Cod Almighty | Article
by Alistair Wilkinson
25 February 2019
Michael Jolley and his team are putting to bed a lot of bad memories, and Al Wilkinson is enjoying the ride
Like a home fire
Like a permit for desire
Like a tale of perfect repute
Like a Thomas salute
Like putting to bed bad memories of a bald head
Like sticking on a plaster and it doesn't show red
Like running from a terminator who'll save us instead
Like ignoring for now all the things that were said
Like sunshine in Meggies and an ice cream cone
Like falling in the Park and finding a precious stone
Like forgetting a hate and a mercy shown
Like remembering we are one and we are our own
Like the ache on our faces from smiling too much
Like the delight we take from Hessenthaler's touch
Like exposed hands, cold and raw from all that applause
Like the silence from the top and the welcome pause
Like stamping our feet to Jolley's greatest show
Like knowing we're more than a footprint in the snow
Like a broken heart, left, forgotten, then found and mended
Like a pass and move, again and again, a play never ended
Like the thundering, thudding roar of a thousand A180s
Like the floating elation of a billion bubble bath Mateys
Like a cigarette that can't harm, a pie straight from the
farm, a pint in the hand, a really good live band, the chatter
of happy voices, the pleasure of choices, the Harry that's our
own. The old acquaintance that we think has grown.
Like a family do with relations who haven't spoken in years
Like a bloody-faced Swede that stands up to our fears
Like a reconciliation that's holding for now
Like a reunion to make a promise for the future
Never mind how
Like sketches and plans that illustrate hope
Like a club hanging from a stronger rope
Like a suspicion buried but not deep
Like a promise needed to keep.
This is it. This is like something good.