This is Craig Charles’ 1998 poetry collection, No Other Blue, transcribed just because I love the work and would like it to be more easily available.

The stanza breaks may not be as intended – some of these are illustrated (and I’m too lazy to upload scans, sorry) with the lines broken up to fit the illustrations, so in those cases I’m making my best guess.

Some poems have author’s notes from CC, which I’ve included.

I like writing poems

I like writing poems
But it’s getting me down
Because I can’t put my pencil down.

I like writing poems
But it gets in the way.
Addicted to write
A poem every day.

Why do I always reach for the pen?
To tell everyone that I’m unhappy again.
Why do I instinctively write down in verse
The most mundane things, both tiresome and terse?

I wish that my pencil knew all that I think
And would write it down for me, whilst I have a drink.

George McGee

I feel sorry for old George McGee because George was actually one of my decent classmates. I changed the name of the real culprit because he was doubly likely to sue.

I knew this kid at school,
By the name of George McGee
He was always passing wind and
Blaming it on me.

He’d hit me in the classroom
And he’d hit me in P.E.
Like he’d wait for me to get the ball
When we were playing in the gym
He’d either push me over
Or kick me in the skin

He was that sort of kid.
The sort of kid who cheats at conkers.
It wasn’t totally his faul though –
His family were bonkers.
His dad did his homework once,
It made me a jealous sight –
That was until he got his book back
And found out he wasn’t right

He was that sort of kid.
The sort of kid who washes hamsters in vim.
The doctors took him away, and did some tests on him.

I hadn’t seen George from that day to this
Until, despite my pleading,
The little sneak
– On tuesday week –
He pulled me up for speeding.

I want to feel your bum

This was one of my earliest efforts and actually won a poetry competition. It always amused me writing a love poem that started with the opening line…

I want to feel your bum,
But I know you’ll slap my hand.
And every time I see you smile,
It makes my alter ego stand.
I want to kiss your lips,
But I’m scared about my breath.
I want to hold your hand,
But I’m half frightened to death.
I want to drop formalities
And let my fingers roam,
But my mum’s
Banging on the ceiling
Telling me
To take you home.
I want to take you to the pictures
But your study’s in the way.
And leaving can be grieving
When you always want to stay.
I want to marry you this instant
And let my feelings delve.
But my dad said I’ll have to wait,
Because I’m only twelve.

Shipwreck my soul

Ever since Dylan Thomas wanted to shipwreck his soul between someone else’s thighs, I’ve been looking for places to shipwreck mine. The girl in question was a computer programmer, hence the software in my softness.

I want a cold pebble beach,
I want sea in your hair,
I want salt and sand on your skin.
I want to bathe my hands in the waves of your hair,
And bathe your body all tight and trim
And shipwreck my soul in your eyes.

I want to see you dressed real minimalist,
In lycra and in lace
The cool damp cotton towel
Can wipe mascara from your face
And I will shipwreck my soul in your eyes.

‘Cause you’re pretty in lace and satin and silk
You’re mine.
That’s not to say I own you,
Just a time share holding.

She’s pretty, she’s pale, she’s soft, she’s warm, she’s clean,
She’s the computer rash in my machine
Affecting mind and motion, thought and deed,
And wherewithall
My love.
Where, with all my love.

Brewer’s Droop

I wrote this on the sea wall at Llandudno after an unsuccessful attempt to consummate the relationship with my (little did I know then) soon-to-be ex -wife.

I can’t feel that feeling any more.
The tingle doesn’t tingle
Underneath my overalls.
Embarrassment and panic
Shame when you think it’s
Getting hard again, it doesn’t
It just limps a bit and falls.

You just don’t know
The place to look
When you find you can’t get it up
And the feelings just don’t feel the same
When the fingers stroke again,

Again,

And
I can’t make
My burner flame
From tip to top to core.

The tension tends to aggravate
When you find that you can’t copulate
And your tingle
Cannot mingle
Any more.

And your ego can’t kick-start and go
If you can’t make those juices flow.
And you know, I know, we all know
A man – is not a man
Without a spanner in his hand.

And you feel, I feel
We all feel
This need to overpower
To turn on
And deflower
But it’s hard
Without the power
In your loins.

Or it isn’t hard
Without the power
In your loins.

And it might just get to irritate
When you find that you can’t fornicate
When your arrow is bowed instead of straight
And you can’t get that friction in your groin.

And it’s easy for you to say:
‘Where there’s a willy
Then there’s usually a way.’
But that statement is easily said
When the thing’s all wrinkly and dead,
And it’s not that firm, upright and bold
And my balls are crinkly and cold.

But I suppose it’s pretty funny
That in this land of milk and money
It’s too much to touch the burning crutch
Of your true intended honeybunch.

And she says she loves me,
She knows I’m competent
Love is a many-splendoured thing,
– It sometimes makes you impotent.

