Bland On Bland – The BookThe theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “BALD“.

Good afternoon Jon, and greetings this week from Manchester, one of my favourite cities in the UK and the birthplace of a lot of great bands and artists.

Had a terrific, if not punishing four days at the Warwick Folk Festival last week – saw some great bands including Canadian’s Gordie ‘Crazy Legs’ MacKeeman and his Rhythm Boys, who I recall were at the Spotted Mallard a little while back and they performed an incredible slightly, semi bluegrass version of the old Hollies’ song ‘Stop, Stop,Stop’ – not that anyone did.

Although, on the downside, I have to admit I shed every ounce of credibility and dignity I had remaining dressed as Frida performing a folk version of Fernando for an ABBA competition, where I won the trophy for best wig before being cruelly stripped of the award on protest due to the fact I wasn’t wearing a wig.

It’s enough to make you pull your hair out


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BALD

My bird died one morning
Claws up without warning
Found him stiff as a board

I bred him and tamed him
Spalding, I’d named him
He was family, friend and adored

Who’s fault? Was it mine?
I thought he seemed fine
Could his death have been prevented?

Was there something I missed?
Overlooked or dismissed
What could I have done? I lamented

I’d noticed that Spalding
Appeared to be balding
It’s natural for most birds to moult

He’d lost a few feathers
From his head and his nethers
Couldn’t see how that was my fault

I arranged for the vet
To examine my pet
A condition, he said, not unique

The vet only guessed
That Spalding was stressed
Pulling feathers out with his beak

He wasn’t in pain
They’d grow back again
Just give him some room, the vet said

Though I still harbored doubt
How he pulled feathers out
With his beak from the top of his head

He’d always had space
Let him fly round the place
He wasn’t locked up in his cage

He had plenty to eat
The odd gin, for a treat
He was frisky like most birds his age

A balding canary
Can look rather scary
When let loose to fly round your flat

Though his feathers returned
I was still quite concerned
When I caught him trying to mate with the cat

Now I’ve never heard
Of a cat and a bird
Who were lovers, let alone friends

Next day came the shock
Spalding hard as a rock
Though it’s not where this story ends

Before digging his grave
I thought I’d have a shave
Freshen up, before holding his service

When I looked in the drawer
It’s not what I saw
It’s what I didn’t see that made me nervous

My Viagra supply
The bottle was dry
Not a tablet, a skerrick, a whiff

By the lid was a feather
I put two and two together
No wonder poor Spalding was stiff

I rushed to the kitchen
Found Spalding twitch’n
Tried giving him mouth to beak

His claws gripped my coat
Shoved his tongue down my throat
I was spitting out feathers all week

Thank God he survived
And quickly revived
Though he moped round the house like a wimp

He slowly grew placid
In addition to flaccid
He’s a more pleasant bird when he’s limp

Well, that’s about all
Though you’re welcome to call
I do have a kitten for sale

Has four legs and wings
Eats seed and sings
And comes with a bright yellow tail

© Copyright 2018 Ian Bland


Also have a listen to “Everything or Nothing

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