Poem - The Ballad of Rupert J Thatcher

It was late October 2025 when I accepted the challenge of writing a piece about a milk snatcher. However, Rupert J Thatcher is a shy kind of person and he has taken a while to make himself known to me.  Over the last few months, his story has taken the form of a newspaper article, a death notice, and an aborted short story about an avenging widower with a hatred of politicians and a love of Formula 1. None of these ideas really worked, but tonight The Ballad of Rupert J Thatcher manifested in my mind as I cleaned my teeth and prepared for bed.

The idea for this piece originated in the days following the unwanted late night visit of a burglar. When the police came to investigate, they discovered that my visitor, who had gained entry through my garden, had left a half-drunk carton of milk by the back gate. The police officer nicknamed him the “Milk Bandit,” and somehow, thinking of him in this way made the event feel a little less frightening.

In the poem that follows, I have cast my "milk bandit" as a sort of hero - a Robin Hood figure who takes from the rich and gives to the poor.

I hope you enjoy it. 


THE BALLAD OF RUPERT J THATCHER





There once was a man named Rupert J Thatcher,
Who harboured a secret - he was a milk snatcher.
He took from the rich and he gave to the poor,
Leaving cold bottles placed by the front door.

He snuck up long driveways as silent as air,
Avoiding the cameras that hung everywhere.
All dressed in black with his hood pulled down tight,
Like a spectral vision beneath the streetlight.

The wealthy were raging, their milk gone by dawn,
Their footage revealed just a shadowy form.
A figure too chilling to challenge or chase,
So vengeance was sworn - but kept secret, in case.

The poor, meanwhile, whispered with eyes shining bright,
“This ghost should be knighted,” they said with delight.
A thin Santa-like spectre in funereal black,
Slipping fresh dairy straight out of his sack.

Then one tragic night came a terrible clatter,
A gasp, then a fall  and a sticky white splatter.
Surrounded by milk no one else ever knew,
He skid from this world in a sweet creamy dew.

They say when milk’s shared, not stolen or stashed,
You might glimpse his smile in a charitable splash.
A legend, a myth, no-one bigger in stature
Than Rupert J Thatcher -
secret milk snatcher.

image by Microsoft Copilot 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In Memoriam

Born 15th March 1947, had she not been taken from us in 2012, my Mum, Valerie Withnell, would have been 78 years of age today.  It seems like ages since I spoke her full name out loud and it feels so poignant to write it now. However, though she is gone, she is not forgotten. Whenever I meet with family, she is remembered, talked about, laughed about and yes, still cried about too.  Anyway I decided to republish a post I wrote in October 2018 on the 6th anniversary of her death, in commemoration of her. The poem which preceeds the blog was written, by me, for her funeral in 2012 and is titled "You are not here - are you? You are not here. Yet sometimes I hear your voice in the trees And feel your presence in the wind. You are not here. Yet sometimes I see my sister wear your smile Or your face in a crowd. You are not here and yet, when I wake, my first thoughts are of you And you stand by my side through the day. You are not here, but the words that you’ve said give me strengt...
Read more

Part 2 - Ghost of Christmas Present.

24 DECEMBER 2025 - IT IS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.  It is the night before Christmas , and all through the house not a creature is stirring. Well, except me, wallowing like a mighty walrus, in my hot bubble-bath. I am lathered in Imperial Leather and I smell divine even if I do say so myself. I pick up my mobile phone and begin to type. The light from my screen and from the six candles placed at the foot of the bath are all that illuminate the bathroom. An Indie Christmas playlist drifts in from the speaker in the kitchen, as the hushed voice of Ellie Rowsell meanders up the stairs beseeching Santa to “put a sable under the tree.” There is something oddly comforting about this moment. The warmth of the water, the quiet hum of the house, and the knowledge that everything that needs to be done today has already been done. Well, almost everything! What an unexpected day it has been! Time spent with Nichola, Jane, and Lily. A visit to Dad’s brought that familiar comfort of my childho...
Read more

Whispers and Wanderings - An Introduction

"That moment when you have had one or two Bacardi and diet cokes, then in urgent need of a wee, you rush to the toilet, drop heavily and speedily onto the seat which then moves slightly trapping a bit of your butt cheek!" [Just Stuff, May 2018] Welcome to Whispers and Wanderings and to my brain which is a messy place, filled with turmoil, random thoughts and stories which I would like to share with you. I hope that you enjoy them, that they are sometimes insightful, sometimes thought provoking, but mostly that they make you smile. This is the second blog I have created. The first one, "Just Stuff", drifted off over time, as life got in the way. However, I held on to my original pieces of writing, some of which will be making their way here from time to time. Why come back to blogging? Perhaps it is a mixture of things: to memorialise the occasional creative spark, as an antidote to over-thinking, or just a need to put thoughts into words again. Who knows! Whispers a...
Read more