To Titillate The Tourists

Photo: WHB . . . On a Devonshire Seafront – 2015

TO TITILLATE THE TOURISTS

To be beside the sea
That is our nation’s fashion;
It’s obviously the place
For promulgating passion.

But how do seaside shoppers
Decide just what to buy?
Are they tempted by advertisements?
I often wonder why.

Well, once upon a summer,
On a hot and sunny day,
On holiday in Devon,
On a stroll around the bay.

I came across this advert
Along the promenade;
I must admit initially
I thought I’d have it barred.

A touch of seaside whimsy
That’s OK and I’m all for it,
But such immodest come-ons,
Who’d have ever thought it!

‘KNICKERS FOR A NICKER;
POUCHES FOR A POUND’,
To titillate the tourists,
Well, such ads are all around.

But on a seafront shop
I didn’t think it right;
I even thought that something
Was wrong with my eyesight.

I don’t know why it was
I was so overcome,
With thoughts of indignation
I really was struck dumb.

It was just a bit of fun,
Why was I so upset?
But when little George cried ‘Look Dad’
I broke out in a sweat.

“That’s what you and mum wore
When I spied you yesterday.
Can Sue and me have one each,
Like you?”, I heard him say.

NOTE:

‘Nicker’ is Cockney Slang for One Pound.  The OED says it’s origin is unknown, but suggests it could be originally horse racing slang.  The term … has …  London associations … and dates from the early 20th Century (it explains that terrible old joke: ‘Why can’t a one-legged woman change a pound note? Because she’s only got half a (k)nicker!’ and which nobody seems to know the origin of).

ART by the SEA

I include below images of just a few of my pen and watercolour sketches of a variety of waterfront scenes in different parts of Europe to which I have travelled.  Click on any one to view a slide show of all the images and locations in larger format . . .

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Life In A Refuse Bin

Photo: WHB

A refuse bin … A refuse bin
All life is in a refuse bin.

* * *

Amidst the rubbish and the tat
There lies a hat, a mat, a rat;
Daily Mail-wrapped fish and chips
Taco, shrimp and truffle dips;
Damaged shoes and flip-flops too;
Pair of pants that once were blue.

Ice cream cones and such detritus;
Discarded puffer for bronchitis.
Shells and seaweed in there, also
A print of ‘Blue Nude’ by Picasso.
Doll’s head, torso, and an arm;
No legs in sight – sound the alarm!
Apple peelings, apple cores,
Offcuts from old vinyl floors.
Broken pencil, bunch of keys,
Half a sandwich filled with cheese.
Old bus tickets, betting slips,
Laddered tights and broken zips.
Cigarette butts by the score.
Junk and scrap for ever more.
Empty tins that once held coke.
It really is beyond a joke.
Lubricant, petroleum jelly,
Whole salami from the deli.
Junkie’s needles, discarded syringe,
Vestige of an all-night binge.

These remnants of a night of sin
. . . All denizens of a refuse bin.

Clothes and food for any family
Enough to live on very happily.
Soon all of this will ‘go to waste’
Unfit for someone else’s taste.
And waste disposal at the beach
Really does cry out for bleach.

# # #

But wait a moment, I can see
A scene as if it’s on TV.
A family playing in the sand
Oblivious in their own dreamland.
Quite unaware that they’re within
And central to a refuse bin.

This ‘bit of fun’ with simple rhyming couplets, was prompted by my photograph (top), taken on the promenade at Sandsend, a small holiday resort, near Whitby, on the North Sea coast of Yorkshire.

Prufrock On Lockdown

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Today drags its pale length
as does the serpent
slow, stately, watchful
a day like any other
the day that follows yesterday
always preceding tomorrow
like a tedious argument

Unplanned
both shy of work
and play bereft
hot-desking
and agile-working
not working for me
my day now
structured by eating
measured by meals
by  medication
by those forever coffee spoons

Nothing planned
so nothing to regret
meaningless moments
with nothing arranged
only possibilities are exciting
the five o’clock briefing
another dose of dead antiques
another bargain hunted down
one more home under the hammer
another escape to the country
to the chateau or the sun
but from my armchair
escape is no longer an option
glimpsed desires unfulfilled
and not a matter of money

The seaside too
still  eludes me
retaining its magnetism
but with the pull of the tide
unable to reach me
The Lakes a mirage in my memory
a Prelude taught to feel,
perhaps too much,
the self-sufficing power of solitude
but this solitude no longer blissful

It now descends
the yellow fog
obscuring the future
taking with it the meaning of my days
rubbing its back against the window panes
of this my settled cell
licking it’s tongue
into the corners
of my every uneventful evening.
my every desultory day

So please release me
let me go
I’m being driven potty
Let me
disturb the universe
please do beam me up Scotty

Not quite yet insane
please let me live again

 

NOTE:  Readers may recognise certain phrases repeated
 from the poetic works of Wordsworth and T.S.Eliot, plus an echo from ‘Star Trek’.

