Poems

I wrote this poem about Andy nearly 20 years ago.  Andy had been contracted to film “The Bill” all night and the following morning he was scheduled to move into a room in a shared house in Reigate with people he didn’t know.  However, filming was abandoned due to what Andy described as “a weather continuity issue” and Andy found himself in London on a snowy night with no where to sleep.  I can still remember Andy recounting the events of that night and my amazed response of “You did what?” at each decision that he made.   I read this poem to Andy on several occasions, and each time it still seemed true to his character and made him laugh.

Andy’s Arrival by Sue McKendrick (1995 ish)

Andy is sociable and so he tends

To enjoy making new friends.

Andy has developed his charm and patter,

Realising that first impressions matter.

Alas it should be understood

First impressions of Andy are not all good.

Six weeks work, oh what a thrill

Filming cops and robbers on The Bill

Andy agrees, the contract is signed

Somewhere to stay, he’ll need to find

Somewhere with room for his CD player,

Mobile phone, cameras and coffee maker,

Computer, battery charger and filofax,

Piles of receipts to claim back tax.

But where is Andy going to sleep?

Prices in London are far too steep.

Some of his friends wonder and frown

And wish they didn’t live in London town.

A Reigate house has a room to let,

Andy has the key and is all set

To move in tomorrow with all his stuff.

Has he forgot something, will he have enough?

Filming is due to go on all night

Addict and drug pusher in a fight

Speeding cars and sirens sound

A dead body has been found.

Stabbed in the back with a knife.

Just a story about everyday life.

Conditions change and snow stops play,

Filming is abandoned til the next day.

At three in the morning, is it too late?

To move into the house in Reigate?

His new house mates, he surely won’t wake.

Ten minutes or so is all it’ll take,

He brought in his bags of belongings:

Mobile, cameras and all his things.

He just left them in the hall

So that into bed he could crawl.

Up the stairs he did creep,

Hoping the floor boards wouldn’t creek.

He jingled his keys and unlocked the door

In the middle of the night – nearly four.

He switched on the light in his new abode

And watched in horror as the bulb did explode!

An almighty “bang” and glass everywhere

On the carpet, duvet and bedside chair.

Could he clean up with a brush or broom?

No, much more effective with a vacuum!

He needed a new bulb to be able to see

After all, it’s very dark at way past three.

He borrowed a bulb from the upstairs landing

Hoping his house mates would be understanding.

Finally, Andy got into bed

And in the morning, this is what he said:

“Sorry about the noise – moving in my gear

Perhaps later , we could go out for a beer?”

“It’s OK” said the new house mate

“If your room needed cleaning, then why wait?”

The morale of this story is quite clear:

Don’t let Andy move in with all his gear!

Andy’s Departure 2012

I (Sue) still haven’t got my head round Andy leaving us so abruptly.  Perhaps I will get out my poetry book and put pen to paper – but at this point I don’t know the words to express my feelings.  But I do know Andy will want us to have a party to send him off with lots of laughs.  Let’s try!

It’s now Summer time 2013 and I’ve finally found some strength to write a poem again.  However, this poem is dedicated to all those who helped me clear Andy’s house & garden.  THANK YOU!

Stuff, Stuff, Stuff by Sue June 2013

Stuff, stuff, stuff

But never enough

Blocking out the golden light

Where it used to be so bright

A dresser, oh! what a gem!

Drambuie and some Speckled Hen

The clutter monster has to horde

Cos one day, he may not afford

To spend his pennies on buying it new

And, it may be worth a bob or two

Fancy your chances with laser discs?

And outside, some discarded bricks

A ram-shackle, fallen down wall.

Cameras? – he has kept them all.

Stacks of every kind of dish and plate

Could feed an army or this whole estate

But it’s hard to enjoy a bite to eat.

With so much stuff, you can’t find a seat.

Boxes everywhere, there’s no escape

And twenty rolls of gaffa tape.

Here and there, a battery,

Together could power a factory?

Some things found, some things won,

Some things passed from father to son.

