• I married a girl from Donington

    and together we had a baby.

    I spent the first twelve years

    thinking she was a perfect miniature lady.


    Then, just after she hit thirteen,

    her hair turned black and the look got mean.

    She resembled Tim Burton’s wildest fears.

    She avoided daylight for the next six years.


    My Daughter is a Donington Goth.

    Her mum likes The Cure, it must have rubbed off.

    She says that she’s happy just being herself,

    but she’s not raised a smile since 2012.


    She says Castle Donington’s her least favourite place.

    It’s the detectors at the airport

    and the metal in her face.

    I don’t know how she eats with that bolt through her cheek.

    She’s been stuck to the door of the fridge for a week.


    My Daughter is a Donington Goth.

    She’s drawn away from the light like a survivalist moth.

    She has a boyfriend who avoids the shower,

    and listening to Bauhaus all day would make anyone dour.


    My poor sweet daughter – I hope it’s a phase;

    that one day she’ll look back and laugh

    and it won’t crack her face.

    And if she’s like this forever, it could always be worse:

    Her brother watches X Factor and loves Olly Murs.