It might have been John Masefield. It could have been somebody called Keats. It’s amazing the things one reads in the papers these days.
But I’ve read somewhere that Wayne Rooney, he of Man U glory, has a mind for poetry. Not just the stuff you read on lavvy walls. What is the world coming to, I have to ask from my rocking chair.
I hear too that Louis Van Gaal has made a long playing album, Songs For Swinging Lovers.
Out in time for Christmas and I’ve already placed my order.
That and some cheery festive frolic by Roy Hodgson, manager of the mighty England. They’ve got my order for that as well, so no shortage of musical entertainment over the festive period.
While we are talking music I feel obliged to add that a surname was missing from this column on Thursday.
The moniker you’ll want to know now, though it’s better late than none at all, was Keating.
Somehow John’s name was omitted in the mix. So it was Keating, Keating, Keating, a legend in Edinburgh had he lived. Like I said on Thursday, I shed a tear at the graveside at Mount Vernon and in the Memorial Mass at the chapel at Mount Vernon and afterwards at St Mary’s Star of the Sea in Constitution Street, Leith.
You can’t catch me, Carrie
How many times do I have to tell you, Carrie? Caroline Wyatt in pearls, hair severely swept back, again was making a big play for me. But I’m spoken for.
And whenever you’re on the box and she hears your deep dulcet tones she thinks you’re trying to sell her coal.