Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “ Things You Find In Sheds “.

Good afternoon Jon, and greetings, yet again, from Coventry, the home of some of the best sheds in the known universe.

Not the biggest, not the grandest, not even necessarily well constructed – but like the cubby houses of childhood, you will find no more honest a construction, this side, or any side of Mawson’s hut.

As you are no doubt aware, houses tend to be very small in the UK and backyards tiny or non existent.

Those so inclined can apply for a plot on an allotment on common land, fence it in, put in a veggie patch, build a shed from scraps scavenged from the hard rubbish and contemplate all that is good with life.

Plus, build a fire and burn carpet underlay, tyres, old clothes, oil, treated pine, car seats, unwanted family members and generally commune with nature

Think of Eureka Stockade if you like, where those long tired of the ways of the world, can retreat and make a final stand, albeit a philosophical one.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:

Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse

Things you find in the shed

Which of you bastards has been in my shed?
I’ve warned you before, this time you’re dead
Don’t give me that choirboy pout, c’mon confess

You thoughtless morons think you’re so clever
“Just borrowed” you promise – yeah, borrowed forever
I s’pose fairies flew in the window and made all this mess

The Shed is a temple, it offers respite
It’s holy ground, a sacred site
A place of selfless labour and contemplation

To you it looks cluttered – to me, it’s well stocked
My personal refuge – that’s why it’s locked
No-one enters this shed without my invitation

Religious icons, like mallets and pliers
Salvaged timber and tubes from old tyres
The tools my grandfather used – when he blew up the car

Like a salmon I’m driven to return to this place
Filled with relics, not rubbish: my own private space
This time, you heathens, you’ve gone one step too far

I’ve found the drill but where’s the chuck?
No-one gives a – oh, the bit is stuck
The cap, of course, left off the super glue

Sockets where the plane should be
Metric mixed with SAE
Putty looks more like vindaloo

My Plumb Bob’s gone – it’s solid brass
I’ll shove it up the culprit’s – glass?
The jar’s smashed and the floor’s a sea of tacks

The Jigsaw blade’s in back the front
Own up, who’s the useless – blunt!
Who’s been cutting gal pipe with the axe?

The torch left on, the battery’s dead
The bolts are screwed, stripped the thread
Who’s put pasties on my nipple wrench?

If I find out who cut these struts
I’ll kick them in the bleeding – nuts
My nuts are scattered all across the bench

The chisels chipped, the straight edge bent
Who knows where the grease gun went?
The funnel’s here – but someone’s nicked the spout

There’s Red Bull in the anti-freeze
Missing half my Allen Keys
With the lid left off, all the paints dried out

Someone’s flogged my flogging spanner
Filched my flaming, framing hammer
The fuel can’s filled with liquid fertiliser

Washers mixed with cable clips
Pin gone from the multigrips
Why there’s a tea bag in the turps, I’m none the wiser

The crow bars gone and all my clamps
Both trestles and the trailer ramps
The chainsaw’s here but in a thousand bits

The shears are shorn, the slasher shagged
The routers rooted and the clippers clagged
Don’t ask me how but the pitchfork’s done the splits

There’s a cricket ball stuffed down the blower
The engine AWOL from the mower
How it happened no-one seems to know

It’s also missing all its wheels
I know exactly how it feels
A spade’s a spade, but mine looks like a hoe

So bugger off, you’ve done enough
Leave me here to sort my stuff
Close the door, I’ll be here all night

Ah, peace at last, and a fridge full of beer
No-one else to interfere
Oh, bullshit, one can – of bleeding light

© Copyright 2013 Ian Bland

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