato’ was perhaps the revered leader they’d come to find.

As the night wore on, the aliens decided that hiding might be the best course of action until they could figure things out. So, what did they do? They hopped into the nearest bushes, and if you think that was a good idea, you clearly haven’t seen a Baltic Hedge in person. It’s a wonder they didn’t end up attracting local wildlife—or worse, Mrs. O’Leary’s cat again.

The next day, news spread across Ballykillduff like wildfire being fanned by the wind. “Aliens landed!” shouted Bert, the town crier, waving his bell around with the enthusiasm of a child who just scored a goal in football. The townsfolk gathered at the pub, clinking their pints and debating how to best welcome these cosmic travelers. Some suggested a 5K run to greet them, while Mrs. MacGinty recommended a potluck dinner. Because nothing says “welcome to Earth” like colcannon and bread pudding.

Meanwhile, back in the bushes, Blorp and Zog were oblivious to the brewing excitement. They had decided to put on their best camouflaging skills and hoped to remain incognito, despite glowing like neon signs in a blackout. They spent their time arguing over whether it was appropriate to use their ray guns to zap the pesky flies that kept buzzing around them. Spoiler alert: they absolutely shouldn’t have.

After a few hours of endless bickering, an adventurous group of kids from Ballykillduff decided to venture into the nearby garden, eyes wide with the thrill of discovery. The little ones stumbled upon the aliens, fully convinced they were either new pets or exceptionally hideous fairies. “Can we keep them?” asked a particularly bold lad named Tommy, whose idea of fun involved poking anything that moved with a stick.

The aliens, seeing no escape, finally decided to reveal themselves. Talk about a dramatic reveal! They leapt out of the bushes, hands raised (not in surrender, mind you, but more like they were performing a poorly choreographed dance). “Greetings, Earthlings!” yelled Blorp, only for Zog to remind him, “No yelling! We don’t want to scare them!”

The kids squealed with delight, thinking it was all part of some brilliant prank. “You’re not real!” said Sarah, the skeptical one in the group. “You look like something from a bad sci-fi movie!”

And they did. With their tacky outfits and awkward stances, one might say the aliens were more comedy than cosmos. Before long, other curious townsfolk began to gather, drawn by the loud laughter and the bizarre sight of dancing aliens and bewildered children.

As the adults arrived, Blorp quickly introduced himself and Zog, attempting to explain their presence. Hours later, after much confusion, misunderstanding, and a lot of snorts from the crowd, the aliens were invited to join the potluck dinner. Everyone figured, “Why not? They can’t be worse company than Aunt Maureen with her mystery meat casserole!”

As the stars twinkled above Ballykillduff, the event turned into an unexpected block party. The aliens shared tales of distant planets while the townsfolk entertained them with versions of local folklore. Zog even tried a pint of Guinness, promptly gasping and exclaiming, “What kind of potion is this, and where can I get more?”

By morning, the aliens became honorary citizens of Ballykillduff. They were given a warm send-off with handmade “Wish You Were Here” postcards crafted by the kids, featuring sketches of them flying away in their tinfoil saucer.

And just like that, with a rattle and a hum, Blorp and Zog took off into the stars, leaving behind a tale that would forever be etched in the history of Ballykillduff. The townsfolk still chuckle about that wild night—their very own close encounter of the unusual kind. Because really, who could have guessed aliens would choose Ballykillduff for a visit?

So, remember, next time you hear a strange noise outside your window or see a glowing figure in the dark, it might not be just your imagination playing tricks. Just maybe, the aliens have landed again… and they’re probably hiding in the hedges!

 

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Aliens Landed in Ballykillduff

Aliens Landed in Ballykillduff

Aliens Landed in Ballykillduff
By Gerrard Wilson (with a touch of cosmic mischief)

They landed one night in a field of rough stuff,
By the boggy back lanes of Ballykillduff.
Their saucer was spinning, all silver and green,
And lit up the cow shed like no one had seen!

Auld Paddy O’Toole, with his flask full of tea,
Was out walking Biddy (his prize-winning ewe, you see).
He stared at the lights, then exclaimed with a cough,
“By Jaysus and Mary—would ye turn that thing off?!”

The hatch hissed open, a ramp clanked down slow,
Out shuffled a creature all covered in glow.
It had three long fingers and seventeen eyes—
But wore wellies and said, “What a glorious sunrise!”

They tried to milk tractors, they fed stones to sheep,
And one kissed a donkey then fell fast asleep.
The postman near fainted when one tried to sing—
“Your radio’s broken!” it said, doing a fling.

They asked for our leader. We offered them Breda,
Who runs the wee shop and makes a fine feeder.
She gave them some Taytos, a carton of milk,
And a scarf she had knitted from Martian-spun silk.

