Penning an ode to my plaster cast covered right leg

I impose on you, dear readers, a small poem!

RED LEG BLUES

‘I’ve got those red leg blues and boy, they’re hard to lose the left leg works a treat the right leg’s useless meat don’t talk to me of dancing the waltz, tango, foxtrot forget the paso doble

’cos this leg has gone to pot I can’t bend it, move it, shake it and scratching’s a dead loss I’d appeal to that bloke Johnson Except he doesn’t give a toss Save me from that poo tin and his nightmare in Ukraine Meantime please, oh please, can I have my leg again?’

Thus, my valedictory verse to the cursed plaster cast that rendered me virtually immobile these last weeks. You’ll recall the pot had a stretch cover of bright red, hence the poem’s title.

I have at least one major achievement from that mainly sedentary time – climbing the walls while one leg was encased in plaster. The Guinness Book of Records has been informed.

The poem was inflicted on an unsuspecting audience at The Crescent Club, Cullercoats, on Sunday, part of an evening’s fundraising entertainment towards renovating the iconic Watch House. This event was organised by those benevolent activists Ebb & Flow and the audience left with a spring in their step. All except yours truly as the plaster cast was still intact.

It has now gone, though for how long? After its removal they fitted yet another ugly black Velcrosecured frame, which was back to square one and deflated me enormously. Especially the news I may need it for several weeks.

The frame slipped down within minutes, continuing to do so despite all best efforts. This rendered the entire thing useless. I’ve now removed it, have talked to the leg about its required discipline and will manage recovery on my own, with crutches/stick as aids.

Enough – to other matters; at Sunday’s event, one folk singer

held his ear throughout each song. This habit among his ilk has led many to believe the folk singers’ ears are in danger of falling off in performance and must be made secure.

Meantime, elsewhere; seeing the third cup-final in a week go to penalties after a goalless stalemate (including extra time) leads me to wonder – why bother with those predictable first 120 minutes? Make the event a penalty shootout, full-stop. To keep all players involved and make it more substantial, increase the penalties to 11 each side.

These penalty moments are, let’s face it, often the most dramatic of the game.

A virtually unnoticed news item is recent increase in membership of the Buddhist Carthusian order in the UK. What is behind this sudden surge?

Only this column can reveal the truth. Virtually every new Carthusian is also a Brexiteer who voted to leave in the referendum.

As the months progress and not a single advantage to Brexit has been found, while we learn daily of the disasters, cock-ups, hold-ups, administrative absurdities, one hundred mile lorry queues, red tape long enough to reach the moon, border checks drowning in the Irish Sea, drivers at Dover starving to death in their cabs and other minuses, those same Brexiteers have found themselves with nowhere to hide when harangued.

Except in the safety of the Carthusian monasteries. Carthusians are sworn to silence, which brings much needed relief for those poor beleaguered souls when asked to justify the disastrous Brexit decision.

Finally, such is the outrage I feel at poo tin’s cold-blooded bellicosity and insane blood lust that when I hear of any major Ukrainian successes and/or large Russian casualties, I find myself quietly cheering.

Then comes the realisation that what I am applauding is the large death toll of many fellow humans; thus the ability of this terrible war to brutalise us and render irrelevant any noble thoughts on all human life being sacred.

Apologies, Buddha.