Post by thebandit on Oct 8, 2010 9:37:32 GMT
My own telegram days in Derby (Dave Humphries) were chronicled way back on this forum via newspaper cuttings and in one of the article's I mentioned a colleague who had immense influence on my young life, John Simnett, aka, Simmo.
John sadly died last year and at the funeral I showed his wife a poem I had written. Everyone knew that John was a character and always up to mischief, not least his wife who, thankfully, received the poem very warmly.
Having recently stumbled across it, I thought the forum would be a very apt place in which to publicly air my memories of the man that made my telegram days - and later, on the vans - such a wonderful experience. RIP Simmo.
"Simmo"
Sad to hear of anyone's last breath.
Oh dear, I read it's an old work mates death.
Telegram boys we both started as.
Beatles, Stones, life was a gas.
Impressing on a bright red Beeza,
I thought he was an amazing young geeza.
Sparks would fly on grounded leg shields,
then we'd scramble across open fields.
We both then learned to drive,
even more fun ahead to survive.
GPO vans or his Consul limmo,
it was always a treat to passenger the man we called Simmo.
In a J4 van he was the master,
no one could handle or drive one faster.
Parcels stacked high with great vigour,
he never could see through the nearside mirror!
Often late in very early morn - and always with a ready quote,
"Sorry I'm late gaffer, got stuck in a queue behind a milk float!".
Sorting office, Ascot Drive - tortured tyres squealing,
his entrance, always guaranteed to be appealing.
"Face up, and you can go", the inspector shouts above the hubbub,
and off we dashed into the pub.
"Pint of dynamite" is the thirsty cry,
downed in one, many more to buy.
Permanent grin through stubbled beard - and rarely a bicker,
with trademark greeting, "Aye-up vicar!".
Seven-week strike was a very long term,
but he craftily worked for another firm!
Without doubt a much-loved rogue,
what a shame they're no longer in vogue.
Memories are still flooding back,
he often came close to getting the sack.
Then he left, and I lost track,
how I missed his special craic.
At the funeral I hear of his wonderful country-based life,
and how devoted he was to his family - and Shirley, his wife.
Seventeen adoring grandchildren he did leave,
how sad to see them here to grieve.
And then I hear what took my old friend.
Motor neuron disease - what a terribly sad end.
On pain-easing wheels he spent his final years.
God I'm struggling to hold back the tears.
So the final drive through Pearly Gates.
John Simnett, so proud to have been one of your mates.
John sadly died last year and at the funeral I showed his wife a poem I had written. Everyone knew that John was a character and always up to mischief, not least his wife who, thankfully, received the poem very warmly.
Having recently stumbled across it, I thought the forum would be a very apt place in which to publicly air my memories of the man that made my telegram days - and later, on the vans - such a wonderful experience. RIP Simmo.
"Simmo"
Sad to hear of anyone's last breath.
Oh dear, I read it's an old work mates death.
Telegram boys we both started as.
Beatles, Stones, life was a gas.
Impressing on a bright red Beeza,
I thought he was an amazing young geeza.
Sparks would fly on grounded leg shields,
then we'd scramble across open fields.
We both then learned to drive,
even more fun ahead to survive.
GPO vans or his Consul limmo,
it was always a treat to passenger the man we called Simmo.
In a J4 van he was the master,
no one could handle or drive one faster.
Parcels stacked high with great vigour,
he never could see through the nearside mirror!
Often late in very early morn - and always with a ready quote,
"Sorry I'm late gaffer, got stuck in a queue behind a milk float!".
Sorting office, Ascot Drive - tortured tyres squealing,
his entrance, always guaranteed to be appealing.
"Face up, and you can go", the inspector shouts above the hubbub,
and off we dashed into the pub.
"Pint of dynamite" is the thirsty cry,
downed in one, many more to buy.
Permanent grin through stubbled beard - and rarely a bicker,
with trademark greeting, "Aye-up vicar!".
Seven-week strike was a very long term,
but he craftily worked for another firm!
Without doubt a much-loved rogue,
what a shame they're no longer in vogue.
Memories are still flooding back,
he often came close to getting the sack.
Then he left, and I lost track,
how I missed his special craic.
At the funeral I hear of his wonderful country-based life,
and how devoted he was to his family - and Shirley, his wife.
Seventeen adoring grandchildren he did leave,
how sad to see them here to grieve.
And then I hear what took my old friend.
Motor neuron disease - what a terribly sad end.
On pain-easing wheels he spent his final years.
God I'm struggling to hold back the tears.
So the final drive through Pearly Gates.
John Simnett, so proud to have been one of your mates.