Poetry

Thumb

In the quiet of a morning flat, A thumb rests soft upon the glass, Leaving a warm, amber print— A silent signature of touch. It hitches rides on lorry backs, Points north when

Stranraer

Stranraer, where the Irish Sea meets Clyde’s soft sigh, A harbour town of gulls and granite, beneath a grey‑tinged sky. Cobbled lanes recall the clatter of carts that once did roam, While ferries

Notts County

At Meadow Lane where echoes dwell, The Magpies whisper tales of old— A crimson kit, a steadfast spell, Since eighteen‑sixty‑four they’ve boldly told. From lowly grounds to lofty chants, The faithful roar in

Rochdale

Rochdale, where Pennine hills sigh low, Their ancient stone a steadfast crew, The River Roch in quiet flow, Reflects the sky’s perpetual blue. Here once the Pioneers did stand, With co‑operative hope alight, Their

Spartans

In the rugged hills of Laconia they stood, Spartan sons of iron will and stone‑clad pride, Their crimson cloaks a flare against the pale, A shield of bronze, a spear that would not

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives