19. Edward Smith
1963 -2014. Humorist, pop star, poet and legend in his tragically short lifetime.
Why should the small fact of a man having been dead for about ten years preclude him from being admitted to the fellowship of the Sixty Odd Poets?
Edward Smith was perhaps best known as the madcap lead singer of the Gargoyles, who brought joy and merry melodies to music fans in Hull and beyond throughout the 1980s with wonderful gigs and albums such as Mrs Two Dinners, which had a photograph of his mother on the front cover. With two dinners! The lyrics were all his1, and long after the band had gone into a protracted semi retirement, he continued as a wonderful wordsmith, creating memorably surreal and comedic songs and poetry, some of which were available on a CD, On the Beach. An anthology of his poetry and artwork is anticipated at some point in the future.
Poems
Johnny Machine
In my life I have met many toilet keepers, with their old tales of things that have happened on their lonely toilet keeping duties. It’s a shame now that they have made the toilets automated. Here is one of the strangest tales that I have ever heard from a toilet keeper... A condom machine Breaks free from its moorings In a city centre toilet It bursts off the wall In a cloud of screws and plaster Two hardened toilet keepers Try to restrain it But it just spits rubber johnnies in their faces and laughs - HA! It then hops, bangs and clatters its way Towards the train station The people in the street just look at it with a mixture of fear and puzzlement But one man alone Looks towards that crazy contraption And says “Run! Run swiftly my prince Back to your Kingdom To live in peace Amongst your own kith and kin” <<<
Duelling Trousers
Raking through some old clothes That my ancestors left in the attic I came across a dusty old pair Of Velvet duelling trousers I put them on with a brass buckle belt In ‘em I looked quite dashing I looked like a brave dueller My trousers were smashing Over excited I ran through the street With a broom handle as my sword I shouted En Garde to a passer by I bought the best jib I could afford Now I spend my days as a brave cavalier I must invest in a velvet mask I know people admire My duelling trousers As I walk by with a feather in my hat Now you may think I’m a highwayman Or somebody off to a ball But I’m the perfect gentleman Who is at the ladies’ beck and call And when my duelling trousers are being pressed I play tunes on my dulcimer Many of my neighbours are impressed when they hear me play it Although I have a passion for music I’m at my best in my duelling kegs I’ve got a sword and I know how to use it So beware when I’m about. <<<
Astronomy
Gaze into the night sky That spreads above the nation The twinkling of the little stars In all their constellations Ursa Major and Sirius Soothe unpleasant minds Its a blinking, twinkling miracle Since the dawn of time See Orion, the hunter In his heavenly stride Make a wish on a shooting star as it drops from high. The beauty of the universe as it spreads its wares can be yours forever. All you do is stare Astronomy is a lovely hobby. It's interesting, its innocuous If you can’t afford a telescope borrow your dad’s binoculars <<<
Spoons
Gleaming beneath the lid the spoons are never shown. I keep them in a box beneath my bed. Alone. “Made in Sheffield.” Loved by me. I’ve never eaten off one. They’re as new as the day. And what if they were shown eh? What then? Misery You scoff at the word But you’d like to see the spoons <<<
The Old A.A. Man
He sits by his fire, gazing at the electric bars His crazy old mind is full of broken down cars His memories leap like dancing flames making old pictures in his knackered brains Hard shoulders full of mucky vans Engines started with mucky hands Pictures of highways filled with jobs to do And that was the time when he was like a God to you But now the real God, who is very wise, decides to close the AA man’s eyes. <<<
Raise Your Knackered Banners
When the stinking curtain’s closing on things gone on before and fate, the lethal manager is showing you the door. When you feel so full of nothing yet you drag an awful weight and your poor old dreams are covered by the bedsores of fate. Just raise your knackered banners so the tops glint in the sun, like ever swaggering optimists on the march since the world's begun. Because nothing can ever kill you and strength is your preserve, you will laugh at all that fate brings with the hilarity it deserves. <<<
Eddie’s lyrics were often written and presented in his broad Hull accent. Whilst this is not too much of a problem most of the time, I have had to replace the word shon with shown in the poem Spoons. If I had left it as it was, then a very significant majority of readers wouldn’t have understood what the fuck he was on about.
Is there something in the water in Hull that springs genius? People from the south scoff at the sound but my goodness, I have seen brilliance emerge from there.
My father’s paternal ancestors emigrated from there shortly after 1820. I hope to go out on the far peninsula near there one day.
Absolutely loved Eddie's work after you introduced me to the world of The Gargoyles. I think Mrs Two-Dinners is a genuine piece of 80s pop-culture art, from the cover to the music. Cheers for sharing this Mr O'B.