And she holds me close
And she bathes my wounds
And she kisses me, and then –
The lantern lights
Light up her eyes
And I’m sure
It’s getting hard again.

Halt

Written in the late eighties after the post-mortem on the 1981 riots had supplied vast areas of our major cities with ‘community policemen’. Performed in this version on Channel 4’s Black on Black and later reworked for Saturday Night Live.

Halt! who goes there?
Asked the policeman.
Don’t you know it’s getting late?
Have you been running, nigger?
– You do look in a state!
Where’ve you been to, nignog
– Where’re you going –
What’s your name?
Answer me you little animal,
I’m not playing a game!

He hit me on the head and I started to cry
Operation eagle eye.

Empty out your pockets –
Let’s have a look inside.
We can do it at the station,
If you really want the ride.
hHave you been in trouble with the police before?
Have you broken any ancient law?
In the riots I was hit by a nignog
I think it’s time to even the score.

Get into the car! he said,
Before I tan your hide,
And he grabbed me by the shoulder
And he pushed me clear inside,
He said –

Show me some identity
To prove you’re you instead of me.
I looked in the wing-mirror,
I said, that’s me.

He said, that’s pretty funny,
Sonny,
Laugh, it’s a bust!
Then he said,
You’ve been sussed.
You’ve been thieving,
Haven’t you?
Come on, where’ve you stashed the cash?
Don’t be a smartarse,
Answer when you’re asked!
A couple of streets away an old lady’s been attacked
Open those rubber lips, my son,
Or you might just take the rap.

All of a sudden, the radio came through.
I don’t know what was said.
Those things are
Hard to understand.
But he pushed me out of the car with the back of his hand, and said:
I’ll see you later.
And zoomed off up the street.

So I shrugged my shoulders
And took to my feet.
Walking along the pavement,
All in one piece –
After another confrontation with community police.

I hate the way…

Written from my remand cell in Wandsworth prison. I was trying to parallel the way a spouse would feel after many years of wedlock… lock being the operative word.

I hate the way you sleep.
The clucking
and the bucking
and the grinding
of your teeth.

And by the way,
I hate the way you breathe.

I hate the way you eat,
The slopping
and the popping
and the sucking
of your teeth.

And can I say,
I hate the way you speak.

I hate the way you wash,
The way you hold the flannel,
The bucket and the mop.

Being with you never –
Ever –
Ever seems to stop,
It just goes on –
And on –
And on –
And on –

I’m driven to despair.

And by the way I hate the way
You’re always –
Bloody –
There.

You’re getting in my way, you’re on my nerves,
I’ve got a notion –

Solitary confinement
Could be seen as a promotion.

Bully for you

Prison is full of psychos, and that’s just the people work there! Says it all really…

I only had a tin of tuna and a bottle of Quosh,
When a peabrain with a keychain
And a little wooden cosh
Comes into my cell,
And goes, bosh

We got couriers in cannabis,
Smuggling in pot,
Someone’s put it on you, man,
It’s coming out on top,
You’ve got yourself into a spot.

He dug through my detritus then,
His wrists were in my slop.
Trying to intimidate,
To make me have a pop
So he could finish me off
Down the block.

A PP9 battery in a plain brown sock.
The doc don’t come when you knock
When they finish you off down the block.

The man was bad, mean; but dead keen
And lived behind a smoke screen
Life a series of doors that he’s gotta keep locked.
Nasty,
Snidey,
Uneasy,
And untidy
A petty little bigot who never gets shocked.

Accustomed to the violence,
The conspiracy of silence,
The poxy little victories, and shoddy little knocks.
They’re gonna finish my off down the block.

He lit a cigarette

This poem started life as a song called ‘Open Up’ on the BMG / RCA label for a singer called Suzanne Rhatigan. The album bombed, but I hope not because of the words!

He lit a cigarette with a lighter from Spain,
Two weeks in Malaga – eight days of rain.
He had a gold-capped tooth and a rolled-gold chain.
She knew things would never be the same.

She wore stiletto heels
All scuffed with dirt,
An ankle bracelet
And a miniskirt.
Although she wore a watch, she asked him the time,
As she secretly undressed him in her mind.
All the time secretly wishing she had no inhibitions.

Nine am on a twosday, tired and grey,
She couldn’t think of anything to say.
The bus was crowded so they had to stand,
When he accidentally
Touched her
With his hand.

She felt a shiver shimmy down her spine,
Took a deep breath, and took her time.
She said, it’s nothing.
He said, you’re far too kind,
As he secretly undressed her in his mind.
All the time secretly wishing
He had no inhibitions.

Around nine thirty-five
They rolled into reception.
There was tension and desire
As they signalled their intention
They were touching on the newness
Of a tentative connection.

They touched the power

In a room so often rented by the hour.