tasty lancashire

He walks at 15 miles per hour

And never takes a rest

He can balance half a York

Of packets on his head

He’s the high tech hero

Saviour of a sadly dated sytem

The envy of the world

Britain’s first Robotic postman

…

Well his back is never aching

And his knees they never creak

He’ll never abuse a customer

Cos you’ll never hear him speak

He’s no arthritis or sciatica

And he’ll never slip a disc

And he’ll never phone in with the flu

When last night he was pissed

…

He’s never misdelivered

Or left a parcel in your bin

He won’t walk across your lawn

Cos he’s programmed it’s a sin

He won’t shove leaflets down the drain

When he can’t be bothered

Cos he prints junk mail with one hand

And delivers it wi’ t’other

…

He’ll never get a puncture

Or write off a Royal Mail van

He won’t litter the streets

With discarded rubber bands

His uniform’s immaculate

His punctuality too

And he wont canoodle with

That flirty piece at 42

…

He never takes a holiday

And never goes on strike

He’s never clipped a wing mirror

Or gate post with his bike

He doesn’t open birthday cards

(At least he’s not been caught)

He never nips behind a bush

Cos he’s never taken short

…

But don’t ask him for directions

Cos he’s no time to stop

And he’ll never help a pensioner

Carry groceries from the shop

He won’t charm you

With his cheerful smile

Or crack a dirty joke

And don’t invite him in for coffee

He’s not that type of bloke

…

And when you go on holiday

He’ll not keep a watchful eye

All the neighbourhood means to him

Is service demand and supply

So I suggest we sell him off for scrap

And use the proceeds mostly

To give a generous christmas tip

To your friendly local postie.

…

Cos he only walks quite slowly

And he’s very often late

He never knocks quite loud enough

And he never shuts the gate

He brings unwanted circulars

And he thinks he’s underpaid

But we’d rather have a postman

Than a robot any day.

1. 

Sleepy Sunday pavements littered

With ghosts of Saturday’s misdemeanours

Street sweeping machines dance a figure of eight

And the paperboy curses the supplements’ weight

…

When the quiet is punctured by the chatter of blokes

Carbon fibre contraptions with derailleurs and spokes

Squeezed into elastane for moral support

They consult, mirror-shaded, the weather report.

Calves shaved smooth as a baby’s bottom

Overdrafts and arthritis forgotten

Lean(ish), keen, stretched and psyched:

A chain gang of Middle Aged Men in Lycra

…

They rearrange their padded crotches

Synchronise their satnav watches

Pass around the chamois creme

The baby oil and vaseline

Some for the chain ring and some for the arse

Lubrication for the moving parts

With more hydration than a bedouin’s camel

An unstoppable peloton of  MAMILs

…

Like Prima Donnas in a spandex ballet,

They clip into pedals and wheel away

Synchronised crankshafts, deftly changed gears

Their only emissions from last night’s beer

Pedestrians to left, psychopaths to right

They hold position, torpedo tight.

Motorists, skateboarders, dogs, hitch-hikers:

Think one, think twice, think Men in Lycra

…

In rapid, graceful, concentration

Through farm and ford they keep formation

Then exhausted, but jubilant, the day’s victory won

They snort Ibuprofen to deflame their bums

Take fingerless gloves off white-fingered claws

Acknowledge the imaginary crowd’s applause

Then retreat to the bedroom to apply wet flannel

To the red raw intimate regions of MAMIL.

…

At the crossroads of your mid-life crisis

Is it Rossi or Wiggins you’ll seek for advice?

The leathers and  paunch of  hairy biker ?

Or the aerodynamics of Man in Lycra.

So raise your cadence, make revolutions

Seek the thrills of self-propulsion.

But  guard your loins from the worst predations

Of a MAMILs scourge:

Lycra degradation