The Short List Of The 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition

The poems below also made the final judging short list, as chosen by our panel of judges here at Playing Bingo.

Tilly Boscott: L- The Prize

A Poem by Tilly Boscott – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

When Mrs. Bigston settled down,

She grabbed the strips and spread them round

To all the ladies on her table,

One strip for some, more for the able.

She herself took five at least,

Her hands clung to two pens apiece.

She screened each strip both up and down

And jabbed her pen, intent with frown.

But when today the caller spoke,

She looked upon the beaming bloke

With eyes torn from the bingo strips,

Took in his shapely, working hips.

She saw his teeth that chomped the air,

His lustrous, lovely, long, dark hair,

The way he danced about the stage

And did not act his older age.

The numbers blurred before her aim,

Her cataracts were not to blame,

Her heartbeat sped, her bosom yearned

With every inch the wheel turned.

And when he plucked the balls between

His fingers, long and lithe and lean,

The world grew dim before her face

As her heart onwards did race.

And when the world came into view,

Before her stood, dear friend, guess who?

The bingo caller took her hand

And helped our heroine to stand.

And as she swooned beneath his hold,

He said “Miss, may I be so bold?”

Reached for her strips and picked just one,

“My dear,” he smiled, “I see you’ve won.”

And as confetti flurried down

And cheers, like thunder shook the ground,

He handed her a hundred quid

And she grinned, “Oh yes, I did.”

Peter Mc Cauley: Bingo Night

A Poem by Peter McCauley – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

The government is on the brink.

We’ve beetles bathing in the sink.

The television’s on the blink –

At least it’s bingo night!

The shops are shuttered in the town;

Each day a new one closes down.

The young have fled to higher ground –

At least it’s bingo night!

Headlines read like open sores.

Troubles come in threes and fours

And when it rains it really pours –

At least it’s bingo night!

Purses squeezed to pay the rent;

Hardly earned until it’s spent.

(So that’s where all our living went!)

At least it’s bingo night!

At least at last it’s bingo night –

Come, one and all!

Some soft relief from boredom’s bite –

Come, fill the hall!

And everyone will take their place,

Filing in with smiling face,

Watching how, with gentle grace,

The numbers fall.

At least at last it’s bingo night –

Sweet dreamer’s ball!

Our chances may be slim or slight

Or not at all.

The world outside will never know

Our numbers never, ever show

But still we scour every row –

Await the call!

The government is on the brink.

We’ve beetles bathing in the sink.

This night is dark – as black as ink –

At least it’s bingo night!

Carole Brown: Bingo Lingo

A Poem by Carole Brown – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

“It’ll be a great night,” my mate had said
So a clubbers paradise filled my head,
However I was filled with much trepidation
When I discovered bingo was our destination.
The place was packed with young and old
With bingo books being bought and sold.
Suddenly there descended an expectant hum
It was then I realised the time had come
The machine gaudily blinked and flashed,
whilst ninety balls gaily danced and clashed.
As Dave the caller pressed the button hard,
every player hastily reached for their card.
“One little duck, quackety, quack”
And all too soon I’d developed the knack
I placed my dabber on number two,
despite myself, my excitement grew.
Over many frustrated players groans
wafted the handsome caller’s dulcet tones
“Dave’s den, that’s number ten”
had several ladies reach for their pen.
“Any way up, sixty nine”
Had me suddenly reaching for my wine
Numerous numbers were called in vain,
I doubted I’d use my dabber again!
I admired Dave’s skill and expertise
and how he handled his balls with ease.
The next few numbers I dabbed at speed,
Scanning to see how many more I would need
“Twenty one, the key of the door”
Adrenalin pumped, need one more.
On eighty eight, I shouted “bingo”
that’s two fat ladies in bingo lingo!
My heart pounded as they checked it out
in case of a bogey (what’s that all about?)
Handing over my winnings, Dave gave a wink,
asked if I’d fancy joining him for a drink.
Later we went to Dave’s den in his van,
Where one fat lady became a bingo fan!

Marion Clarke: So Long And Thanks For All The Ducks

A Poem by Marion Clarke – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

My friend’s mother is a bingo lover.
If there’s a game to be played,
she simply can’t stay away
from bingo halls and amusement arcades,
she’ll be there, if there’s money to be made.

