The Twelve Days of Christmas? Oh! No!

bauble · 23 Dec 2014, 17:55 (Ref:3487444)

A Marshal's Lament.

On the first week of the season,
The Fat Clerk said to me.
I need you up at Aintree.

On the second week of the season.
Post Chief did send me.
To corner close to nowhere
Where the wind was blowing icily.

On the third week of the season
I found myself at Snet.
Knee deep in mud,
Frozen to the blood.
And my probans cold and soaking wet.

On the fourth week of the season.
I tried to take a break,
The Fat Clerk gave a sneer
Said now listen ‘ere
Get your ass in gear
Your at Brands, get down there fast for goodness sake.

On the fifth week of the season,
I was bound for far Knockhill.
Two Hundred miles,
At one twenty pence a litre
Save me Saint Peter
How many kilometre,
The Fat Clerk I could quite cheerfully kill.

On the sixth week of the season,
My loving wife left me.
Said she couldn’t take it.
Wouldn’t even fake it
Took the kids and car,
Moved away so far
But her solicitor is calling round at three.

On the seventh week of the season
I was back at Silverstone.
Four nights in a tent.
Can’t afford to rent.
Tent poles are all bent.
Marshal at the GP,
Oh! Lucky me.
Where can I pee?
But it’s better than being back at home alone.

On the eighth week of the season,
All my dreams came true.
Sunshine at Oulton,
BTTC is brutal,
Bits and bumpers scattered,
Body work all tattered.
Four wheel infractions.
Lots of stewards actions.
Some tasty female attractions,
In overalls all sweaty, suncream slathered heavy underneath a sky of shiny blue.

On the ninth week of the season.
I really felt alive.
F3 at Thruxton,
Holiday at Clacton,
Croft Oop North.
Birthday on the fourth,
Life begins at forty,
Got up to something naughty,
Now my things all worty,
To top it all I
Spent four days round at Copse with that chap Clive.

On the tenth week of the season,
The weather tuning cold.
Rain all day at Pembrey.
Just a fading memory.
Far to cold for golf,
Spent a day at Shelsey Walsh.
Wife want’s a divorce,
What the heck is F.O.R.C.E.?
I can’t work it out.
Got a touch of gout.
What is that about.
Well it just seems that I must be getting rather old.

On the eleventh week of the season.
I finally had enough.
Probans need replacing,
Boots need relacing.
Flags all worn and faded.
Feeling tired and jaded.
Motor wants a decoke,
Prices just a bad joke.
Knees are getting shaky,
Mind is getting flaky.
I find this marshalling business for me is far too tough.

On the twelfth week of the season.

I said “Sod It!”