I guess, I should say thanks to Andy

For all his stuff might come in handy!

But I mustn’t lie, I must confess

To not being grateful for all this mess

How tempting! to set it all alight

And blow it up high with dynamite!

Surely he would smile, surely he would smirk

If I commissioned a rocket or big firework?

And wouldn’t he think it would be really ace

To blast him and his stuff out into space?!

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“Cameraman” by Sarah Furmage (for Andy 2012)

 

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday,
the phone rings and Andy is there,
Can I pop in for coffee with warm milk,
biscuits and toast if there’s spare?

He said Sarah can you tell them “I had a larf,
when it’s my time to go”,
but I brushed it aside and smiled big and wide,
thinking time would surely go slow.

Chorus:  Life, life is for living,
Don’t be sad cos “I had a larf”
Make us a film you’re the cameraman,
shoot us a memory today.
Cos we’re all in the mood for a video,
and you’ve got us feeling this way.

 Now Andy was always a social guy,
enjoyed a few pints of beer.
He was quick with a joke, quite a large bloke,
committed to his filming career.

 He wasn’t much of a piano man,
Mrs Dale was tearing her hair,
Dunlop wanted a Michelin man,
but filming was definitely his flair.

Chorus

Visits from Andy were hilarious.
Stock up on biscuits and stew.
Christmas: no underpants? time for a laundry rant,
a trip round Edinburgh zoo.

 Chorus

 Now Andy was a BEC-TU union man.
He knew how to persuade with a smile.
He’d arrive with his bags and a raft full of gags.
So you’d forget about life for a while.

Now the camera was built like a dinosaur,
the microphone smelt like a beer,
he’d sit in the chair, talk without taking air,
But boy do we wish he was here!

Chorus

and you’ve got us feeling this way.

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Val Docherty remembers Andy in verse!

I have known Andy since he was born and he has always been part of my family…this poem only goes a tiny part towards describing what he meant to me:

 Your Say

“Trillion Pumps,

Where are my Trillion Pumps?” you say.

“What?” we say,

“Trillion Pumps” you say.

“Swimming Trunks!” we say.

“Andy, Andy!” we say.

Teenage Andy,

“Treated to too much criticism,” Roy says.

Off to Dunlop

“Hurrah!” we say.

“Camera man” you say.

“Really?” we say,

“Unsafe,” we say.

“I’m positive,” you say

And you stay

Through chop and change

To less and less.

“I’m here,” you say.

“Now?!” we say.

“In the area,” you say.

Hug

Hug

Over 6ft you stood

But, my 5ft felt protective.

“How are you?” I say.

“Life falters,” you say, in so many words.

“I see,” I say.

But Andy,

Faced with too much criticism and vulnerable,

Was positive

About being a camera man

And I loved you.

___________________________________________________________

Just like Andy – by Jim McRoberts

For camera advice, he’d know what was best,

When out for a walk, he’d stop for a rest,

And when ending a phone call, he’d say, “all the breast”,

Aye, just like Andy.

 

He loved his food, and he loved his real ale,

In my local, he gaped at the beers all for sale,

He didn’t drink like a fish, he could drink like a whale!

Aye, just like Andy.

 

His bags and pockets usually held some food,

In telling a joke, he could often be lewd,

But to me, like the Great Lebowski, he was The Dude,

Tonight, I’ll be raising a glass to Andy.

 

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Jo Mackin: I came across this poem at Green Belt when I heard the writer talk and thought it just fitted Andy ….

Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets  

by Thomas Lynch

It came to him that he could nearly count

How many Octobers he had left to him

In increments of ten or, say, eleven

Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five.

He couldn’t see himself at ninety-six—

Humanity’s advances notwithstanding

In health-care, self-help, or new-age regimens—

What with his habits and family history,

The end he thought is nearer than you think.

The future, thus confined to its contingencies,

The present moment opens like a gift:

The balding month, the grey week, the blue morning,

The hour’s routine, the minute’s passing glance—

All seem like godsends now.  And what to make of this?

At the end the word that comes to him is Thanks.

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