Ernie Wordsworth’s Sad Fate

Ashes from last night’s chiminea fire stare back at me as I commence today’s descriptif quotidien. Hopefully that snippet of info paints the landscape I’m scribing this prose from a rattan pew at the top of my back garden.

Although saying that, as I doubt you know the location my aforementioned fire pit, or indeed the garden seats, I’ll accept the effectiveness of yours truly’s scene painting maybe flawed…. And to be honest, if you did know their location I’d be curios to know how you came into possession of those facts…… Not to mention, asking if you were the person from Falls Road who on a nightly basis watches my house with binoculars?

As only an idiot would light a chiminea indoors, though, I’m sure you’ll have guessed from an earlier reference to my close proximity to fire pit ashes I’m writing this blog alfresco…… Although, yours truly’s referencing you’d have to be an idiot to recklessly ignite a fire pit indoors, may lead to some observations not to dismiss I maybe inside the home.

For the uninitiated alfresco means I’m outside. I realise you’ll most likely know that and perhaps find it’s inclusion patronising. However, it’s worth mentioning as, during previous use of that word in a different situation, an old acquaintance of mine advised she thought alfresco meant naked.

I can assure you GJ Strachan is most definitely not naked as he pens this unreliable hooey……. Incidentally, you’ll have noticed yours truly wrote old acquaintance above. This friendship died from her irk of witnessing me writing in my birthday suit while garden in situ.

Anyhow, getting back on track. With the exception of a dog pee burned lawn the view and overall ambience accompanying my journalling is quite pleasant. With midday solar rays breaking through pergola cast shadows after the sun’s move due south a prevailing aurora of contentment envelopes the author.

The gratification derived augmented further by the melodic birdsong from nesting garden avians. and the colours of the now burgeoning spring flora and fauna. I feel like Wordsworth must’ve felt when, during a scenic stroll around Coniston the poet felt moved to compose ‘Ode to Nature’. A poem which from memory played out as follows:-

Sunlight caresses dainty spring flowers;

Weather gods bequeathing no April showers;

Mercifully, Wintertide‘s since departed;

Blimey, has that Chauffinch just farted.

Incidentally, that was written by Brigheaton poet Ernie Wordsword, not his more acclaimed namesake William,

Ernie, a butcher by trade, whose eccentric beatnik poetry ensured him legendary status around Pennine towns. The populous of these boroughs built on textile manufacturing brought up with the quirky literary output of this local man done good.

Another of his popular sonnet back catalogue was a piece titled ‘Where’s Reg?’. A eponymous verse about a depressed local fella which reads as follows:-

Where’s Reg?

Is he in that hedge?

Gone Morrisons for veg?

Or stood on the town hall ledge?

The poignant and most celebrated of his ditties earning Ernie the Literary Freedom of his home town Brigheaton. A borough where he was born, raised and ate his first kebab in May 1981.

Unfortunately for the butcher, though, he tragically lost his life at the relatively young age of 93 after being crushed to death on Brigheaton town hall steps during presentation of his literary freedom award.

This sorry incident occurring after Reg jumped from the town hall ledge, landing on the poet’s creative bonce. They say that you make your own luck; quite clearly that didn’t play out for poor old Ernie…… I’m assured, though, he did make his own sausages.

“Shift Ernie!!…. Shift!!”

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