Wednesday, 24 December 2014

Shit Christmas (My words set to music and sung by Chaz Crane to the tune of Blue Christmas)

Sunday, 31 August 2014

How Much Does a Soul Weigh?

There are those who claim that, in reality, we are all energy beings. May seem hard to believe when you look at the meat and bone and gristle and tooth enamel that goes into making a person. Those who think we are less like the solid form that we perceive and more like an electrical charge, a creature of spirit, often say that if we could free our minds, we could see this reality as it really is.

Perhaps the latter explains why so many people - poets, shamen, mystics and rock and rollers, in the main - have used opiates, magic mushrooms, peyote cactus and the like, attempting to lift the veil from their eyes, to travel to astral realms or contact the world of spirit. Many would claim they have done just that and - though no drugs were involved - I myself once had an out of body experience* that I am one hundred percent convinced was genuine. Somehow, my essence, my consciousness, my soul if you will, began operating completely independently of my sleeping body and standing looking at my own form lying on the bed was quite a hair-raising experience, I can tell you.

A couple of things got me to thinking about all of this. I’ve been reading a book on quantum mechanics and one of the things that struck me was the following. Those things that we call atoms, tiny as they appear, are actually made up of 99.99 recurring percent of empty space and the author states that if we could remove all of that space, the entire human race would fit into the volume of a sugar cube!

That blows my mind because, if all seven billion of us humans could fit into a sugar cube, the hundred and sixty pound guy I see in the mirror would compress down to the size of a single atom, or perhaps less. It seems to me, therefore, that the claim that we are actually energy beings doesn’t seem that far fetched. You, me, all of us, are made up of atoms. Atoms are 99.9999% empty space, which means we are as well.

If we somehow turned off the electrical charge that holds us together, we would dissipate into almost nothing, like a puff of smoke in a gale. I guess the fact that we are glued together by electrical attraction means we are indeed made of energy, whichever way you look at it.

The other thing that got me wondering was something I heard several years ago. The thing I heard stuck with me, but now I can’t remember where I heard it, though I suspect it was one of those end of bulletin throwaway news items that are never followed up on. It concerned a scientist who was carrying out an experiment on people near to death. No idea how he was doing it, nuclear powered scales maybe, but he was weighing dying people shortly before death and then weighing them again as soon as life had flown the coop. What he claimed to have found was that people invariably weighed a tiny fraction less after death than while life remained. I don’t remember the figure now, but it was something like 0.000003 of a gram. Can’t help but wonder if that’s the missing weight of the human soul once it’s departed.

Well, I have drawn no particular conclusions about any of this. Not even sure if I’ve linked it very well, or even explained myself properly, but I offer it up simply as food for thought. I find these things fascinating. They make my head hurt, I admit, but fascinate me nonetheless.

I sincerely hope we survive after death, if for no better reason than I want some of these mysteries cleared up once and for all. Like, if the universe really is infinite, what’s it in? And if it isn’t infinite, where does it stop? Is there a wall? If there’s a wall, what’s on the other side? Like they tell us that it is scientifically impossible to go faster than the speed of light (because at that speed mass would become infinite requiring infinite energy to shift it faster than light) and yet now they say the big bang shot all of the matter out of it’s centre at faster than light speed. Seems they can’t make their minds up. I may not understand any of it, but when it comes to all these science boffins, I’ve come to the conclusion that any guess we make is as good as theirs. Maybe better. For example, I wrote a fantasy novel about twenty five or more years ago and in it I had my hero travelling through what I called the "multiverse". Now, in recent years, physicists have started suggesting that there may indeed be a multiverse. Sorry guys, but I thought of it first and I will be taking you to court any day now for infringing my copywrite. So there.

(*Out of Body Experience elsewhere on this blog). 

