Quixall Crossett

When Quixall went to the races,
He saw lots of familiar faces.
Nearly all of them cheered,
An odd one of them jeered,
He finished, but out of the places.

Geoff Sanderson. March 2001.

ODE TO QUIXALL CROSSETT

(TO OWD QUIXALL)

It's hard work doing the horses,
You have to get up very early,
And if he's not been sleeping too well,
Quixall Crossett can be very surly.

We get on just like we were married,
Which is how it always should be,
It's a sort of love-hate relationship,
I love him, but I'm sure he hates me.

I gather my saddle from the tack-room,
And pop it on old Quixall's back,
I do up the girth very tightly,
So, when I get on, it's not slack.

"You look like something from Thelwell,"
Joy says, as we trot down the track.
I just hope we're still together,
The horse and me, when we get back.

At the racecourse he jumps very safely,
"Safe as houses," you know what I mean.
No, the jumps are not his main problem,
It's the long, boring flat bits between.

He can gallop and gallop for ever,
'Till the opposition gets really sick.
His stamina's never been doubted,
It's just that he's not very quick.

The Papers all say, as a racehorse,
His record is by far the worst,
But I've read that it's said in the Bible,
"One day, the last shall be first."

So when I am dead, and in Heaven,
I'll repent of this life as a sinner,
And say, "God, thank you for Quixall,
'Cos, to me, he's always a winner."

Geoff M. Sanderson. April 2000.

PENSION AGE

by QUIXALL CROSSETT

Don't speak to me of retirement,
All that sitting around on one's ass,
It takes so little intellect,
To sneak up on, and eat, blades of grass.

With nothing to look at but scenery,
When once my fate has been sealed,
I'd rather be jumping round Haydock,
Round Wetherby, Ayr, or Sedgefield.

My fans would be so disappointed,
Not to see me doing my best,
Tailing off, after one or two fences,
But, at the end, quickly catching the rest.

There's always a few finish behind me,
A few more pull up, or fall,
I've finished in front of some good'uns,
So I'm not really that bad at all.

I've never hurt any jockeys,
And, for that matter, they've not hurt me,
I still love all of the racetracks,
There's nowhere that I'd rather be.

So don't speak to me of retirement,
I've still got a long way to go,
Which is good news for all of my fan club,
Though the Press will respond, "Oh no! NO!"

Maybe, when I'm in my late twenties,
And I feel more like staying in bed,
I'll take over schooling the youngsters,
And knock steeplechasing on th' head.

But I'll never retire completely,
As I'm still in love with the game.
After all, racing without Quixall,
Would never be really the same.

Geoff Sanderson. June 2000.

THE SPORTING LIFE
BY QUIXALL CROSSETT

A lot of people have asked me,
Just how I prepare for a race.
Exactly what happens beforehand,
Up here at my High Crossett base.

Well, the day before I go racing,
I get scrubbed from my hooves to my head,
By Joy and by Geoff both shampooing,
And have my shoes checked by my trainer, Ted.

I'm then taken out on a lead rein,
By Geoff, to dry off in the sun.
I have a pick of the grass to eat,
Then get led back in, when I'm done.

While I'm having my tea we talk tactics.
Talk of jockeys and jumps and racecourses:
Of what I will do on the morrow-
I'm not worried by the other horses.

Geoff then reads me a bed-time story,
Just to help me get off to sleep.
(Sometimes, he reads me his poems,
But I find them rather too deep).

On the day of the race, I rise early,
I'm groomed and I'm plaited and combed.
After that I am ready for leaving;
My physique has been so finely honed.

So then I get into my wagon,
Of course, I travel first class.
But then, so do the others,
Which is a great pain in the ass.

As I walk into the parade ring,
All eyes turn to look just at me,
And Geoff? He never stops talking,
He's as nervous as nervous can be.

The people then get out their cameras,
As round the parade ring we amble.
The shutters all click as I go past,
I feel like I'm Naomi Campbell.

Then my jockey gets the old leg up,
And out onto the course we descend.
The tapes go up and the race begins.
(But we know how it's all going to end).

