Boris' Coronavirus advice (In parentheses).

Work in progress...


Gonna get up in the morning
Gonna take a drive up north
to see my dead dad in Durham
or my gran in Perranporth (weather permitting)

Boris says it's fine by him
(for I went to Magdalen* too)
Boris says don't do what I say
Boris says doo be doo be do (don't bogart that joint)

Boris says cut me a line
says hey man bring out the pot
Gotta persuade the country I'm high on drugs
before my career is shot (got any downers?)



*True fact.The rest is fiction.

Peter Rachman's library steps.

Mein Kampf:- Adolf Hitler
10 steps to a better body:- Charles Atlas
On Narcissism:- Sigmund Freud.

The Dominic Cummins Coronavirus trip inconsistencies.

So far I am able to ascertain that the following statements are true:

Cummins is not telling the whole story. No surprise there.

Mrs Cummins did not tell the truth in her Spectator article of 25th April regarding her and her husbands Virus experience.

Grant Shapps defended Cummins' actions before even talking to Cummins or ascertaining the true facts.

The Government described stories of further Cummins breaches of the lockdown rules as 'Innacurate'. Not 'false' or 'untrue'.

Cummins must go but Boris must be saving that until he has some nastier news to hide.



to be continued

Transport of delight.

I'm going to heaven in a handcart
I'm going to Dedham in a wain
I'm going to Paris in a tumbrel
there to meet my darling Louisette.
I'm going to Nashville on the last train
to Frisco on a street car named desire
having crossed America in a Conestoga
with Cat Balou, but have not set out yet.

I'm going to a fire in a Green Goddess
I'm going to church in a yellow Rolls Royce
I'm going to Alexandria in an aeroplane
with John Mills, to drink an ice cold beer.
I'm going my own way with Mick Fleetwood
I'm travelling light with JJ Cale
I'll send you postcards from each destination
All saying: 'My love, I wish that you were here'.

Cummins Durham Coronavirus saga.

I wrote a silly ditty on the subject of the Cummings idiocy:

Kids, stay home, stay mum about Dad.

Play candy crush saga on your mum's iphone

while she's drunk amid pots and pans

not Covid cruise saga on Dad's spy phone

as he drives up to Durham to Gran's.

I sent it to the conservative party fb page. Their reply is priceless.

Extra Bank Holiday announced in UK.

The UK Government has announced that an extra Bank Holiday will be created later in the year in order to give weary Brits a day off after months of days off.

It will be named All Virus' Day.

Street parties will be compulsory for all UK residents save immigrant workers and their families who will be obliged to service the nation for the day prior to fucking right off to where they came from. Priti Patel will be excluded from this condition.

Yellow flags and bunting will be flown to signify both the Prime Minister's cowardice and the state of quarantine that the entire country will be obliged to live in until the Chernobyl environs are safe for habitation.

It is hoped that the day will kick start the second hand spam industry as well as provide a use for  High Streets, empty since the failure of all retail outlets throughout Britain save Poundshop and Greggs.

Pentimento.

If asked: Should he have the opportunity
to live his life over again,
what would he paint over,
what would he change?

He'd say: Nothing.
Despite the pain, the hardship, the mistakes.
Nothing,
that life brought me here
to what and where I am now.

Grateful for the memories
content and at peace with my demons.

The ripening of the pods.

It was a glorious day, one redolent of impossible childhood memories. I took the old dog for a mutually laboured stroll on the heath, each of us wheezing, lungs rattling, ebb tide on shingle.

We stopped to rest on a well remembered bench, not one of the popular seats on the hill frequented by  crowds but a shaded seat on the path to Ken wood beside a strand of enormous beeches with their elephant skin bark, pock marked with the initials of generations of lovers, the ground felted with a thick layer of beech-mast. A majestic stand of trees, one of nature's cathedrals.

As the old dog panted in the shade of the bench a man a little older than myself approached and seated himself. We traded good-days. He placed a blue and white canvas bag at his feet then opened it, removed a Tupperware box.

Opening the box he proffered it  and said: 'Have a broad bean'.

The beans were peeled and coated in mint sauce. I told him thank you, took one and added: 'I can only eat them peeled'.

'Me also'. He said with a sigh. I sensed that there was more he wished to tell me so I presented the opportunity by saying: 'Go on'.

He looked at me, smiled then started his tale:

'In my youth my parents and I lived on a farm in Kent, an idyllic place, surrounded by oast-houses strawberry fields, cherry orchards and hop gardens. In a cottage beside the un-metalled lane to the village lived the farm manager, his wife and their daughter Tilly. Tilly was tall, as tall as I and had a jumble of perpetually errant golden hair. We became good friends, we went to the little primary school in the village and walked there together daily. We explored the surrounding countryside, sometimes walking miles, chattering away. I spent a good deal of time at her home, in the kitchen with Tilly and her parents or in the vegetable garden.

One summer, quite early in our friendship, she offered me some broad beans, the first of the season. She was sitting, podding them at the kitchen table. I told her, rather precociously, trying too hard to impress, that I could only eat broad beans that had been peeled by a virgin princess.  She laughed, her parents eyebrows raised, then soon handed me a small bowl of peeled broad beans. She added a dollop of mint sauce.

This became something of a ritual each summer upon the ripening of the pods. My virginal peeler of beans. My accomplice in dreams.

Years passed, we moved on to different secondary schools but remained close friends. Met daily.