Saturday, 23 August 2014


Juxtaposition between the known and the unknown, the safe and the threatening, is almost always the culprit for causing that thing which we call ‘laughter‘. We giggle at sometimes inappropriate moments because of fear, or nervousness, or the simple fact that the injury, loss of face, death, etc, has befallen someone other than ourselves.
For example, despite the fact that I adored him, I got an uncontrollable fit of the giggles at my own father’s funeral. I pinched my thigh until my eyes watered and bit the inside of my cheek bloody, but no amount of pain would stop it and seeing my sister’s sweaty face all scarlet and howling only made matters worse. I tried to disguise my laughter, of course, burying my face in my hands and making crying noises, but with my shoulders shaking from mirth, I don’t suppose the other mourners were fooled for a second. No one said anything, but if looks could kill, me and dad would have been cremated together that day.
‘Schadenfreude’ is the name our German cousins give the act of finding humour in the misfortunes of others. That may sound callous, even spiteful, but I would suggest one’s laughter is more an expression of relief that the bullet of fate missed us, rather than any genuine pleasure at the other person’s pain.
Scientists aren’t sure why laughter is important, but believe it has some deep significance in terms of survival, in just the same way as the fight or flight reflex. What’s more, laughter isn’t confined solely to humans, but is shared with other species. For instance, if a monkey spots what it believes to be a poisonous snake, it will cry an alarm to its compatriots. When, however, it discovers the snake is nothing more threatening than a length of dead creeper, it spontaneously bursts out laughing in relief, as does the rest of the troop. Therefore, when some prankster springs out on us and shouts ‘Boo!’, we don’t laugh because they scared two year’s growth out of us, but because of the realisation a moment later that we are actually safe and unharmed.
Another example was filmed in a wildlife documentary on chimpanzees. The head of the troop, something of a bully, had fallen from a tree and hurt his wrist. As he limped along, the chimps behind him were mimicking the limp, but each time he stopped and turned, they would all instantly walk normally again and appear to be looking anywhere but at their chief. Put simply, they were taking the mickey out of him and thoroughly enjoying it – bit like the labour cabinet did with Gordon Brown – but didn‘t dare do it to his face for fear of retribution and having chairs kicked about the room.
It would appear that laughter provides the antidote to the rush of adrenaline pumped into our system by fear, signalling to the nerves, muscles and pulsating sphincter that, threat now passed, they may stand down from red alert. After all, it has long been known that laughter releases mood-enhancing endorphins within our brains, which not only promote a sense of general well being, but also gave rise to the old adage, laughter is the best medicine. Unless, of course, you have a brain tumour the size of an ostrich egg, in which case you might consider chemo. Or suicide.
Of all the beasts, the snake has the least developed sense of humour, apparently, because you can’t pull its leg (hat tip to the Beano circa 1965 for that one). Laughing hyenas have no real humour either, they just laugh at anything. Ugly, irritating bleeders.
Schadenfreude – or the malicious enjoyment of another’s misfortunes – is a great word, but trust those stone-hearted krauts to invent a word for sniggering as some bruised and bloodied old lady cartwheels down the up escalator, in a surreal race with her ancient wicker shopping basket, while flashing her piddle-stained bloomers at the world.
Mind you, I laughed until I nearly suffocated when I saw a bloke trip and fall while trying to jump onto the old route master bus he’d been chasing, so I can talk about stony hearts. It dragged him, twisting and turning, around a corner and for another hundred yards along Streatham High road. Why he didn’t just let go of the handrail, I will never know, but he made my day. I wonder if the conductor charged him for the journey? That would have cracked me up as well.
We have, of course, appropriated ‘schadenfreude’ into the English language and that’s what makes English the greatest language in the world. We steal all the good words from other languages and after all, a wigwam is a wigwam, a poppadam is a poppadam, why mess about making up new words when things already have perfectly usable names we can pinch and call our own? We did it with everyone else’s countries, so why not their words. Us English were never stupid and pretty damned good thieves. We should be proud. I know I am.

Friday, 25 July 2014

The Matrix

The Matrix movie trilogy is often quoted and referred to these days in relation to the modern world around us and how reality is often not what we think it is. There are a lot of conspiracy theories out there, as well as conspiracy theorists (me included) and they will often ask the question, have you taken the red pill or the blue pill, meaning are you awake to the truth, or are you one of the sheeple who swallows all the lies and propaganda hook line and sinker.

However, I’ve been thinking about The Matrix and in one important way, I’m not sure it means what we all seem to think it means. Neo is “The One”, the saviour, the Jesus figure and he has a small band of true believers assisting him. They are his disciples, if you will.

