My Terrance Dicks Poem


My Terrance Dicks Poem

I took a spare copy
of Planet of the Spiders
for Terrance to sign
for my friend who was
too ill that day
to come to the pub.

I watched the hand of the man
who’d typed almost every book
of my childhood.
His quashed red fingers
pressing down hard
in black felt tip,
writing as he sat

with a great big plate
of meat pie and potatoes,
swimming with gravy
in the tiled and noisy cavern of
a Manchester pub.
The grand old man just beamed at me

when I told him that anything worthwhile
in the whole Show was invented
by him and his mates
between 1969 and 1983.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said excitedly.
‘And they keep on
bringing all the
buggering things back!’