Satire. Any resemblance to you is entirely down to your sense of self importance.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Lard.



I am a worshipper of noble lard
alabaster queen of fat
the renderings of the regal pig
in a half pound grease proofed pat
lard has none of the pretentiousness
of sunflower or olive oil
her origins are humbly rooting about
in Anglo Saxon soil.

Sing hey to lard
sing ho to lard
sing nonny nonny no to the olive

etc...







Thursday, May 28, 2015

Post 'sleepover' narcolepsy explained.

I am frequently mistaken for a child psychologist, probably because of my empathy with both dogs and children. Treat them the same is my way of thinking but be more gentle with dogs, they don't know better.

Frequently, when mistaken for a child therapist, I am asked: 'What is post sleepover narcolepsy?'

Post sleepover narcolepsy (PSN) is very common among children between the ages of 6 and 13. It is a virus which attacks the child 12 to 18 hours before symptoms manifest themselves. The virus lives in someone else's house and has the appearance of a well meaning parent (sometimes working in pairs; one male, one female). The virus bombards the child with fizzy sugar laden drinks, MSG pizza and copious quantities of blue sweets and then bullies the child into playing computer games until the early hours of the morning. Stage two of the attack takes place at the following breakfast time when left over MSG pizza is re-introduced to the child.

Symptoms of PSN are obvious: Surliness and disobedience combined with drooping eyelids and shoulders leads on to a desire to sleep.  The desire to sleep soon overtakes all cognitive reasoning.

A child in later stages of PSN

The cure for PSN is straightforward. The child must be prodded, goaded and frequently shaken in to wakefulness for 8 to 10 hours followed by bed rest for 12 hours. Nintendo, Playstation, TV and film should be avoided at all costs. This treatment may need to be repeated for a further 24 hours.

That will be 100 guineas. Thank you.






Wednesday, May 27, 2015

America. A poem.

SPIT!

Molly and John had been childhood sweethearts
Shared sodas at picnics

in the meadow by the Big Loving
as it snaked easily through the county.
Shared illicit beers beneath the bleachers

when she cut cheerleading and he cut track.
Shared moonlit skinny dips in the same old Big Loving

at the sand bar on the bend
where the turtles basked back in the day.
She had run naked laughing through poison ivy;

he had spat in his hand and rubbed it in the itching places.
Later she did not need the ivy to make the itch,
she had an itch of her own 
and he rubbed his spit onto that itch 
but that itch never completely went away.

Molly took that itch to New York.
John took his spit to LA.
Molly found music in the cafes at night, 

revolution in the air. 
‘New York City, imagine that’. 
She wrote him - as she itched at a sidewalk cafĂ© 
– in an early westbound letter.
‘Yes I can imagine that’. 

He had replied. 
But he couldn’t.
So she itched in the city 

closed her eyes to the viscous string of men 
while he spat on the coast at a succession of starlets 
who practiced the Stanislavski itch  
tunelessly singing the Hollywood orgasm.

Fast forward… 

The two of them came together again, 
out of boredom most likely. 
Boredom and guilt, 
prompted on her part by the metronomic click of the clock, 
on his part by the young guns on the boulevard 
the fear that he was all spat out.
When they married the orange blossom was already dead. 

The children when they arrived 
trod the rotting petals into the floorboards 
of their Chicago brownstone.

He made money; she spent it. 
The American dream.

Molly sat on her itch for twenty years, 

took a course in etching early on 
never looked back and couldn’t look forward. 
Her life etched itself into her face. 
She got a part time job 
filling condom machines at railway stations.
Twenty years of itching and etching on molly’s part 

as she watched john occasionally drool diddle his secretary 
(did he buy his condoms at the station?) 
was enough.
 
 
 
Molly came to Spain 

change of life, 
change of continent, 
change of tense. 
for a week.
John had grudgingly agreed that she could take a vacation, 

a break from the shattered life they now shared. 
She would visit a friend in Toledo  
maybe take in an El Greco or two.
On her last day of work prior to traveling 
the itch had slipped a dozen condoms into her purse  
then dragged her into Victoria’s Secret on the way home.
The flight was uneventful; 

she sat between the two overweight boors 
each airline is obliged to provide. 

Marta met her at the airport.  
The Spanish air crackled.
The bullfight was - to Marta - an odd choice 

for an afternoon’s entertainment 
but Molly had read Hemingway,  
wanted to sit ringside  
black beret scarlet lipped 
as Eva Gardner had once done. 
She had little experience of bloodshed save her own; 
but blood in the afternoon held no fear.

Manolo arched his back,

flicked a disdainful cape 
at the snorting bull  
an ubiquitous sneer at the crowd,
stood in his black slippers
stained with blood and dust 
hawked a glistening gob of spit 
that sizzled as it hit the sun scorched clay. 
The bull died bravely as bulls in such tales do. 
The spit dried to a disc of mother of pearl 
that shimmered against the blood red earth 
as the bulls ear parted unhearing from the head; 
arcing it’s way into the stands, 
into the lap of Molly. 
An unrecognizable Molly. 
Molly lost, Molly found. Molly free, Molly bound.

‘Manolo.’ 

She whispered much later 
when the sun had gone down 
and the fiesta had dissolved itself 
into the barrios and tourist hotels. 
‘Manolo.’

I took up the dog eared copy of THE TIN DRUM. 

It fell open at the chapter titled ‘fizz powder’  
I read to her again of little Oskar 
spitting into the navel of Maria.
 
Molly flew to Boston four days later  

made her morning connection to Chicago 
.....in good time.
 