Then last week, while waiting on twenty-two
for a full house, bitten nails – lucky pen, too,
she told me she couldn’t believe her luck
when Paddy O’Reilly called “two wee ducks”.
But now she’s cringing about going back,
because instead of shouting “check”,
she cried out, “quack!”

 

Joy France: Full House

A Poem by Joy France – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

“BALLS ! ” I said
“It’s for morons, the brain dead”
“No I don’t want to go”
“I DON’T DO BINGO”

Granddaughter’s head dropped. She groaned. Eyes downcast, locked on that blasted IPhone. I sighed, for one
moment, at last, I be alone with my thoughts. As I watched this young woman, so like her mum, I caught my
breath… and nostalgia bit me on the bum.
Sipping my sweet tea, past times came slipping by, infused in a heady brew of memories and reveries.

Sip
We’re there on one of those family seaside trips, kids full of candyfloss, chips, sand and fresh air.
She’s there. My girl, all smiles and big eyes, full of wonder under golden curls, this mirror child of mine. She’s
playing end of pier bingo, ears pinned back for crackled numbers. She stretches to rise, to slide the cover over
the 3 under the B, when it should have been 13. She’s all at sea and happy.

Sip
Fundraising in the school hall, coming together, one and all. Noisy chatter then excited hush as numbers are
called. There’s a man who, a moments ago, looked so frail and slow, about to fall. Now he’s working two strips
in precision rush. I see those old fingers go, making their mark. He’s a 78 played on 33 and a 1/3 . Defying
stereotyping. Speed lightening. Escaping.

Sip
Local church hall social, and in total no more than a tenner to be won. Ping pong balls, churned turned,
plucked and called. Mascots rubbed and rituals performed. Hoping it’s today that their number’s up and lady
luck calls. Two fat ladies are sweating, waiting for 88, two little ducks urge 22 and Kelly’s eye is on number one.
Quick quick quick. I’m blindly looking for 90 but get clickety click.

Sip
At auntie Jane’s, with hand-made boards and counters, letting the youngest win a game – again. He shouts
“house” with glee in this home, and we can see he’s feeling big and grown and above all, loved.

She looked up.
I drained my cup.
“You know gran, it’s not about the winning.
It’s the joining, the enjoying, the dreaming.
All ages sharing, at ease
Come. Please, please, Please”

“Ok my darling Hun…
We might just find it fun.
Why not ask your mum
If she’d like to come?
And if she says no,
She doesn’t do bingo,
Say ‘balls !’”

Claire Goddard: House

A Poem by Claire Goddard – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

Eyes down, dabber ready
Ears alert, hand steady
Forty-nine, twenty-one
The fun has only just begun

Numbers come and numbers go
My boxes seem to fill so slow
A shout goes out on thirty-four
A grey haired lady by the door

The line has gone, I’m on for two
My heart beats fast so I nudge you
Another shout this time not far
A chubby man sat by the bar

I swap now to my lucky pen
Fifty-seven and then ten
One more number and I will win
Come on number, please come in

My heart is pounding, I’m set to shout
Come on number, please come out
Another call this time so near
You beat me to it; it’s you I hear

My hand goes up, I start to smile
I haven’t won in quite a while!

 

Vivien Hampshire: Two Fat Ladies

A Poem by Vivien Hampshire – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

Come on, hurry up. Get your coat off, Mabel.
If we’re quick we’ll get seats at our favourite table.
There’s Gladys over there. Coo-ee! Let’s give her a wave.
And who’s our caller tonight? Oooh, it’s Dishy Dave!

What? You can’t find your pen? You’ve dropped it somewhere?
Not to worry. I’ve brought a spare,
And plenty of change, and some gin in a flask.
What’s the jackpot tonight? I forgot to ask.

As I came out this evening, I said to my daughter,
“My luck’s in tonight. I can feel it in my water.”
I’ve already decided what I’ll get with my prize.
I’m just not sure if it comes in my size.

Right! Eyes down, we’re about to begin.
The machine’s started up and the lights have been dimmed.
You can sense the excitement all round the hall
As Dave reaches out and grabs that first ball.

“God’s in Heaven,” he calls. I think that’s a seven.
Then everyone whistles when he calls legs eleven.
Then two fat ladies, and the key of the door,
Or did he say knock? Was that twenty one? Or four?

