Competition: Oldie Bicycles
 

The Oldie

IN COMPETITION NO 130 you were invited to write a poem about the adventures of one of the bikes now for hire in London. Many entries showed such familiarity with the life of a bicycle that I wondered if they had been ghostwritten by one of them. A word that appeared often was, perhaps not surprisingly, 'bum'. John Whitworth used a respectful capital when he concluded his entry with the triumphant 'A swift, splendiferous skedaddle, /The Bum of Boris in the saddle!'
I was glad to see plenty of new entrants, so commiserations to those who did not win, and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins, with the bonus prize of a far-from-pedestrian Taylor's of Harrogate tea and cake set going to Alison Prince.

I was assaulted, sir. No token of
esteem slipped in my slot, just a quick screw
driver to force me to his use, a shove
to get me going, then before I knew
it, he had mounted, riding as if cars
were in some other world. And I was not
asking for it, sir. My handlebars
can’t be called low-slung. And see, I've got
this little basket, too - I'm here to serve,
but some folk take advantage. My back tyre
was nearly flat, but all he did was swerve
past a police car like we were on fire
and round the back of Tesco's, threw me down
and left me spinning helplessly. I lay
here till you came, sir I'm so glad you’ve found
me. You’re a gentleman. I'm sure you’ll pay.
Alison Prince

I was at my docking station in suspended animation
When this wacky blond-haired geezer bought my time,
And we took off like the clappers while the joumos and the snappers
Rode behind us like a retinue of slime.

I'd been swallowed by an ocean ofoutrageous self promotion
On behalf of Mr Mayor (for it was he).
I could feel his buttocks trembling at the press he was assembling
And the airtime he could gloatingly foresee.

Like a convoy of berserkers we rampaged through Oxford Circus,
Before scattering the strollers in Hyde Park.
In Ken High our style was graphic as we messed up all the traffic,
Bojo carolling 'Oh Crikey! What a lark!'

His ebullience was historic, he was ravingly euphoric.
I'd never seen a grown man so elated.
Hence I opted at this juncture to incur a sudden puncture,
And left the egomaniac deflated.
GM Davis

Funny tow-haired heavyweight with cut- glass accent,
Pulls me from the docking rack in Tooley Street;
A-puffing and a-huffing as he clatters me to Westminster,
Wobbling and grunting and with two left feet

Tiny pretty Chinese girl with neat plait pigtail,
Struggles to control me round Trafalgar Square;
With her shopping bag of noodles, pork fillet, bamboo shoots,
Water chestnuts, garlic, for the New Year's Fair.

Smart-arse suited banker with his fancy laptop
Shouting, as he rides me, at his mobile phone;
Dealing coffee in Colombia, and silver in the Philippines,
And borrowing the money on a short- term loan.

Smelly beardie weirdie with a dark grey rucksack,
Scrapes me on the kerbside down in Clerkenwell;
Pedalling so wearily to Kings Cross station,
Weaving as he searches for a cheap hotel.
Andrew Bamji

We left the forge together
So it's a mystery to me
Why got docked in Whitechapel
While you wangled South West Three.
Huge tourists better my poor frame
And overload my seat
To gawp and leer, trace bloody steps
Along the Ripper's beat.
Not for you such labour hard
Fatigued your metal ain’ti
Maybe a screw needs tightening up
Or the merest lick of paint.
You swan the walks of Chelsea's mews
Carry Boris and his chums
Oh how I long to be saddled with
Such a better class of Bums.
Pauline Dunnill