Harry Potter and the Ireland Cycle Trip 2004

It was a long hot summer in the muggle city,
Nothing like Hogwarts, to me this was not pretty,
The Dursley’s were rotten, you've heard what they're like,
So I, Harry Potter took off on my bike.

My bike is quite fast but not a nimbus mark 2,
I can peddle quite well but for quiddich I flew,
I can climb to the heights and then dive for a snitch,
But a bicycle’s no broomstick for a wizard or witch.

I can't use my wand in the summer, it's tragic
For pupils from Hogwarts can't do our magic,
And with step-parents more annoying than professor Snape,
I told them I'd cycle in Ireland (to escape).

I went with two muggle friends: Trevor and Bert,
They lived not too far away, both cycling expert,
Trevor a mechanic who fixed cars by hand, well,
He could do that expertly without using any spell!

Bert did most things, from churches to sums,
He lives deep in muggle world surrounded by Brums,
But that didn't phase him as he held his head high,
And would cycle forth, smiling saying ‘reach for the sky’.

So off we went to Ireland, panniers full of stuff,
As we peddled out of Cork we soon found it tuff,
But travelling along the roads we were lit by the sun,
We were happy together, having so much fun.

One day on the route of our trouble-free world,
A white mist descended and around us it swirled,
When Trevor passed through it there was a deafening throng,
And when the mist finally lifted, poor Trevor was gone!

Bert and I looked at each other, bewildered, agog,
Had he selfishly departed leaving us two to slog?
With no Trevor to help to carry our load,
We were left to go onwards, just two for the road.

Bert likes to ask questions, like ‘where did Trevor go?’,
So he dragged us to the Library ‘cause he wanted to know,
And he found us the answer in an ancient tapestry cloth,
Trevor had been the victim of Voldermorts monster: ‘Tar-Mac-goth’.

A mystical monster that lives under the roads,
It slithers along unbeknownst to us toads,
Whenever it's hungry it eats the transport it likes,
Tasty Lorries, scrumptious cars though it prefers to eat bikes.

It lifts up from the Tar-Mac and the vehicle disappears,
Thousands had vanished through the past hundred years,
For the Tar-Mac-goth catches it's travellers at night,
So few have actually seen it whilst it eats it's delight.

The evidence is there: new Irish roads are level, flat-beaten,
Yet soon become rippled where the Tar-Mac-goth has eaten,
Have you noticed all those pot holes at the side of the track?
That's where it ate cyclists, then plopped the Tar-Mac roughly back!

So all questions now answered Bert knew the beasts quest,
And with Trevor now digested he knew we could be next!
But with me Harry Potter behind Bert I will lurk,
So that I can take all the credit and my friend can do all the work.

Then  ahead on the road was the Tar-Mac-goth beast,
It rose out of the Tar-Mac and devoured it's feast,
Poor Bert had no hope, as I’d let him cycle ahead,
Straight into this monster which considered Bert as bread.

I was now on my own on the Ireland Cycle trail,
Trevor and Bert trapped in some road surface gaol,
Alone and quite desperate, what a miserable plight,
When up ahead at the roadside was a glimmering light,

As I cycled up closer I started to see,
The face looked familiar, it was Mad-eye Moody,
He wore this daft yellow cape and a ridiculous sou'wester,
And was perched on a bicycle like some medieval jester!

Yet how did he appear to look relatively plain?
When at Hogwarts as my teacher he looked  gnarled and insane?
As my dark-forces professor he always looked jiggered,
With a half bitten nose, the rest scarred and disfigured.

He's called Mad-eye Moody because one eye revolves,
It can see into most things, thus mysteries solves,
Most people would laugh at this curious being,
Not realising all the wisdom in each of us he's seeing.

“Hello there young Potter” sad Mad-eye Moody,
“You seem in a quandary, perhaps you need me?”
“But how do you look human?” I asked him to tell
So he told me he'd used a poly juice spell.

He told me his story of his Hogwarts- free life,
With Hannah and Sandy (the kids) and his wife,
They all live in Scotland in a place called Milngavie,
Thus disguising his dark side he can appear a ‘nice guy’.

He engineers ‘talking’ and ‘pictures’ down a wire,
And without using magic, one had to admire,
It helps the poor muggles to communicate, spell-free,
As he works for the muggle company: BBC.

So the two of us United and set off back on track,
Started hatching a plan to for us to strike back,
I'd be the decoy and head straight for the beast,
Whilst Mad-eye would attack him, hopefully pre-feast.

“The Tar-macgoth approaches” cried the cycling Mad-eye,
“I see ahead where he'll eat you, or at least he will try”,
He had acquired such predicting skills from his APTEX file,
Which predicts into the future using historical trial.

And with that he vanished and I cycled alone,
Into the Tar-macgoths evening dinner zone,
And soon up ahead came this monster-like vision,
Hurtling towards me on a “I'm going to eat you” mission.

I got to its mouth, I could no longer escape,
When at last out of nowhere came our hero in Cape,
All smothered in yellow, pump/wand raised in one hand,
He uttered these words with a terrifying command:

“Free all the cyclists you've eaten for tea
Or you'll soon face the wrath of the CTC!”
The Tar-macgoth quivered with the fear of that thought,
(And thousands of litigations for each nibble he'd sort).

And whilst it was thinking this spell I then cast:
“Roadus erruptus” with my pump/wand did blast,
The  Tar-macgoth exploded in a mushroom of dirt,
Then through the rubble cycled Trevor and Bert,

The sight was astounding, Mad-eye and I clapped,
For they were leading out thousands of cyclists who'd been trapped.

And from that day onwards the Irish roads were great,
No more pot holes marking each cyclists fate,
Thanks to Mad-eye Moody, Trevor, Bert and me,
From the Tar-macgoth monster the world is now free.

So we all cycled to Tralee, all happy that,
Road surfaces in Ireland were now officially flat,
And to celebrate this fiction we have reason to toast,
The good fortune of other cyclists who dare travel the Irish Coast!

(The poem was dedicated to Mad-eye Moody’s children, Hannah and Sandy)