Just before my fifteenth birth day tragedy struck.

Tilly's mother was diagnosed with a tumour. It was savage, voracious and quick. She died three months later and everything changed.

Tilly's father became withdrawn and unwelcoming, his clothes dirty, he smelled of whisky and tobacco. He didn't actually chase me away but Tilly and I chose to meet elsewhere. In the barn when it rained; the beech hanger behind my house or her garden in good weather where she would innocently, knowingly, peel me broad beans. She changed too, less talkative, less unbridled. Sadness crept in.

The following summer we sat in the garden podding broad beans. She said my name, I looked up, she told me in a foreign voice and with full eyes  that she could no longer peel my broad beans. She ran then, ran into the house and I walked the quarter mile home. Telling myself I was confused but I was not confused, just sad, angry and disappointed. I did not see Tilly again.

A few days later a rumour spread through the village quicker than the tumour that took Tilly's mother. Tilly and her father had done a moonlight flit. I went to the cottage, it was empty. The owner of the farm called in at our house to ask if we had seen them. Apparently they had left one night, left most of their belongings. Had vanished. No forwarding address. Someone from social services visited to ask if we knew where they had gone.

Since then I have had to live with my guilt. I knew what was going on but said nothing, did nothing. I was afraid of the grown up enormity of it all. I should have told someone, anyone, or confronted him, done something.

I have trawled telephone directories ever since.

All I have of her are memories of broad beans'. He pointed at the beeches. 'They remind me of those days'.


He proffered the Tupperware box again, I took one, then he closed it, placed it back in his bag, stood up, doffed his hat. We said goodbyes.

After a few steps he turned, stood for a moment as if deep in thought, then said:

'I should have killed him you know'.

Turned and walked away..

Coronavirus nonsense for children of all ages.

Ware Container

Ice cream for breakfast

porridge for luncheon

elevenses in the afternoon

all day sprinkles to munch on.

Fruit soup for dinner

more ice cream for supper

sherbet for a late night snack

I keep it in a tupper

ware container.

Garden lament.

.

The bugs have eaten the cherries
the birds have eaten the bugs
the cats have eaten the birds
but nothing is eating the slugs
damn things
nothing is eating the slugs.

Gonna catch them at midnight
catch them in a beer filled trench
gonna force them into empty snail shells
and sell them on to the French
damn things
I'll sell them on to the French.

They will cook them with garlic and parsley
add some dry breadcrumbs for a crunch
for a tasty Parisienne hors d'oeuvres
or a chic low calorie lunch
damn things
a chic low calorie lunch.

My true love is eating the cherries
As we indulge in Parisienne honeymoon hugs
She's just ordered a plate of escargot
but I know the fuckers are slugs
damn things
I know the fuckers are slugs..

All the ships that pass have black sails..

Isolated in exile I am my own Napoleon
but longing for no Josephine
and confusing my Arras with my Elba as
waiting and watching The Empire Strikes Back ad nauseam
talking loudly to myself, reducing this island's population of donkeys
to sad creatures dragging themselves along
by their front legs.

All the ships that pass have black sails.

I turn my eyes inward
scan that horizon
whilst indulging in fantastic orgies with hope, faith and patience.

London nature note

Dawn. Pigeons are everywhere, no longer fed by tourists in Trafalgar square and elsewhere and, no longer able to find the detritus of streetfood, they are having to revert to medieval practices; they have eaten the unripe cherries and figs, they congregate like extras in a Hitchcock film waiting for Tippi Hedren to pass by. Blue tits visit the bird feeder I have put in an olive tree outside on the street, unthinkable 3 months ago. The parakeets no longer fly en mass overhead at dawn and dusk, again no tourists to feed them in parks and squares.Morning coffee outside is serenaded by birdsong. No traffic noises, no planes, and then churchbells taking my mind back to Rupert Brooke and Grantchester and his sentimental cynicism.. Eerie if I did not know why.Foxes are around as ever, having to work harder for food. I leave them scraps at night which are always gone in the morning. I hear their barking often. There are reports though of cubs dying due to lack of food.Magpies are taking advantage of the crisis. They stalk the mews here for pigeon eggs and chicks, the pigeons are nesting in places that they would not dream of in normal times and being less cautious.

We have a proper dawn chorus reminiscent of my childhood. It wakens in me the idea of thinking of my mother in long past gardens where the sun always shone, no-one had coronavirus and there was always honey for tea.

Heaven in a handcart. Thinking of Thomas Hardy and an as yet unmet travelling companion. work in progress.

I'm going to heaven in a handcart
I'm taking a piglet in a poke
gonna trade it with the mayor of Casterbridge
for his wife and a lime green mini-moke.

I'm going to heaven in a handcart
leaving worldly hell well in my wake
gonna sell my mini moke to the angels above
any blessing that they offer I will take

I'm going to heaven in a handcart
I'm waving to Lilith...... Lil  goodbye
gonna wrap my new companion in a handkerchief of love and
tell her when and try to explain why...

We are going to heaven in a handcart
the mayors discarded wife and me
both of us were victims in our own ways
both of us victors now we are free

both of us were victims in our own ways
both of us were victims that is sure
she was bullied by the mayor of Casterbridge
I was bullied by myself    but no more

We are going to heaven in a handcart
the road is long and goes on for evermore
because heaven is surely in our journey to come
and the handcart just a handy metaphor.