The aliens danced at the Bally Hall ceilidh,
They jived and they jigged and they floated quite gaily.
Then they packed up their bits in a shimmering puff—
And vanished once more from Ballykillduff.

Now no one believes us (as is often the case),
Though we’ve three melted sheep and a crop circle face.
But Paddy swears true, as he finishes his snuff:
“The best craic I’ve seen—was in Ballykillduff.”

 

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The Architects; A Dark Poem About the WEF

The Architects;  A Dark Poem About the WEF

The Architects
A Dark Poem About the WEF

They gather in shadows where mountains breathe frost,
In rooms full of mirrors where truth can get lost.
They speak without blinking, with ice in their veins,
Of futures rebuilt from our rubble and chains.

They wear smiles of silicon, eyes like machines,
Mapping our thoughts on invisible screens.
With whispers of “progress” and “equity” bright—
They tighten the grip with a smile and a light.

A voice from the stage says, “This is the way—
You’ll rent out your soul and be happy one day.”
The screens flash with slogans, sleek, sanitized lies,
While out in the streets, the real freedom dies.

They sold us a virus, then sold us the cure,
Then patented silence to help us endure.
They printed the money, erased all the debt—
But we pay in breath, in time, in regret.

A climate of crisis, perpetual war,
So they can unlock one more digital door.
Behind it: a ledger, a carbon-bound score,
That tells them how much you should eat, own, adore.

And the children are watching on VR-fed screens,
Learning to kneel to algorithmic dreams.
The past has been scrubbed, the present’s a lie,
And tomorrow is coded by suits in the sky.

So sleep if you must, and believe what they say—
But the Architects plan as we wither away.
The world is a board, and we are the pawns—
The Great Game continues long after we’re gone.

The WEF

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2025 in wef

 

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The Great Confusion (A Pandemic Poem)

The Great Confusion (A Pandemic Poem)

The Great Confusion (A Pandemic Poem)
**************************************************

They said, “Stay home, save lives,” we obeyed the call,
While queues stretched long by the pharmacy wall.
Toilet rolls vanished in blink of an eye,
And elbows replaced handshakes—oh my!

They masked us up, they shut down the schools,
They moved the goalposts, they made up new rules.
“Just two more weeks,” they promised with flair—
But months turned to years, with fear in the air.

Some cried, “A scam!” while others just cried,
Some lost their jobs, and some simply died.
Zoom calls replaced all our day-to-day chats,
And dogs were bewildered by all the new pats.

The news came daily, grim graphs on display,
While pundits and experts would chatter away.
Was it all planned? Or chaos and fright?
Was truth just a ghost that fled out of sight?

Needles were offered with gifts and with threats,
With stickers, and doughnuts, and deep, deep regrets.
Some shouted “freedom!” with signs held up high,
While others just stayed in, and wondered why.

Now looking back, with hindsight so clear,
We laugh and we sigh—and shed a small tear.
Was it a scam? Was it just fate?
The world went mad in twenty-twenty-eight.

No answers are simple, no black and no white,
Just foggy grey days and long sleepless nights.
But one thing is certain, one thing is true:
We all lived through it… me, them, and you.

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2025 in confusion, pandemic, scam

 

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Peg and the Missing Sock

Peg and the Missing Sock

Peg and the Missing Sock

On the edge of a sleepy village nestled between rolling green hills, there lived a clever border collie named Peg. With a black and white coat as neat as a checkerboard and eyes that sparkled with mischief, Peg wasn’t just any dog—she was the queen of the household, the boss of the back garden, and the undisputed ruler of laundry day.

Every morning, Peg would sit faithfully by the back door, watching the world wake up. She knew the routine by heart: kettle on, toast in, socks missing. Without fail, every day began with a sock gone rogue.

One breezy Wednesday, the mystery deepened. “I put them both in the basket,” Dad muttered, holding up a lonely blue sock. “I’m sure I did.”

Peg tilted her head. Did you, though?

With a happy bark, Peg sprang into action. She darted past the washing machine, through the flap in the door, and into the garden like a furry bullet. Tail high, nose twitching, she sniffed the air. Something smelt of cotton and adventure.

Under the rose bush—nothing. Behind the shed—just an old tennis ball. Then, finally, near the compost bin, Peg stopped. She pawed gently at the ground… and there it was. The blue sock, slightly muddy but otherwise unharmed.

Triumphantly, Peg trotted back into the kitchen and dropped the sock at Dad’s feet. He stared. “Peg, you little genius!” he laughed, rubbing her ears.

Peg gave a smug little wag. Of course she found it. She always found it. She was Peg the Sock Seeker, the Great Sniffer, the garden’s noble protector.

And the next day, when the left sock mysteriously disappeared again, Peg just gave them all a look that said: Don’t worry. I’ve got this.


 
 

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