One of these disciples is actually working against Neo and the rebel cause. He wants to be plugged back into the matrix and be rewarded with a life of ease and riches. He is the Judas figure, taking his bag of silver to betray Neo. The rest of the human rebels display varying degrees of scepticism that Neo is really the saviour they have been waiting for, which probably describes how Jesus was viewed by the majority.

There is the old lady, the Oracle, and I think she represents God, offering advice and guidance, but not actually interfering directly. Or perhaps she could be viewed as Mary, the mother figure, or even a combination of the two.

Then we have Agent Smith, Neo’s nemesis, the representation of evil out to destroy the good guy. If Neo is Jesus, then Smith is the devil. Not only is he out to destroy Neo, he also tries to tempt him. Why do you keep struggling, Mr Anderson, it could all be so easy, he offers, but Neo is not to be swayed in his mission to free humanity and after many trials, including being briefly dead and resurrected, he wins the day, the war is over and the rebels celebrate.

Well, that’s the basic plot of the movie and although it tips its hat to many religious and historical references, it boils down to good versus evil, God versus the Devil.

But, and it’s quite a big but, let’s look at it another way. Apart from stopping the war between the machine overlords and the human rebels, what in fact has Neo accomplished? The rebels are free from further attacks, fine, but are still left living in their bleak underground bases. The earth is still a scorched and blasted wasteland to which they can’t return. The matrix still exists and the majority of humanity are still in their vats of liquid, being used as an energy source against their will, while dreaming their lives away.

In fact, Agent Smith was the one hell bent on destroying the matrix, so doesn’t that actually make him the good guy and not the bad guy we have all been lead to view him as? By making a pact with the machines and destroying Agent Smith, in reality Neo is responsible for preserving the matrix and the domination of mankind by the machines. Great for him, flying about like superman in his sexy black gear, but what has changed for the rest of mankind? Not a thing. They are still enslaved and they are still living in a fake reality - a state of affairs that Neo is guilty of maintaining. Left to his own devices, Smith would have shattered the matrix illusion and with it, the machines' ability to control mankind.

I wonder if the rebels woke up with a hangover the next day and said to themselves, hang on a moment, Neo is actually the machines’ most powerful agent and not our saviour as we believed. We’ve been sold out!

By coincidence, yesterday I saw a video posted on Facebook of a man called Simon Parkes. In it, he was talking about various alien races, which he firmly believes exist, both extra terrestrial and inter-dimensional. I didn’t watch it all because it was quite long and video downloads eat my data allowance like slugs eat your favourite plants, but what I did watch was very interesting.

One of his contentions was that the Earth is actually a prison planet and that humanity is being fed off. I think he said it was by those pesky reptilians. Apparently our emotions are a source of energy to them. Love, anger, hatred, despair, yum, yum, we’re just one big emotional buffet to those green buggers. Remind me to buy a packet of “Lizard-Be-Gone” next time I’m in a hardware shop.

He also stated that mankind has had its DNA tampered with to dumb us down so that we can’t perceive reality as it really is and also to remove our telepathic abilities. He further maintained that when we die, they trap our souls and return them to Earth in another body, memory wiped, so that we can continue to feed them. Don’t, he said, walk towards the light when you pass on, because that is the trap they set for us. If anything, run away from the light as fast as you can and be free of them. Maybe these claims explain past life memories, the wiping process not being a hundred percent perfect, and also the reincarnation beliefs of so many people.

This may all sound like airy fairy nonsense, but I’m not so sure that it is. There are obvious comparisons with The Matrix in that we are all blinded to what is truly real; that we are all in one way or another slaves to the elites and possibly to the alien entities they all work for. And being used as an energy source is one of the main premises of the movie and we all (those of us who have taken the red pill anyway) know how they like to taunt us by showing us the truth in fictional form and having a good laugh when we still don’t get it. It may also explain why our leaders are hell bent on creating constant wars and conflicts, a smorgasbord of misery for the aliens to feast upon. All the dead get recycled anyway, so they can continue emoting all over the shop, so there's not even any wastage.

