Friday, April 13, 1906. Born astride the grave in Foxrock. Why Foxrock? No explanation forthcoming. Bowled a few good overs for the Uni. Never enough. Overs over, went to Paris. Met the jimmyjoyce, a man after my own kidney.
Saturday. Academe, a dream, a hole in the head. I’ve had enough of that, had it right up to here goes nothing. Travel abroad broadens the whadd’yecallit. Broadens the grind. And all that.
Sunday. Stabbed by a pimp, name of Prudent. It’s not what you’d expect. Not that I mind. He had the mind to it, that’s all. No explanation forthcoming, but you could call it an act of faith. I bled all right. A bleeding writer, me.
Monday. Better France at war than Ireland at peace. There’s an axiom for you. We could all be doing without the Germans, though. A little of them goes a long way, god knows. But he’s not letting on.
Tuesday. Peace on earth. And under the earth. And now your atomic weaponry can blow us all to smithereens. No derivation forthcoming, but hasn’t it the Irish sound? A smithereen of hope.
Wednesday. Godot a popular success among the uncomprehending. Can you beat that? Invincible ignorance, as the theologians say.
Thursday. The Nobel Prize, and if that’s not the kiss of death my prick’s a bloater. A handy comparison, that. A ton of worms in an acre. I can’t go on. This time I mean it.
Basil Ransome-Davies

Monday: born in barn (unpleasant);
Shepherds bring first Christmas present.
Tuesday: Galilee carpentry,
NVQ at level 3.
Wednesday: fishing, afternoon,
Hand out first apostle spoon.
Thursday: preaching, work empirical,
Parables, and sometimes miracle.
Friday: Pharisees made afraid,
Communion held, but get betrayed.
Saturday: Roman execution,
Universal absolution.
Sunday: Rise, cause consternation,
Ascend, and wait for Revelation.
Bill Greenwell

William Gilbert Grace,
Renowned for a weird beardliness which near-eclipsed his face,
Took strike one Monday in the year of our Lord’s 1848,
Thereby redefining the meaning of Great.
By Tuesday, this doctor of implausibly imposing mien
Was dubbed the craftiest cricketer the world had seen.
On Wednesday he discontinued the treatment of unhealth,
Preferring the potency of sport-inflicted wealth.
Thursday, he was clean-bowled but wouldn’t stand for that,
Protesting: ‘I will not walk, these people paid to see me bat!’
Grace scored one thousand runs in May 1895,
Making him the most prolific terrific willow-wielder alive.
Friday, he declared: ‘I am down in the dumps’;
Worse on Saturday, whispered: ‘Time, alas, to draw stumps.’
That Sunday, run out at the age of sixty-seven,
W.G. opened for Saint Peter’s First XI.
Mike Morrison

William Shakespeare, born on Sunday,
Mewled and puked all day till Monday;
Crept to school to start the week,
Learned small Latin, much less Greek;
Took Anne Hathaway to bed
And found himself, on Tuesday, wed.
On Wednesday, though, he upped and packed
And went to London Town to act.
By Thursday, man of many parts,
He’d mastered all the playwright’s arts.
So Friday saw him take his fame
Back to Stratford whence he came.
On Saturday, his timing deft,
He bowed and exited, stage left.
W.J. Webster