(A harrier is an old-fashioned name for a cross country runner,
and some British athletic clubs still have the title)
I was a Liverpool Harrier, lean and toned to an inch,
then I became a pub drinker and married a woman
who could be described as the original penny pinch.
She loved to entertain with memories of lovers on a far shore,
but when I tried to boast of my athletic exploits she pointed to my pot belly, which had become too big to ignore.
In a vain attempt to boost my manhood I went to a disco,
where I vainly thought my cool haircut would impress the ‘birds’.
But my dancing feet did not respond as in days of youth.
Face the facts, I say to myself – you’re more
at home in the local doing the crossword, now ain’t that the truth?
So I went to the line dancing night at the Fiddlers Elbow,
to hear resident band The Chewbaccy Country Cousins lament –
‘Love can prove elusive, though it’s often at your finger tips.
Cowboys used to buy it for half a dollar,
then wake up, scratch themselves and exclaim,
‘I’ve got nits! Damn that whore!’
So I joined the line dancers, swinging my hips
Texan style to an old thymee beat,
reflecting – ‘Am I really past my sell-by-date?’
Then I escaped into an imaginary world of the Wild West,
where I, as a smooth-talking gambler with a wideawake
hat and a six gun, shot a crooked sheriff who tried to
throw me out of town.
For I had fallen for his intended – Sally – the owner of
the curiously named Broken Saddle Saloon.
We lived happily ever after in our little home in the west,
where she worshipped my body, and being an artist,
drew shapes on my distinctly un-hairy chest,
and after coitus, murmured in my ear,
‘I love older, down at heel men.’
But my dream ended abruptly when I woke up,
after She Who Must Be Obeyed shouted,
‘You’re talking to yourself again!’
So now, in an effort to gain solace in my dotage,
I joined fellow Old Farts Harriers to reminisce,
taking alcoholic solace at our local, the Duck And Partridge.
We laugh at the overweight chap and his dog doing a park run,
and sneer at so-called celebrities in fancy dress,
panting and grimacing, who say they are running for fun!
For we are the Old Farts Harriers who didn’t run
for money, but love (granted, we would have cashed in on
our talent, such as it was, but we weren’t fast enough).
So raise a glass to those old runners who used to be lean and toned to an inch.
I’ll settle back into my dreams of the Old West,
and imagine I’m married to Sally,
owner of the Broken Saddle Saloon,
and not her indoors with her tongue that would make a gunfighter flinch.
But like the old cowboys we’re too big to sit astride our horses
and chase the Injuns and outlaws.
Our bellies wobble and we suffer from flatus,
our personal best times fade into significance
compared to those who weren’t similarly blessed.
But we love to indulge ourselves, and recall when we
raced around cross country courses, up fells and down dales,
for we are the Old Farts Harriers,
please come and listen to our tall tales.