Frinton-On-Sea

We’re at war

Me and next door

Bungalows at dawn

250 yards from Frinton’s sea shore.

He lines up his Gnomes, grievously

Facing me lawn

The Bastard’s got an ‘itler moustache

And what makes it worse

His missus and mine get on!

 

Last night

I heard the waves shushing up the shingle

Coming closer

I wouldn’t say they were coming for me

 

But Beryl said she’d heard me cry

Over next morning’s Bacon Butty.

 

Beryl and Mrs. D

Over glasses of sickly sweet Sherry

Discussing

Me and Terry’s `problem`.

It’s not a problem as far as I can see

And I can

Sea for miles.

He’s the problem

Jealous, `orribly

Me car, me clubs, me Missus

And I’m better looking, generally

And I’m 65

And he’s 63!

 

Last night

I heard the Fog Horn

Groaning over the distance between us all

And I felt forever calling me back

Looking out over such darkness

From the comfort of me slippers.

Beryl says it was the Cheese on Toast

That’s what hurts the most.

 

This morning

Cold, wet

Dreary sea-mist hanging over the pebbles

He called me over:

“Oy!”

I ignored the mean-eyed git

It didn’t shake him:

“Oy, Hovis!” (I’m Brown, he’s so bleeding obvious)

Finally I throw him a “What d’yer want?”

“Fancy a pint at lunchtime?”

I panic, what’s on his mind?

“It’s her indoors”, he tries to play it down.

I chuck him a knowing frown:

And throw him another line back over my shoulder:

“I s’pose it wouldn’t do any `arm,

We’re both too old

For this malarkey”

I can feel his grin as I go inside

And I’m pleased

God knows why.

 

That night

The waves whispered my name

“Jack”.

And I thought of my mum

She said it like that

And I knew it wouldn’t be long

Before I was just another

Sad sea song.