Phil Martin's Blog

With his hands down his pants, keeping ‘em warm,Black trackie in his socks like a uniform,Mooching round town looking ten men with his clones,Listening to gangster shite on moody mobile phones.
“Alright ar kid you ‘avin’ it?” He’s got the shameless patter,Just waiting for the dibble’s lights so he can shout out scatter,“You’ze buzzin’ yet,” I hear him say, “tonight is fuckin’ mint,”“The streets are ours,” he prattles on, “it’s payday for the skint.”
Another window crashes in; the looters all steam through,Another jean store ransacked in a fleeting second or two,Rush it, rush it, deal with it, they’re kicking out the glass,Then pulling at each other to make sure that they get past.
To make sure their greed gets in the store, there’s nothing they won’t lift,The carnage quick yet organised, their larceny is swift,Shouts and screams and whooping prove the sadness in the air,Detached from our society, they really couldn’t care.
Sirens shriek like rape alarms but pilferers don’t mind,They’re out to get their hands on anything that they can find,Little shops are smashed up too; it’s not just the big chains,Swarms of looting locust swoop, sending business down the drain.
An off-licence on Portland Street has had its guts ripped out,Its owner standing shell-shocked, too scared to scream or shout,His family business ruined as the marauding mob moves on,They just can’t see the savagery in the crimes that they’ve just done.
Shop after shop is ransacked; streets crunch with broken glass,No rioting Rangers fans are here and there’s been no IRA blast,An evening of pure madness but we’ve got our own to thank,Coz every single one of them was probably born a Manc.
Going on and on for hours, no tough tactics are used,Market, Portland, Oldham Street systematically abused,Yet the looters don’t look downtrodden, or like they need to eat,They drip designer branding on their hoodies and their feet.
There’s young girls amongst them too, they really have no shame,Posing for the film crews for their five minutes of fame,There isn’t any argument or statement they want to make,Not fighting for a movement, they just came here to take.
And to cause panic on the streets of Manchester, the looters tore us apart,But in the weeks that followed we saw true Mancunian heart,The social sickness of that evening will always probably fester,
But the true people of this town will always heart Manchester.

We’ve never been a city to stand back, give up or groan,We’ve never needed vigils or a soapbox on which to moan,
If things ain’t right we’ll fix it, no matter what they say,Job’s a good un, sorted, safe, is the Mancunian Way,
Maybe you don’t believe me, and think that I am blagger,But throughout our Manc history we’ve demonstrated this swagger,
I don’t just mean the attitude, I woun’t form it on that basis,I don’t just mean the walk ‘n’ talk of Stone Roses or Oasis,
I don’t just mean this feeling that Greater Manc is the best,Coz everybody loves their town if you put that to the test,
But there’s certain times in history that really do define,The people of this fine city that I class as mine,
It’s written in the history books, way back two centuries when,Our cotton trade was suffering until we made ‘em think again,
We’d blossomed as producers but could never be a port,The seaside was too far away was the common thought,
Until one Manc said hang on lads, I’m nobody’s fool,We’ll bring the coast to Manchester and cut out Liverpool,
You can’t do that, it’s not allowed, derision from Scouse lips,But Manc defiance found a way and built a canal for those ships,
With a little innovation they got what they had planned,Little land-locked Manchester; third busiest port in the land,
So yeah there’s still an attitude and our young ‘uns might walk daft,But behind our swagger is creation and honest, hard, Manc graft,
Coz through the annals of history, Manc’s just wouldn’t be thwarted,
And that’s the real Mancunian way, top one, nice one, get sorted.

Chargrilled, burnt out buildings spewing up their insides,Carcasses, stripped of all their meat, spilled guts, missing their sides,Contorted concrete confetti, showered in shards of glass,Roofs ripped away like cardboard by the power of the blast.
The streets all strewn in debris; the end of the world has come,Battered, tattered, shopping mall, society undone,Girders bent in agony, the bridge to Marks and Sparks,Is hanging from the rafters which are nearly blown in half.
Exploded and imploded, sirens pierce the city air,The streets are scorched and scolded; rescuers stand and stare,For as the smoke has cleared and the dangers gone away,A symbol of Manc stubbornness comes firmly into play.
Standing proud, still bold and loud, puffing out its chest,Is an unscathed red pillar box, Manc defiance at its best,Devastation on all sides, destroyed and torn apart,But like that bright red letter box they’d never take our heart.
The fabric of our safety lay unravelled in destruction,But rising from the ashes came Manchester’s reconstruction,And just like that little post box protected every letter,They’d do their job, rebuild our town and make Manc even better.

