Maureen Gail Sowerbutts

A tribute to mum
It is with great sadness that I must pronounce the deaf of my dearly late departed mother. She sliped away last night, taken by a cruel tuna in her tummy. Her end was dignified and as promised we did the first 3 versus of “Oops Upside Your Head”.

I will always treasure the mammaries of my mother. I have plased some of them in here for you to look at and digest.

maureen_gail_portrait
john_sowerbutts_portrait

All About My Mother

Maureen Gail Crabbe was born into poverty, now known as Hull, and the youngest of nine children. Her faver, my grandfaver - Thomas Crabbe - was a trawlerman and taught me how to gut a fish when I was six. It was my pet Goldfish ,”Goldfish”.

My Grandma, Enid, used to bite me in secret. She also used to kneel on my arms whilst my mum tickled me until I fought I wuld go mad. Good times.

Maureen met my faver, John Sowerbutts, after she moved to London in the late 50's. He was a bus driver on the number 29 from Wood Green to Tottenham Court Road, and she used to ryde him every day on her way to work.

They married after a couple of weeks and went on Honeymoon to the Isle of Dogs. No pictures remain of this. Maybe eaten by the dogs. Mum didn’t think she could make babies - and when I came out she said, “I told you so”.

I was born back to front and had to be pulled out with clippers by my head. This explains my hair - which has always been round ever since. When my dad died, me and mum became closer. She used to take me on the 29.

Holiday mammories

My first memberance of a holiday was to Camber Sands in Kent. We camped on the beach. It was very cold and we only had one sleeping bag. We spent the days looking for drift wood and me and mum weed our names into the sand.

I also remember a trip to Whitley Bay. We stayed in a caravan with Tyne Tees on the telly. It was here that my mum told me she would like to go zorbing. (at least thats what I fourt). I am pleezed i made this wish cum tru. Although the doctors have since told me that it contribiuted significantly to her eventual death. Sorry mum.

whitley-bay

I found this poem I wrote about mum, when I first went into hospital

My Mum - a poem

She always brings be cocoa
She always brings me tea
She always holds my willie
If I need to do a wee
Her hair is always golden
Her eyes are black and blue
My faver says she’s lazy
I don’t know what to do
One day he wrapped up oranges
And hit her in the belly
She layed there doing nothing
I wish we had a telly
She tests me on my murderers
While she scratches my dry back
She likes Reginald Christie
And I’m a fan of Jack.
Mum tells me I am special
I think that she is too
I wish I was her husband
Cos the one she’s got won’t do.

blood-splat
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