I’m a little bit deaf, and it’s hot in here too.
The numbers come quick and I’ve missed quite a few.
Then a voice pipes up, loud and clear, in broad Scouse
As Gladys jumps up, waves her card, and screams “House!”

Well, two hours later, and what a cheek!
We’ve not won a penny. Better luck next week?
Let’s get some chips and head home on the bus.
Those two fat ladies, Mabel… Do you think he meant us?

Nyle Holihan: Non Repeating Number Groupings

A Poem by Nyle Holihan – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

You see, Leffler went insane
Making all those Bingo Cards.
Whoever thought it could be so hard
To make 6000 bingo cards?
He was a mathematician, a good mathematician.
A professor. And he spent his days.
And his sanity.
So bingo could be played.

Each number
on each card
that you set before you.
He chose it, mostly likely.
Not fate, a man.
Probability calculated.
See, he was a mathematician.
A good mathematician.

So when you set out to play.
Don’t pray to god or luck.
Pray to Leffler, Carl Leffler.
That his cards, his numbers.
His hard, hard work.
His sanity’s labour.
May work in your favour.
Luck be a Leffler,
This Saturday night.

 

Hazel Humphreys: Top Of The Shop

A Poem by Hazel Humphreys – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

Eyes downcast, she feels alone, an aching numbness in her bones
She thinks of loss and love and pain, then settles down to one more game
It’s been too long, three weeks away; it’s time to catch up, chat and play
She thought she wouldn’t yet be able to join the ladies at the table.

But balancing upon her stick; an old age pensioner, clickety click
Two fat ladies welcome her, and offer up a comfy chair.
Opens the jotter, grips the dabber, listens to the callers blabber
Fingers her old wedding ring as the numbers start to sing.

And all too soon the session ends, there’s smiles and hugs from her old friends
Who urge her keep her bottom parked, “There’s one last thing we need to mark”.
“Where’s Doris now?” the caller calls; cheers echo through the Mecca’s halls
For the oldest bingo player in town, who’s been out, but not long down.

She started playing at Sweet Sixteen; full of joy, still young and keen
Met a boy to jump and jive; whilst through the war they stayed alive .
He proposed on dirty knee through bakers buns and cups of tea
They waved the teens goodbye through tears; now he’s been gone for many years.

Half a century ago they closed down the Cameo
But when the Mecca opened there, she was their first customer.
And they’ve remembered her specially, made her feel like family
There’s birthday gifts for her to take, and ninety balls upon her cake.

She’d laid so low after the hip hop; but now she’s feeling Top of the Shop
Realises she’s not alone; no house tonight, but she’s found home.

 

Rachel Ives: The Oldest Bingo Caller

A Poem by Rachel Ives – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

We are having a service before evening session begins
To bid farewell to The Dabber, the oldest bingo pen
Maude bought it many years ago, when she was in her teens
Its been topped up with vinegar, and seen many many wins

Alas it died last Friday, and is finally laid to rest
Joining Maude in heaven, whose heart gave up in her chest
We are providing light refreshment, and chips and chicken wings
A toast to Maude in heaven, and her faithful bingo pen

We don’t want floral tributes, a donation would be nice
We are going to display The Dabber in a cabinet custom made
A pen that’s served so well, deserves to be displayed

Maude’s eyes cast down from heaven
She joins in all the fun
To think they believed The Dabber was her only one!

She’d bequeathed the pen to Sharon, along with her lucky pants
The pants were full of holes, but happily not full of ants
She’d left a note for Sharon, urging her friend to care for them
“These pants will bring luck to only those that wear them!”

Sharon cried tears of grief for Maude and her lucky pen
Praying that the elastic in the pants would not fail yet again!

Mark A. Jones: Annie’s Game
A Poem by Mark A. Jones – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

My name? It is Annie and I’m seventy-two,
I’ve probably played bingo much longer than you,
Yes I would consider, I’m an athlete of sorts,
And yes you may laugh, but bingo’s my sport.

Tonight is the big one, the ’National’ no less,
Big money’s at stake, I’m in peak, at my best,
I’ve been training for years, and won prizes it’s true,
I feel in these bones, that my dream will come true.

