First a little wiggle
And a waggle
A tippy tap
And a snippy snap and then…
My Father’s swing was like a gentle tornado
A corduroy swagger
A crisp burnt chop from a bush campfire
A pensive Galilean pendulum
A polite compliment to faithful servants
A judicious nod of respect to physics
A kiss of persimmon and gutta-percha
A snickety snack of the sound of one hand-
the gloved lead hand at the top of the grip-
Clapping
A saucy wink at the Lizard King
A dream of wild geese in the winter
A black bull’s roar in the top paddock
A deferential bow to Authority
A prelude to a snifter
A justification of the mashie niblick
A rebuff to the vulgar
A good humoured savagery
A sad cloud over the pathetic fallacy
A flip into overdrive
A well bred seduction
A tranquil twist over the yardstick
A memory of the other half
A post-dated cheque to a sly creditor
A smooth transition by double de-clutch
A run over moguls by stem christies
With a timely bend of the knees
A cube of blue before the mangle
A refutation of tripe
A dim comprehension of the ablative absolute
A passably bel esprit tram conductor’s satchel
The laughter of the jackass
Keat’s negative capability in a bagging spoon
A twinkle in an acuminous lover’s eye
His swing was not brutal, like Joe Stalin’s
Or unreliable, like Jack Kerouac’s
Or mean, like Evelyn Waugh’s
Or flamboyant, like Oscar’s
Or persnickety, like Henry James’
Or parsimonious, like Charles Bukowski’s
Or crabbed, like John Betjeman’s
Or bovine, like Ernest Hemingway’s
Or vituperative, like Dorothy Parker’s
Or flashy, like Kinky Friedman’s
Or fussy, like P.G. Wodehouse’s
Not too straight
Not too long
Not too hooked or sliced
Not too showy
The nub of my father’s swing was a very hard thing to put your finger on, like a shy stool before breakfast
The head of Dad’s jigger described a non-Euclidean arc of rare and unco beauty
Of righteousness in a schism
Of a pearl in flight from swine
Of mist rising from the stomach to the spleen
Of a paucity of ego.
It’s purpose was not to hold up play.
Its purpose was the betterment of Man.
And the Ladies.
When I asked him to teach me his style, he answered gravely, quoting Anatoly Karpov “But my boy, I have no style”
