Hootoo was eleven, on April twenty-eight

I trust my birthday greeting, will not arrive too late,

But one odd thing did strike me, as I wondered what to do,

Its birthday as a broadcast, is exactly twenty-two.

Back in nineteen seventy-eight, I remember a cold March night,

My wedding anniversary, if I recall aright.

We'd dined on eggs and oysters, drunk more than the usual quota,

My wife had taken herself to bed, leaving me to tune the Jota.

Armed with brandy and a tranny, to my workshop I adjourned,

But it wasn't just the motorbike, with which I was concerned.

I caught a programme teaser, in the early afternoon,

So the chance to listen, on my own, seemed highly opportune.

The trailer sounded curious, it reminded me of a snark

A story to be told in 'fits' , but only broadcast after dark.

An inter-galactic traveller's guide, with a most peculiar bent,

Marvin, a paranoid android, and a hapless soul named 'Dent',

Now Aunty's audience survey, had totted up the score,

And predicted with authority, that the audience would be 'four'.

Well, I was one, and curiously, I've met the other three,

It made me think and ponder, and this occurs to me.

Perhaps the Beeb's researchers, would have been let off the hook,

If they hadn't cast dear Peter Jones, in the anchor-role of 'The Book'.

But all of that's of nothing, and the guide's not on the shelf,

So let me join the rest of you, and drink its worthy health.

Poetry by PedanticBarSteward Archive

PedanticBarSteward

03.05.10 Front Page

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