Manchester’s got everything; just two things let it down,We haven’t got a beach a point made by Ian Brown,But even if we did have one, few cities are wetter,So here’s what I would propose to make Manchester better.
Firstly dig The Pennines up; they’re blamed for our bad weather,Chop them down, they pop our clouds, and then it won’t rain ever,Next let’s pop to Liverpool and I say this with a wink,Because legend says the Liverbirds can make their city sink.
So set them free and watch them fly and watch the waters reach,Warrington and Saint Helen’s giving Manchester a beach,We could build ourselves a promenade and a Golden mile to boast,And new nightlife would soon spring up on our manufactured coast.
But if we had a beach to bathe and it rarely ever rained,It wouldn’t just be our life styles but our attitudes that changed.We’d all wag work so we could take advantage of our beach,We’d lose the swagger from our walks and greatness from our reach.
We’d lose the creativity that makes our city great,And the talented amongst us all would all just go to waste,We’d be too busy basking in the utopia we’d made,We’d be too lazy sunbathing to bother getting paid,
Just like a Spanish stereotype we’d always put things off,Tomorrow’s good, today I’m spent, at hard work we would scoff,And if we lost our downpour too, our parks would lose their green,The price of water would go up, as the reservoirs fall lean.
So even though we moan and curse and begrudge our city’s weather,I’m still not sure whether beaches would be better altogether,So I’m not sure that we should change dynamics near and far,Let’s leave The Pool and hills alone; we’re better like we are.

The Little Girl Lost trilogy is now available at amazon kindle

CHILD No. 3
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FEMALE No. 2
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TARGET No. 1
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Child No. 3
Having exposed lie after lie told by her foster parents, Amy Walker sets off on a mission of self-discovery to unearth exactly what they have kept buried from the world.

After journeying from her Manchester home to the shanty towns and palaces of Morocco, more untruths lead her back to London and a dark Chechen underworld, where she discovers she was third on a coded, list of stolen children.

As Amy gets closer to unearthing her truth, she disturbs it, alerting the gang to her existence. Her truth will do anything to stay hidden. 

Child No. 3 must be silenced. Little girl lost must never be found.

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful4.0 out of 5 stars  A really good start and now I'm looking forward to the next one!  4 Oct 2012By Best Books To Read TOP 100 REVIEWERFormat:Kindle Edition|Amazon Verified PurchaseI have literally hundreds of books at any one time in my `to read' list. It's normally a mixture of my long time favourites, some newbie's and some self published stuff. Child Number 3 written by Phil Martin was a self published book and the synopsis sounded right up my street. Like most books or authors I haven't read before I always hope they will be great and thankfully Phil Martin's most certainly was. Amy Walker is the main character in this rather dark book and we are introduced to her life and the fact that she has been very aware of the fact that she was adopted from a very young age. With her father having passed away and he mother being ill, Amy is insistent on finding out more about her birth parents.

Once she has completed medical school, she follows leads on her birth after being told by her parents that she was adopted following the death of her birth parents following a coach crash in Tuscany. What starts out as an innocent search turns into something much more sinister. Amy starts to uncover lies about her birth which leads her down a very dangerous path.

The character of Amy is very likeable, and although maybe not anything other than ordinary she is likeable. As a reader you empathise with her need to find the truth. It's also got a more authentic ring to the story as the path she chooses to take is led by her need for information. It means that the more danger she approaches, the more inquisitive she gets. The story starts in Manchester where Amy is living but before long sees her visiting the shanty towns in Morocco and uncovering links to the Chechen underworld.

