John Boyd – A wry look at domestic life and everyday frustrations.
John Boyd is a poet, writer, and performer whose work often moves between humour and reflection. Poetry has long been his primary form, though in recent years he has explored playwriting, including an autobiographical comedy about a wedding. Despite these ventures, Boyd has consistently returned to the poem as his first and enduring creative outlet.
The Laundry Blues, written some years ago, is based on a true story and addresses everyday frustrations and domestic tensions. It follows a man working continental shifts whose long hours create distance in his marriage, leading his wife to seek satisfaction elsewhere. The poem blends humour with candid observation, drawing on the rhythms of daily life and the small, sometimes awkward realities of intimate relationships.
Boyd has described his poetry as ideally paired with a pint, and The Laundry Blues exemplifies his accessible approach. While contemporary discussions around “woke culture,” political correctness, and the scrutiny of humour might frame the poem as slightly provocative, it largely aims to depict human foibles with a straightforward, lightly satirical touch rather than to court controversy.
Within the Liverpool Noise 52 for 26 Poetry Project, The Laundry Blues offers a grounded, personal perspective that contrasts with more experimental or formally complex works in the series. Its narrative clarity, combined with a wry eye for domestic and social detail, gives readers a sense of the everyday pressures and compromises that shape ordinary lives.
Measured, lightly ironic, and rooted in lived experience, John Boyd’s poem contributes a distinct voice to this year’s project, reminding us that poetry can be as much about observation and storytelling as it is about abstract meditation.
The Laundry Blues
The first time I eyed her, she was dressed as lady Godiva,I thought this girl could change my life
Friends said it would end in derision but I wouldn’t listen, I made that woman my wife
All night and day I was working, she said your duty your shirking. What happened to that Angel so mild?
Her hormones had taken over and she’d become a moaner blaming me for not giving her a child
Her next coffee morning, my performance she’s scoring, I’m afraid it wasn’t very high
She said my panting sounds like wheezing, there’s no foreplay or teasing, she doesn’t know why I try
Her pals they look knowing there’s no seed that he’s sowing, then came the advice that I dread
There’s no use in half measures, if there’s no pleasures, sit on the tumble dryer instead
I know you’ll think I’m taking the Michael but she progressed to spin cycle, it was downhill from that day
The electricity bill was gigantic at the thought of kicking the habit she was frantic, so took in washing to make it pay
At first it was twice a week, I didn’t mind I got some sleep, soon her clientele got bigger.
She was contented, new positions she invented and attacked each load with great vigour
She was in her seventh heaven, washing the football kit of the junior eleven, her workload it was quite ample
Washing powder manufacturers got to hear about her, and she started to receive free samples
She took great pains to remove any stains, her whites were whiter than white
She slaved away both night and day to achieve her orgasmic delight
Her strange addiction, caused an affliction, it affected the way that she walked
She was so randy; her exploits left her bandy and people started to talk!
They began laughing, I’d hear them wise cracking, behind my back they’d smirk
But I was well dressed, my trousers were pressed and I always had a clean shirt for work!
The service engineer was bemused, he said all your circuits have fused, you could do with an industrial machine
If you’ve the endurance, it’ll improve your performance and get your washing clean.
Without hesitation or due consultation, a new model she went out to buy
There was no use me wishing, there was no competition, however hard I tried
At first, I had illusions, but really there’s no fooling, it was more powerful than I had reckoned
I don’t think there’s a man living, that’s got the guts and is willing, to go faster than fifty revolutions a second
I felt detected, my body she’d rejected and replaced me with a machine
I was so jealous of that contraption, a normal reaction, after all she’d shattered my dreams
To increase the vibration, she removed the concrete foundation, the machine hurled her to and fro
Sparks they were flying, I tell you no lying, she looked like she was riding a bucking bronco
It took two paramedics, a police woman and passing cleric, to release her foot from the soap tray
The vicar had a divine inspiration, he consulted his congregation and told everybody to pray
An account of her capers, made national newspapers, there was even talk of TV
I cowered in a corner, whilst reporters adored her, I didn’t want any publicity
Her bones they soon mended, but our marriage it ended, I finally faced reality
My heart it was broken, the flat it was soaken and the media thought I was kinky
We got divorced of course, there was no discord, we formed an amicable alliance
I got the flat, the car and the cat, she settled for her favourite kitchen appliance
If your girlfriend or wife, wants to spice up their life, with a similar kind of fetish
Be a man, put a stop to it, as soon you can, or you just might live to regret it!