There’s no time for a drink, lights drop down low,
I’m poised with my dabber, I’m one with the flow,
The game it has started, across city and town,
An army of ’bingoists’, poised, all eyes down.

Fifty-seven is first called, and yes! It is there,
My ink blots the paper, with speed and with care,
The second is called and it’s one little duck,
Number two, I don’t have it, I won’t curse my luck.

Clickety-click sixty-six, like a train on the track,
I dab it and yes, my game it is back,
Numbers are called, some hits and some misses,
Top of the shop, ninety answers my wishes.

The two fat ladies, they step to the line,
My dabber hits seventeen, fourteen and nine,
Legs-eleven is called and whistles ring out,
Eighty-four, just three more and I’m in with a shout.

All the threes, another number, bless thirty-three,
If I wasn’t so focused, I’d be down on one knee,
Another is called, my belief is so strong,
Another pen-mark and things can’t go wrong.

I crave one more number, sixteen is to go,
It’s going to be mine, and time’s starting to slow,
The balls they are tumbling, my mind’s in a spin,
It really is happening, I’m going to win!

The caller starts saying the number I need,
The ’S’ is forming from his lips in slow speed,
I’ve done it, big money is going to be mine,
Not to mention my name, in big lights on a sign.

He forms the word six, then his mouth closes shut,
There must be a mistake? I know in my gut,
My face is astonished, I turn to my spouse,
It’s not me that’s the winner, it’s him that shouts “HOUSE!”

 

 

Steve Pinkney: Dirty Gertie Was Sweet Sixteen

A Poem by Steve Pinkney – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

Dirty Gertie was Sweet Sixteen and allegedly, Kissed, she’d Never Been

Every Man Alive at her Garden Gate and Burlington Bertie in a right Two and Eight

Sometimes Bertie would Knock at the Door but his Jump and Jive was really quite poor

Much older than Gertie he was All the Fives, he’d no chance of dancing to Staying Alive

But Gertie would not get the Key of the Door and, seeing his Jump and Jive was no more

Called “I need a man who can Buckle my Shoe, not someone resembling Danny La Rue”

“Well” Bertie thought, “I was Nearly There, A Bang on the Drum would only be fair”

But he sighed and left for The Brighton Line, thinking Two Fat Ladies would have to be fine

“So Bertie has gone” she thought “Lucky for Some”, and hitched up her Droopy Drawers for a walk in the sun

She opened her door with a Clickety Click, but what she saw next just made her feel sick

For there on the lawn were her Two Little Ducks, lying under The Lawnmower which really sucks

Bertie had deliberately broken their Legs, they’d need Two Little Crutches to get to their beds

Now Gertie did not really like this much, for there’s nothing so sad as a Duck and a Crutch

So she took out her mobile to get Doctor’s Orders, but her call was too late and they’d died on her borders

Sadly she accepted that they were in heaven, and she called up her friend in Torquay in Devon

Whose name was Kelly and had one eye, and lived with Tom Mix who she’d met in Versailles

Kelly, a lawyer, could be quite litigious, “The Lord is my Shepherd” she said, all religious

“Give me the details and then we can sue, and hopefully make it Tickety-Boo”

So business done, she picked up her pets, and realised that she hadn’t eaten yet

“Surely I have here a Meal for Two. I know a real man to Buckle my Shoe”

She jumped on Shotts Bus to David’s Den, who in truth had been one of many men

That had lain with Gertie for Two and Six, and bounced in her hammock Between the Sticks

David was out but his flatmate was there; Here Comes Herbie with his shock of red hair

“Oh well” thought Gertie “He seems quite keen, we’ll turn on the telly, have duck and Heinz Beanz”

So, watching Ghandi, Breakfast they made, with a Cup of Tea to balance the trade

And as for young Herbie, despite his mop, he turned out to be quite Top of the Shop

So the moral of the story goes; “Ignore all the Berties, eat Duck, and Bingo!”