The story grabbed my interest and to be quite honest kept it up throughout. The nearer it got to the end the more tense things were. This book only annoyed me towards the end. Obviously being part of a trilogy meant that the ending had me annoyed that I didn't have the next book to read immediately. Thankfully that can be remedied in a matter of days in this case. For a self-published debut novel I thought it was absolutely brilliant. Not quite a 5 star read but a solid 4, and one that made for an unusual and very engaging read. Can't wait for the next one and to be frank priced at £1.32 on Kindle it's a bargain to boot!Comment | Was this review helpful to you?
This is a real action thriller which begs to be read in one sitting. The epilogue does a marvellous job of whetting the appetite for the next instalment in this exciting story which thankfully has already been released. The only flaw in the book was a few spelling and grammar inconsistencies, nothing that a good proofreader couldn't put right.Comment | Was this review helpful to you?Looking forward to reading more from Phil Martin

The pop-up culture

The pop-ups are popping up all over town,
Like seasonal treats to flatten our frown,
A viable business for just a few weeks,
Cashing in quickly as popularity peaks


Here today but long gone tomorrow,
No downturn in trade, no financial sorrow,
They spring up and clean up as the new thing in town,
Then only next month they’re ripping them down.


A symbol perhaps of a throwaway generation,
But there’s no time for boredom with this seasonal creation,
Because the pop-ups bring us what’s out of our reach,
Like granting Manchester a white, sandy beach.


Bringing deckchairs and buckets and spades to hand,
Offering Mancs the chance to sunbathe in the sand,
Bringing everything that’s coastal to Castlefield,
But leaving us sun burnt, red-faced and peeled.


So the seaside popped up without any sea,
And yacht clubs popped without boats admittedly,
Bowling and skating both popped up and went,
Whilst the pop-up cinema was just heaven sent.


The North Pole popped too but it wasn’t that cold,
And that 1930s tea room was far from old,
The Moose Bar had grizzlies but no moose turned up,
Whilst we loved pop-up menus and the grub they served up.


Because pop-ups bring us some escapism,
A break from the norm promoting hedonism,
So let’s ask for pop-ups dripping in cool,
Like a pop-up, city centre swimming pool.


Or a pop up space bar like on Tattooine,
With Star Wars characters from that very scene,
Or a pop-up racetrack based on Monaco,
Or a temporary roller blade music disco.


A Wimbledon pop-up so folks could compete,
Whilst pop-up archery would be pretty neat,
A pop-up bungee would be a win win,
Or a pop-up campsite with a festival thrown in.


Pop-up skydiving of the indoor sort,
Two pop-up pirate ships and the battle they fought,
Pop-up guns on a shooting range,
There’s so many pop-ups still to arrange.


But this is the pop-up I’d most like to see,
A pop-up so grand it would be legendry,
They’d talk about it from near and from far,
And they’d all have to see it, coz it’s so slightly bizarre.


Because even if it is horribly fake,
Let’s have a glorious pop-up lake,
Straight from Lake Como or Bellagio,
A great lake for bathing Mancunians to go.


With grassy shores to take in the shine,
And pool parties daily as folk drink and dine,
In trendy lakeside restaurants and bars,
As we all enjoy a life that’s not ours.


On boats and on yachts that are moored in the bay,
With bikini’s and speedos the attire of the day,
The ultimate pop-up but still a flat pack,
So let’s ask pop-up people could a pop-up do that?



Copyright©2012 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.buy my books on Amazon
CHILD NUMBER THREE http://amzn.to/xsDmpa