The fire-fighter moved dazed 

through the rubble of what had once been the World Trade Centre. 
The dust was thick and acrid  
he wished he had some kind of mask or respirator. 
He hawked and spat into the debris at his feet, 
onto a small black slipper. 
A slipper stained with blood, dust and tears.

America.
 

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

If Longfellow lived now. Hya Amy Winehouse.



Should you ask me, whence the bullshit? 
Whence these legends and traditions, 
With the stinking of the ghetto 
With the dew and damp of homelessness,
With the curling smoke of guilt,
With the rushing of great kettling,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
  I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the ghettos and the high streets,
From the great lakes of the Hampstead,
From the land of the Cockneys,
From the land of the hipsters,
From the coffeeshops, shoe shops, and feng shui-lands
Where the heroin addict, the crack head,
Feeds among the reeds and bushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Amy Winehouse,
The musician, the sweet singer.
  Should you ask where Amy winehouse
Found these songs so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the coffee shops of the Angel,
In the boozers of Camden Town,
In the hoof-prints of the banker,
In the eyry of the pigeon!
  "All the immigrants sang them to her,
In the moorgate and the feng shui-lands,
In the melancholy Hackney marshes;
Barney, the cabbie, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"
  If still further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was Amy Winehouse?
Tell us of this Amy Winehouse,"
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow.
  "In the vale of Hampstead,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Amy Winehouse.
Round about the Hampstead village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing Kenwood,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.
  "And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley,
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Chalk Farm,
In the green and silent valley.
  "There she sang of rehabilitation,
Sang the Song of rehab, no no no.
Sang of her wondrous birth and being,
How she played fast and how she lost,
How she lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That the tribes of men might prosper,

That she might advance her people!"

Saturday, May 23, 2015

The Schadenfreudian slip.

We all came out to Montreux
and when the smoke on the water had cleared
I met the woman of my dreams
and met the end that I had most feared

among the poets convening was fraulein
Schaden Freude a German by birth
she was my sun my moon my Venus
I feared I was the scum of her earth

but I'm a poet and poets are dogged
wouldn't take no for an answer
having seen her on the nightclub floor
wrote my ode to a disco dancer
I had some stiff competition
in a doggeralist from France
he couldn't rhyme for the price of a lime
but boy the bugger could dance

now dancing is fine in the hours after nine
but daylight offers other parameters
I wood her with elevenses
(you know food like what heavens is)
and un-pedantic hexameters

the girl was mine
I felt sublime
I gave up rhymes or reasons
then went round to see the cad
at his room in the four Seasons

I reached his door
I took a grip
I vowed to punch him on the lip
but as the door swung slowly in
I saw Fraulein Schaden Freude
in her silken slip

I slunk away I was distraught what of the ring that I had bought

the following day in the concert hall
as the Frenchman decried his crocodile tears
and told the tale of his dead love
I drank innumerable beers
when he got to the crux of his inordinate grief
the burial of his dog
I dialled his mobile number
and it rang to the sound of the laughing frog

it rang to the sound of the laughing frog

it rang to the sound of the laughing frog but the frenchman never laughed.

I did.

fraulein Schaden Freude never forgave me
but her hatred ran hot to cold
she married the bassist from Deep Purple
together they grow stylishly old

Me I gave up poetry
I joined the devil-may-cares
underwent gender re-alignment
and changed my name to Pam ayres










Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Carnivorous Pandas




Nom Nom the carnivorous panda
was the least kid friendly petting zoo beast
for while he considered bamboo a duty
a three year old child was a feast
Nom Nom, born in far away China
at first was the star of the zoo
but quickly out-stayed his welcome
when he ate a female gnu
The gnu was a present from Kenya
so to Nairobi Nom Nom was sent
but quickly moved on to Paris
when he ate three kids in a tent
In Paris he munched through two orphans
before moving on to New York
where once weaned off his taste for kids
he was fed on a diet of pork
Nom Nom the carnivorous Panda
is living the American dream
eating hot dogs for lunch and for dinner
beside a bamboo shaded stream.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Pissers in the sky. With apologies to Norman Greenbaum.

when I’m dry and I can't wash my vest
gonna go to the place that is best
before I lay it down to dry
going up to the pissers in the sky
going up to the pissers in the sky
that’s where I’m going to go before I dry
before I dry and lay out my vest
going to go to the pissers that are best

prepare yourself you know it’s a given
you gotta have a brand of cheeses
so that you know when the water runs out
you got something to sell
we are the pissers in the sky
gotta recommend ourselves
we’re the pissers in the sky
and we’re where you gotta go when you’re dry
before you dry and lay out your vest
you gotta go to the brand that is best

we’ve never been givers, we’ve never gived
We’ve got a brand of cheeses
so you know that when you die
your only hope in hell is
the pisser in the sky
so tie yourself to the pisser in the sky
that’s where you’re gonna go if you don’t buy
if you don’t buy then sonny you die
you gotta come to the prices that are best

yeah, the water prices that are best.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Why Britain's women war heroes are responsible for the election result.... An anarchist writes.

A guest blog from 'Steve'. Leader of the Russel Brand Anarchy on the dole brigade.





Look. Russel was right! If no-one voted there wouldn't be a Tory government in power.

Women died in order to get the vote.

The memorial was to dead women.

If they hadn't died there wouldn't be a memorial and no-one would vote and Russel Brand would be Emperor or something like that and we could all smoke pot on the dole and that monument would have just been a wall and Banksy would have got there first and an American would have bought it and shipped it to Texas and it wouldn't have got in our way on our march for democracy.

Or something like that you know man.