 

The PIER

Eastbourne Pier, Sussex, England: Photo – WHB, October, 2017  ©

 

As bravely my finger points to the sea
my peninsular pretences extend
for a while
my efforts at ocean reclamation
enabling land and sea to merge
countryside and shore
to meet and mingle
in mutual admiration

Taking my insatiable
search for pleasure
beyond its brief

Public pleasuring
made manifest
another pleasure garden
to add to nature’s own
another wonderworld
to vie with nature’s gifts

My destiny
Buffeted by wind and wave
invaded by rust and rot
attacked by frost
at risk from fire

I exist
On time borrowed
from the eye of the storm
grateful
whilst it continues
for the ocean’s grace

and so
I continue to proffer my splendours
To the denizens of my retreats
sea anglers and photo booths
Shops and tearooms
wurlitzers and waltzers
penny arcades
mirror halls
ghost trains and dodgems
all beneficiaries
of my daring
my bravery in simply existing

Hastings Pier, Sussex

Clevedon Pier, Somerset

Southend Pier, Essex – ‘the longest pleasure pier in the world’

 

Sidmouth, Devon #3

To round off my visits to Sidmouth on the Jurassic Coast of South Devon,  I add just a few more of my photographs taken there last month . . .

 

Railway poster from the early 20th Century

The annual Folk Festival takes place in the early part of August. Ad hoc groups of musicians can be found throughout the town and seafront – just enjoying themselves

. . . and throughout the rest of the year too.

‘The Sidmouth Fiddler’ – reminder of the Folk Festival in Connaught Gardens

Splendid croquet courts along the sea front – often used for National and International competitions.

‘When Evening Shadows Fall’ … an elongated cameraman!

… To the top of Jacob’s Ladder

Views from the top of Jacob’s Ladder

The River Sid runs through the centre of the town

 

To Titillate The Tourists

To be beside the sea
That is our nation’s fashion;
It’s obviously the place
For promulgating passion.

But how do seaside shoppers
Decide just what to buy?
Are they tempted by advertisements?
I often wonder why.

Well, once upon a summer,
On a hot and sunny day,
On holiday in Devon,
On a stroll around the bay.

I came across this advert
Along the promenade;
I must admit initially
I thought I’d have it barred.

A touch of seaside whimsy
That’s OK and I’m all for it,
But such immodest come-ons,
Who’d have ever thought it!

‘KNICKERS FOR A NICKER;
POUCHES FOR A POUND’,
To titillate the tourists,
Well, such ads are all around.

But on a seafront shop
I didn’t think it right;
I even thought that something
Was wrong with my eyesight.

I don’t know why it was
I was so overcome,
With thoughts of indignation
I really was struck dumb.

It was just a bit of fun,
Why was I so upset?
But when little George cried ‘Look Dad’
I broke out in a sweat.

“That’s what you and mum wore
When I spied you yesterday.
Can Sue and me have one each,
Like you?”, I heard him say.

NOTE:

‘Nicker’ is Cockney Slang for One Pound.  The OED says it’s origin is unknown, but suggests it could be originally horse racing slang.  The term … has …  London associations … and dates from the early 20th Century (it explains that terrible old joke: ‘Why can’t a one-legged woman change a pound note? Because she’s only got half a (k)nicker!’ and which nobody seems to know the origin of).

On The Waterfront

Six of my Pen & Wash paintings – all of European coastal towns . . . 

Hydra, Greece, one of the Saronic Islands in the Aegean Sea  …   WHB

Blackpool, Lancashire, England  …   WHB.

Le Touquet, Normandy Coast, France  …  WHB

Oporto on the River Douro, Portugal  …  WHB.

Cobh and St.Colman’s Cathedral, nr. Cork, Eire  …  WHB

Yachting in the Aegean Sea, Eastern Mediterranean  …  WHB