Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

            The royal family were quick to accept the role of 'prize' on The UK's Finest Fillets TV show.             When the family sat down to sample the cod of Ezra Williamson, the Duke of Edinburgh made a passing comment. Unusually everyone was inclined to agree with it: if only they could organise a meal like this every year.             A proper meal, of course, requires a dessert. The Rule Britannia Cake Bake had been going strong for a little under a decade and the Duke of York had admitted to fancying a lemon drizzle cake made by an ambitious minority.             An agreement was reached with the producers and the Duchess of Cambridge was volunteered to sample the winner of that year: an overly-rich upside-down cake. She had to prove her worth somehow.             When it was agreed that a prolonged deal would be worthwhile, more family members became involved. However there was one dish missing: the starter.             A new niche was disco

I am about to tell you a story. It is the kind of story which, if I entered for a competition, I feel that people would think that this would never happen in real life, because it sounds so far-fetched. They would likely feel that this story is too unrealistic. The irony is, that they would be wrong, because every word of this story is true…          It was one of those blisteringly hot, long days of summer. The days that melted tarmac in the road to the consistency of cookie dough. The air was thick with humidity. Humidity, that seeped into your bones and weighed you down. These were the facts of my childhood summers. Hosepipe bans, dried out, scratchy, sickly yellow-coloured grass that looked as if it had never once been lush and green. Clay baked earth that dried rock-hard and became covered in fissures like mini earthquakes. On days like these, there was nothing to be done but to try to cool off, any way you could. No one had air conditioning in their houses then. Almost all hou

From crack and snip, On blue-white sheets, To ash above or dust beneath, There is a force which can’t be broken, By distance or harsh words once spoken. Mother’s touch, The loving touch, The one you crave and need so much, Whose cradling arms stopped wailing cries, When life was merely suckling milk. Whose tender hands caressed your brow, In childhood fever and disease, Those arms which lifted you when down, With ointments and her gentle touch, She kissed away your screaming tears. When you were young your sunny days, Were filled with her sweet singing voice, Her warm eyes gazing down on you, Her Mona Lisa smile of love, To make things right, it was enough. And in achievement, up you’ll look And catch her proud eyes smiling there, When failure nags you in its midst, She’ll smile and tell you not to care, For mother’s love is always there. When time and seas divide your flesh, The cord which still holds fast your souls,

A Poem to end all Poems I relished this War, Like no war before, 'Cause it got me away from the wife. There'd be noise, there'd be mud, There'd be buckets of blood, And a stench you could cut with a knife. My two pals and I, Waved Blighty goodbye, And caught the first steamer to France. We were met at Calais, By a band in full play, And a Mademoiselle called Constance. I got a new cap, A compass a map, A rifle, and grew a moustache. Within a few weeks, I got trench foot at 'Eeps', And Willie developed a rash. Some newfangled tanks, Bolstered our ranks, The expected big push was nigh We mowed down the Hun, With a big machine gun, Their bodies piled two or three high. It shook me a tad, And it drove some men mad, Bombs exploding around us all day. There was this one fella, They said he was yella, And shot him the last day in May. On Hill Sixty-One, Our ammo all gone, We fixed bay