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Poetry Corner

THE PSYCHEDELIC ROOM

Picture a shed on the edge of the Mendips

with lunatic cavers and a dig by the side.

Suddenly someone builds an extension,

with loads of help from mates who abide.

Colourful timbers of varying sizes a wonderful construction to see.

brickie and labourers beavering away,

plus Dany the chippie and me.

I wonder how long it will take to finish,

so we feel the benefits me and you

Visualise the fun, we can have in it!!

our colourful psychedelic room with a view.

Full of suggestions the committee pondered,

on how to make use of this space.

Franks’ view is that it should be a vibrant, colourful

calm and ambient chill out place!!!!

Kaleidoscope murals covering the walls,

with white rugs and cushions on the floor.

Using feng shui for the total space,

thereby ensuring an ambient décor.

Imagine the setting as you lounge on your cushions!

Coolly moonbathing in this heavenly womb.

all the decisions that no one will make,

in the BEC psychedelic room.

Viva the committee.

Harold.

(Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds anyone? Ed.)

 

 

 

1.          Tony Bamber

2.         Cambell McKee

3.         Dizzie (nee Akers)

4.         Alfie Collins

5.         Frank Seward

6.         Johnny Shorthose

7.         Betty Shorthose

            8.         ?

9.         Possibly Eddie Cole

10.        Jack Brown11. Don Coase

12.        Looks like Pete Stewart       But is probably not

13.        Freda Huchinson

14.        Can’t tell, face obscured

Many thanks to Tony Sett for identifications.

Memories of Mendip in the Forties

I happily slept on the hay in the barn,

with Postle and Don and the rest.

We drank and we swore, and the clothes that we wore

were far from our cleanest and best.

For we went down the caves that ran under our feet

and many a squeeze came my way;

with old carbide lamps and thick ladders of rope,

whilst the darkness chased terror away.

There were chimneys we climbed; there were boulders we scaled;

and the streams that ran swift after rain.

There were times we were lost, when I felt rather scared

‘til we’d sussed out our trail once again.

We’d a car boasting sidescreens, and running boards too,

with a windscreen that folded down flat.

And a neat dickey seat, tucked away in the rear.

There were many who envied us that.

While the others had motorbikes, battered and old,

but lovingly tended with care,

for petrol was scarce, and money was short,

but somehow we always got there.

In the evenings we’d roar down the road to the pub,

where Alfie played tunes that we knew.

And there we heard tell of one “Eskimo Nell”

as we drank our host’s excellent brew.

All too soon, time to go, and we’d climb on our bikes

or crowd in our Lea Francis car.

Then once more we’d roar to the Belfry and bed

and be grateful it wasn’t too far.

For a Club had been formed, with a bat as its badge,

and a hut was soon bought for a song.

To start with we slept on the old wooden floor

but I’m glad to say, not for too long.

Now we’ve benches and bunkhouses, showers and loos,

and places to dry out wet clothes.

I haven’t been caving for twenty-odd years

and I won’t go again, I suppose.

But Alfie plays host to us “oldies” each year

at a Dinner, both happy and sad,

while we think of those missing, who ought to be there,

and talk of the Good Times we had.

Dizzie Tompsett-Clark        21 February 2001

 

Our Message to Wig

Hello Dave aka Wig

it’s all your pals down here

we’ve trogged down to Cerberus Hall

to serenade you, friend dear

There is no need to say

how sad is this time

but all of us remember you

in your youthful prime.

Full of energy, wit,

and a character to boot

always a warm welcome

and sound advice to suit.

The Cerberus Chamber is yours

for just as long as you want,

like the long shadows of Priddy

and all the trees we plant.

Sadly missed is a phrase

that always sounds quite trite

so we will all raise our glasses

to a great mate goodnight.

vaya con dios Dave

Everything to Excess.

Mike Wilson

 

We all Likes Bloodywell Caving

When I were a youngster I were good as can be

With me nine to five job and home for me tea

Till a devil with horns and a beer gut or three

Took me caving, bloodywell caving

Caving, caving just you and I

Caving, caving when we are dry

Some does it open and some on the sly

But we all likes bloodywell caving

He said it’s a doddle, a countryside stroll

And I took it for gospel till we entered Cow Hole

I think he mistook me for some kind of mole

Going caving, bloody well caving

Then I did Goatchurch, all covered in mud

And then I did Swildon’s when it was in flood

Manor Farm was the place where I first spilled me blood

Going caving, bloodywell caving

Now Cuthbert’s is dry, I was told it’s a cinch

But the liar who told me that I’d like to lynch

Cos the entrance shaft surely could do with a winch

Going caving, bloodywell caving

Now Otter is fine if you’re watching the tide

And Neath is a squeeze, but it’s pretty inside

You get sodden and wrinkled and do it with pride

Gong caving, bloodywell caving

But the best time of day is when caving is done

And we go to the Hunters’ and drink down the sun

It’s then we tell weegies that caving is fun

Going caving, bloodywell caving