Philip Stone: The Last Bingo Before Christmas

A Poem by Philip Stone – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

‘Twas the last game before Christmas, I wanted a full house
A new caller from Liverpool with accent typical Scouse
To start with as usual rules delivered with care
“Shout out nice and loud to make sure that I hear”
Trying not to think about the next day’s festive platter
Time for me to concentrate on the current subject matter
“Right Eyes down” said the caller, with manner somewhat brash
Then I began my hopeful bid to win some festive cash
I skimmed the card wondering what numbers would appear
Now there was an expectant hush from everyone seated there
The caller was in a rush delivering numbers lively and quick
Stopping suddenly hearing a shout of “slow down Nick”
The poor man seemed embarrassed and looked down at the ground
But then he did continue without making a sound
He did slow down pleasing me much when out half my top line came
I felt a little sorry for him, well at least now I knew his name
The game continued but in the hall there was a sense of friction
However he grew in confidence and started calling with conviction
Making up new nicknames he really got into his stride
There was much laughter and merriment, all players enjoying the ride
His trombone impression number seventy six captivated the hall
More numbers for me to cross off I’d now nearly got them all
Just one remaining, a long wait then finally up it did pop
The last piece of the jigsaw was ninety, of course top of the shop!
Later that night with my winnings I was all set to depart
When Nick’s “Congratulations” brought a flutter to my heart
We looked each other up and down gazing from our head to our feet
And promptly set upon finding a new date and venue to meet
Eight years on I fondly remember that night when I shouted house
Little did I know it, but I’d met my future spouse
Nick now runs the bingo hall, for me a change of career
I’m about to be a full-time mum, my due date is looming near
And so a wish as we end this tale with our future looking bright
It’s a Happy Christmas to all and to all a good-night!

 

Denise Watson: It’s All To Do With Numbers

A Poem by Denise Watson – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

I needed the work at only thirteen,
I could help my aunt on the bingo scene,
Way back then, I’m talking nineteen sixty,
The boards were wooden and pretty nifty.

With twenty five numbers on that five by five square,
You needed four to come up to shout for your share,
Four corners, a diagonal, or even a straight line,
I still remember the day the prize was mine.

Working there was a little strange,
Shouting out the numbers seemed out of my range,
Two little ducks and legs eleven,
Two fat ladies and lucky number seven.

Then on paper and games of six,
With all ninety numbers in a really good mix,
You had the number, you just had to find where,
And shout ‘house’ loud to get your share.

I’m sixty now and it’s on the net,
I haven’t had the nerve to start playing yet,
Still, the ninety ball clubs sound right but pity,
I’m somewhat spoilt between Seaside and City.

My teenage granddaughter says bingo’s all the rage,
I remember thinking the same when I was her age.
The excitement of winning, whether prize of pounds,
Keeps you on a ‘high’ that knows no bounds.

I’ll ask her advice, she’ll teach me how,
As a lot has changed since then and now,
What with Scratchcards, Hat Tricks and Soccer Wives,
The kids of today are having the time of their lives.

 

Tracey West: Our Number is Up
A Poem by Tracey West – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Poetry Competition.

My working week has just drawn to a close
The train ride home had zero empty seats
I stood but had a smile upon my face
Tonight’s the night I’ll find my lucky streak

A phone call to the girls when I get in
Will spark the buzz as we start chilling down
Then make-up on, up-doing hair with pins
And we’re all set for bingo in the town

We yack about who won the most last time
As arm in arm we stroll, as if in dance
We’ll probably not win a blooming dime
But I maintain we have a winning chance

Our Friday nights are fun whatever goes
We catch up on the news about our lives
The lemonade and lime glass overflows
And jacket spuds ooze butter, cheese and chives

We queue to buy our books and speculate
How life would change us if we won the link
We find our favourite table as we wait
For cheeky Mickey to throw us a wink

We get our books in order on our boards
And fasten them all down with bulldog clips
Then silence falls upon excited hoards
And players quietly munch on soggy chips

‘Good Evening All’, our Mickey whoops the crowd
We yell back with a noisy old ‘Hello!’
‘It’s nearly time for everyone’s eyes down’
We pause with daubers set to daub on ‘Go’!

From that point on there’s hush throughout the room
The knitters sit as quiet as a mouse
Five minutes in, Jean on our table looms
Awaiting ‘22’ to yell out ‘HOUSE!’

Our eyes dart up to Mickey on the stage
We watch the monitor for ‘22’
Tuts fill the room with wafts of gentle rage
As ‘10s’ the winning number for our Sue!

The flyers came, the books played to their end
The link-up had us sat straight in our seats
Sue treated us to brand new bingo pens
And we’ll be back for more smiles Friday week