Don't we?

Geoff. M. Sanderson. November 2000.

BILSDALE MORN

Raucous are the calls
Of a parliament of rooks.

Tempting are the smells
From distant farm-house kitchen cooks.

Shrill are the whistles
Of the shepherd to his dog.

Me? I fell off Quixall
And landed in a bog.

Again.

Geoff Sanderson. November 2000.

ODE TO JOY

An "Ode to Joy", for long enough

Has been an aim of mine,

But Beethoven beat me to it,

With his symphony number nine.

Geoff Sanderson. January 2001.

A GREY DAY

A pale, weak and watery December sun,
Peers, half-heartedly, through the fog.
The Summer's warmth gone and forgotten,
Like the memory of last year's Christmas log.

Surrounded by the impenetrable mist,
Like being adrift on an horizonless sea,
On into the grey we ride, towards more grey.
There's just the two of us, my Quixall and me.

Slowly into view ahead there comes a shape,
A band of darker grey that seems to bar our way.
As we get closer, we see it's just the silent wood,
Keeping watch for signs of Spring's first new day.

High atop the tallest of the trees there sits,
With shoulders hunched against the cold,
A grey heron, which looks for all the world
Like a miser counting out his hoard of gold.

Two would-be thieves arrive on the scene,
In the form of two rooks, winged mobbers
Who attack and harass the old grey heron,
Like two city streetwise, teenage robbers.

Off into the grey they all fly, disappearing
Into the fog, and we continue our walk.
The loud silence returns to surround us,
And we dare not break it with our talk.

Just my horse and me.

Geoff Sanderson. December 2000/January 2001.

DREAMLAND

I wandered lonely on my horse,
O'er bracken, heather and through gorse,
When, all at once, far off, we saw
A magical, mystical, open door.

It led to a world of common sense,
Where no race-horse ever fell at a fence.
All parties agreed on the funding of racing,
Which solved all the problems we're currently facing.

The pictures on telly were really first class,
No Willy Carson, (He's a pain in the xxxx).
No sarcastic race-readers were allowed at the mike,
So Cattermole, disgusted, rode off on his bike.

I said to Quixall, "This cannot be real!
This world has a truly ethereal feel."
He said, "Don't let this illusion be the fooling of you,
As it can't possibly ever really come true."

And he's right.
As usual.

Geoff Sanderson. December 2000.
(With thanks to W. Wordsworth).

UNEXPECTED GUESTS

"There's a funny smell in this spaceship,"
Said one green Martian t' t'other.
" I don't know what you've been eating,
But it's affecting control of the rudder."

"The gas must be eating the wiring
That connects up all the controls.
We've lost all the power to the thrusters,
And we've run out of quilted loo rolls."

"To make matters worse, it's the radar.
It's finally given up the ghost.
The tea is all cold in the teapot,
And the toaster has burnt all the toast."

"We're heading for Earth in a big way,
There's no way at all we can miss it.
I've punched in all the co-ordinates,
We'll be landing quite soon at High Crossett."

"Oh good!" said the smelliest of them.
"It's a place I've always wanted to see!!
And maybe I'll get my photo took.
You know, Quixall Crossett and me!!"

"The main problem will be in the braking,
As we're really travelling too fast.
If I can't do something quite quickly,
I think there'll be a very large blast."

"No, it's all right. I've done that already,"
Said the one who'd produced all the gas.
"No, I mean when we hit the ground, silly!
You know, you're a real pain in the ass."

"I had one just now, before I farted,
But everything's fine now it's free.
The only slight fly in the ointment,
Is that I'm really desperate to wee."

It was then that the accident happened.
The ship crashed with a terrible sound.
There were bits of spaceship all over,
Bits of Martians all over the ground.

We couldn't do much first aid for them,
Give 'em mouth to mouth and the like,
We weren't sure which bits were which, and
The aftermath was such a terrible sight.

So we gathered the pieces together,
And put them in a big plastic sack.
So if you'd like to see what was left, well,
That's the sack stood round the back.

Geoff Sanderson. January 2001