verse and worse

Sadly, I don't watch Coronation Street; life seems too full already, what with Phil Mitchell and Ian Beale, and Stacey and Bradley (And Deano!), and Dot and that baby (did you cry?) - to say nothing of all the people I really do know. In the same vein, I've never really got the Archers habit. Radio isn't really my thing, anyway. When I've been exposed to it in the past it has had the same cosy glow as an afternoon of cricket: definitely something to love about England, something to be treated to occasionally by someone, but not really my thing.*

The poem below - well, the whole poem, of which the bit below is the first half - could almost make me change my mind. Arthur Clewley is the chap you can thank; he lives in Yorkshire, and clearly has a feel for everyday stories and farming folk. Now I know what's going on, I could almost reach for that dial...

The shadows grow, a nation mourns
The death in the archers of Siobhan
She died as she lived with enough ham
To supply for life Tom's burger van
The strain finished her off, it's so exacting
Cause of death: overacting

Read the rest here.

But Eastenders is a little more cheerful than that at the mo; I might write a little celebratory something myself for Abby's guinea pig, Marge, now she's safely out of the rubbish.

* alas... and those things that aren't really your thing never work if you try to do them without someone whose thing they are. Have you noticed? If I tried to watch (or, even better, listen to) the cricket on my own it wouldn't be nearly so fun.