Poetry on the Hoof: Friday Means the Weekend!

It was National Poetry Day on 2 October, so we’re celebrating it over a long weekend of irreverent, irritated and irate doggerel! Here’s ‘Friday Means the Weekend ‘ to really get your weekend off to the right start!

Another ducking and diving week is over!

It’s time to go home and face the furniture!

Friday Means the Weekend is available in our poetry anthology, There’s no such Thing as an Englishman: Poems from an Irritated England.

This anthology of poetry marks the many sources of irritation faced by the average Englishman or woman these days – everything from the railways to referenda via what ever it is the young call music these days.

It was launched on 31 January 2020 – the day when the UK left the European Union and when the phenomenon known as Brexit finally, we like to think, finally evaporates and all those years of frustration, anger, sheer disbelief and irritation all come to rest. But as Chairman Mao once said about what he thought the effects of the French Revolution were, it may be too soon to tell.

But its two authors – Nick Owen and Janice Owen – have become accomplished at becoming irritated at many facets of life in England over the years and hope that you, dear reader, will find some solace in knowing that you are not alone when it comes to feeling frustrated, pissed off, angry or just good old fashioned irritated.

Being English though, means we’ve just reached a level of irritation and aren’t quite ready to riot. Yet.

Want to read more poems from ‘No Such Thing as an Englishman’? Have a look here:

Poetry on the Hoof: There’s no Such Thing as an Englishman

It’s National Poetry Day on 2 October, so we’re going to celebrate it over a long weekend of irreverent, irritated and irate doggerel! Here’s ‘No Such Thing as an Englishman’ to really stoke up the tempers!

No Such Thing as an Englishman

There’s no such thing as an Englishman,
He really doesn’t exist.
There was never a castle, a moat, a drawbridge,
His house failed to subsist.
There’s no such thing as an Englishman,
With blood deep blue, and skin ghost white.
There’s no such thing as fists of red,
Shaking in varicosed fright.

Because an Englishman is part Scot, part Gael, part Celt,
Part Saxe, part Franco, part Serb.
He’s part Indo, part Carib, part Sino;
Part Arab, part Thai, part disturbed.
His blood is a Mishra mash of madness,
of cultures a-far and a-near,
He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going,
So he curse, he shout and he swear.

Because an Englishman is part woman,
Part he-man, part her-man, part sha-man.
Scratch an Anglo and there’s a vigorous hybrid,
In a gene pool of shimmering light.
Their bloods are the colours of mud and of sand
Their bones, the tastes of the sun and the strand;
Their tongues, taste the moon rising high in the sky
And falling rains, wash away, the tears in their eyes.

Our nerves weren’t forged in Sheffield,
But in Scotia, near and afar.
Our guts were shaped in Islamabad,
And the restaurants and bazaars of Belfast.
Our oaths don’t belong to king and country,
But to our brothers, our sisters, our cousins,
Yet we swear allegiance, history and platitudes
Till our shoes are glued to our feet.

There’s no such thing as an Englishman,
He just doesn’t exist,
And those who would want to deny this,
Are deluded, foolish, trapped fish.
The deniers, the nay-sayers and flag wavers
Who are looking to protect their list,
Had better beware, their game is to scare
But they won’t.
The dance of the Englishman is over.

Recorded at Culture Action Europe Conference, Being Many, in Turin 2025

Meet our Poet-in-Residence: Janice Owen

Janice Owen is an accomplished writer known for her work in both fiction and non-fiction.   Deeply rooted in day to day living, her writing strikes a chord with her audiences and readership.  She explores themes of identity, community, and the human experience in her storytelling.  Her writing is characterized by its vivid imagery, her life observations and deep emotional resonance, drawing readers into rich, immersive worlds. Additionally, she has contributed to various literary journals and anthologies, showcasing her versatility as an author.  In this example, and typical of her writing Janice simply shares day to day life, her journey home ….

Going Home on the 19

The 15:30 failed to arrive.

No wonder clients decide to drive.

Adolescent bones, rest their derrière.

Do not notice, you are there!

Queuing, an art form in disguise.

Disrupted by a testosterone, fuelled, guy

Yanks his girl, across your face.

Invading your chosen personal space.

Begins his feast of fornication.

A love starved youth, pure deprivation.

The conjoined bodies have no distraction.

I am, unwillingly, all part of the action

Not my choice of position.

Neither do I wish to listen.

A meal, simply gourmet.

Spatial awareness is not his forte.

He ditches her for a roll up fag,

Strutting his stuff, like a rutting stag.

I raise my head, a true survivor.

I just hope, he is not, a learner driver.

The bus departs, Boston bound.

Relief, short lived, all around.

City buses come and go.

The one you wait for, always slow. 

The gentile queue, have battle fatigue.

Other destinations out of their league.

At last, weary citizens pay their dues.

As stories unfold to amuse.

A little child is entertained, yet no play.

Weaned and stimulated on cartoon replay.

A few miles along the road.

He seeks a new bosomy abode.

Time for a little restitution, a teatime tipple

He latches loosely to his mother’s nipple

The elderly couple turn the other way

As the ample bosom is on public display.

No embarrassment, or decorum, 

and explains in detail how she bore him.

Personally, I could do with a cup of tea.

Travelling by bus is too much for me.