The Road to Wigan Pier [or, To the Rainbow’s End]

No politics is the general rule,

she’s right, of course,

and so, I often volunteer

with the line of a song:

Let’s talk about sex, baby!

my light-hearted way,

of easing a tense situation.

We’ve always got on well,

them and me,

conversation lubricated

with the aid of a few jars,

of the old amber nectar,

(I prefer the old-fashioned glasses,

the ones with handles)

amiably nattering,

discretely defending

our corner of the bar,

from that in-your-face,

noisy weed-fuelled

bugger, over there.

This chap’s in his eighties,

older than me,

retired engineer,

knows a lot about all sorts,

once travelled the world,

was an avid walker,

loves the countryside,

but now finds it difficult

getting about

what with his dodgy knees

and his diabetes, and everything.

Tell me about it!

sez I.

We, at the University of Life

cover most subjects,

rambling on about music,

classical, pop and jazz,

climbing roses,

nasturtiums, beech hedges,

early photography,

layers and colour,

(yes, even back then

they had such things).

His wife’s a charming lady,

great sense of humour,

won’t tolerate crudity,

or overly loud behaviour,

or she’s off out.

They’ve been together

since their early teens, bless’em.

Recently, I’ve noticed a pattern:

every time they

come into the pub,

he’ll proudly announce:

We’ve just been to Wigan,

what I like about Wigan,

sez he,

…is, the pubs there are spotless,

but what I like most is,

it’s not full of coloureds,

no, Wigan’s not like here,

sez he.

Well, at least the chap’s honest,

don’t beat ‘round the bush,

tells it just how it is,

that’s what I admire most about him:

he’s got the guts

to say what everyone’s been

secretly thinking for years,

but have been afraid

to say out loud,

innit!

Le Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh,

Dé Máirt, an t-ochtú lá de mhí Mheán Fómhair,

an bhliain dhá mhíle is fiche a sé (Tuesday, 8th September, 2026)