THE ATTACHED http://amzn.to/xjsKgp

KILLING DOVES http://amzn.to/ysy4ip 

STRIPPED BARE http://amzn.to/wbfoYn

The recorder player
A well-spoken gent, mild mannered and with grace, Yet he’s the most iconic of homeless face, Because he sits everyday on his Market Street throne, In all kinds of weather, without a grumble or groan.
His work ethic crafted from when Britain was great, He clocks in every day and not once is he late, He sets up in the morning as the workers flood in, And grafts all day long until the late even-ing.
Until the workers go home and pass him once more, In the hope that they flick some change to his floor, To pay for his bedsit, to pay for his tea, To pay for his rizla and rolling baccie.
His lips might be sore but they play all day long, As his recorder kicks out its crescendo-ing song, The notes runaway like pleas in the air, Can you pay for my breakfast or my daily bus fare?
Can you help an old man as he strives every day? To cough up enough coins to just pay his way? So he can pay for his supper and pay for his bed, And pay for the roof that goes over his head.
For years he’s been playing, politely every day, In the hope that you’ll pass some spare change his way, So flick him a couple of pounds as you pass, And fumble internally at the questions you’d ask.
Like where are your family, does nobody care? How did society fail to leave you playing there? But he doesn’t mind, his good mood never stops, He just continuously plays as you look round the shops,
As you get on with your day and he drifts from your mind, Yet his place on these streets will always be defined, Because you’d miss his music if it wasn’t there, If his notes weren’t floating on the Mancunian air.
But don’t feel sorry for our recorder player is proud, Of the music he makes and his continual sound, And even though more care would be heaven sent, He’s delighted to play for he is independent.

Moving the ghoul posts If you struggled with the Shambles, then this’ll really test yer, Coz they moved The Shakespeare pub up here, all the way from Chester. Way back in the twenties, they moved every pillar, every post, And legend even has it that they even moved a ghost.
Because a teenage girl still haunts it, or at least they claim, That she appears on the staircase all alight and all in flames, They say she’d ignite the candles that would fill the bar with light, But dropped one on her floaty dress and set herself alight.
But if you think this ain’t true, there’s another side to hear, The chef, they say, had his wicked way and forced himself on her, To cover up his evil crime he set the girl alight, But she came back again to haunt him, burning oh so bright.
He couldn’t cope with seeing her, so he hung himself in there, A beam still has the rope marks from where he kicked the chair, Haunted for his heinous crime with only one thing left to do, Hang himself and join her… haunting The Shakespeare too.
Copyright©2012 by Phil Martin All rights reserved. Buy Child Number Three http://amzn.to/xsDmpa

Let’s talk busts Have you heard what the son did, what about the daughter? She’s a proper little chatter box, can’t even hold her water, They split up; he cheated, and then got back together, Then he ran off with the vicar’s son, you’re kidding, well I never.
This stays strictly between us so keep it under your hat, But I really had to ask her, is there any truth in that? I honestly shouldn’t tell you this; it’s not like me to blab, But you know she likes to gossip and can’t control her trap.
I hear that’s not the only thing that THAT one cannot close, Another young un on the way, that’ll keep her on her toes, Keep her off her back more like; she lived with three blokes just last year, She couldn’t, well she shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
So HE said, then SHE said, well what the Jeff do I know? Honestly don’t trust that one; she’s a gossiping little so and so, Did he really? He can’t have, you’re joking, fancy that, I’m glad we get to meet like this and have our chitter chat.
I’m really glad we get to push our visionary intelligence to one side, For half an hour every day, because I really couldn’t abide, If we didn’t get to chat like this and put the world to rights, I’m not so sure our intelligence would hit such dizzy heights.
But always speak in hushed tones because our secrets mustn’t shatter, The public mustn’t ever hear us and our endless nitter natter, Shush don’t speak so loudly, one of them’s coming over, So close your mouth, stare straight ahead and give them the cold shoulder.
Copyright©2012 by Phil Martin All rights reserved. Buy Child Number Three http://amzn.to/xsDmpa

Staring out our Stan Stand back in amazement; take pictures on your phones, Coz you’re looking at our city’s most impressive set of bones, Seventy million years in age, a tyrant lizard king, A prehistoric relic, Stan’s our oldest ever thing.
Forty foot long, standing tall, showing off his teeth, You’re either daft or over brave if you stand underneath, Coz only one Tyrannosaurs is more complete than him, But he has the most complete skull our world has ever seen.
One hundred and ninety nine bones, seventy per cent complete, They even found fifty eight teeth with which he used to eat, And if you stand face to face, alone, with our Dinosaur, You can almost see him moving and can almost hear him roar.
You can almost see his eye balls move in his huge eye sockets, Go on, I dare you, stare him out; you’ll be the one to stop it, Coz it’s alright being cocky… millions of years after his death, But you wouldn’t last a second if Stan took just another breath.


Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin All rights reserved. Buy Child Number Three http://amzn.to/xsDmpa