I have to say, Simon Parkes sounded extremely sane and believable. You may want to look him up on Youtube. Just one note of warning, however, he has the most dreadful comb-over I have seen in a very long time…

Just to end with a small fact about The Matrix. Will Smith was originally offered the role as Neo, but turned it down to instead make his movie “Wild Wild West”. Yep, said no to one of the most popular and critically acclaimed sci-fi movies of all time, to go off and make a complete turkey instead. Obviously took the blue pill, the Muppet.

Sunday, 25 May 2014

Lungs Suck

Lungs suck. And they blow. And sometimes, if you don’t remain vigilant, they fill up with water and kill you when you least expect it. Apple bobbing has claimed more unwary victims than people realise. Particularly when the class bully holds your head under while the teacher is outside having a crafty smoke.
Lungs don’t even taste good, not unless some sneaky manufacturer hides them inside their pasties, sausages or burgers, disguising their noisome flavour with minced chicken neck and savoury cow’s anus. That’s another Jamie Oliver recipe I won’t be trying again any time soon. The sprinkling of star anise and pinch of saffron didn’t make a bit of difference. As for the squirt of squid ink, bloody waste of time and money that was.
Did you know one human lung spread out flat would cover an entire tennis court? I dare say it would make it a bit slippy, though. Don’t see Wimbledon changing over from grass to lung courts in the near future. Not ‘traditional’ enough for those snobs. I mean, they’ve never budged an inch over the all white kit thing, not even for the girl players when they’ve got the painters in.
“How much! For six effin’ strawberries and a teaspoon of cream? I don't know about Wombles of Wimbledon, highway robbers is what you are."

Sunday, 18 May 2014

Cockney Sparrow

About twenty or more years ago, I was walking over to the local supermarket, when I came across a baby sparrow huddled up against a low wall. The flats that the wall belonged to are forty-plus feet high, so though the little mite had survived the fall, there was no possible way its mother could get it back into the nest and a local cat was bound to stumble across it sooner or later.
Anyway, touched by its plight, I hurried back upstairs, found a small basket with a lid and returned to the chick. As I tried to pick it up, it squawked and shrieked and spread its wings trying to look bigger and more imposing, which was an impressive display for such a youngster given it wasn’t even two inches big and probably weighed an ounce dripping wet.

So I scooped the tiny sparrow up, with it loudly protesting the entire time, put it in my basket, took it back to my flat and fashioned a home for it. First I cut one side out of a cardboard box and covered it with cling film, then cut a flap in the back to act as a door. Finally, I put a number of cotton wool balls into the small basket, turning it into a surrogate nest, all nice and cosy.

At first, the baby sparrow was rightfully wary of me, but when you’re as hungry as growing birds are and someone keeps bringing you food, it’s not long before trust is gained and given. I fed it oats soaked in milk, small bits of bacon fat (remembering how we used to put the rind out for the birds), crushed up nuts and slivers of dried fruit, all supplied by a pair of tweezers. The diet was pretty much guesswork on my part, but it gobbled down what I provided and seemed to thrive.

After just three or four days, I started leaving the box open and all I had to do was walk into the room, tap the food bowl I was carrying and “Birdy” - as I had so imaginatively called my little friend - would fly across the room, land on the rim of the bowl and open its tiny beak demanding to be fed.

Every evening, when my girlfriend of the time, Allison, came home from work, first thing she would unfailingly do was ask how Birdy was and go and check on her. That’s when an amusing idea came to me in the form of one of those sugar coated mini eggs. Sorting through the bag, I found the most convincingly egg-looking one and just before my other half got home, I placed it on the cotton wool in Birdy’s nest.

I was sitting in the living room when Allison got back that night and as usual she asked how Birdy was and went straight into the bedroom to check. A few seconds passed and then she cried in a voice full of surprise and delight “Tony! Tony!”

“Yes,” I responded, trying to sound innocent, but my voice clearly giving away my barely suppressed laughter. There was a brief pause and she called back, “Nothing…”

When she came from the bedroom, I was grinning from ear to ear. “You bastard,” she said. “I really thought for a moment Birdy had laid an egg.”

“Yes,” I laughed. “She’s only a baby and an egg that size would have split her in half, but you still fell for it.” She replied that she would get me back and sometime later, she did, in the form of a large plastic spider placed half behind a pipe in the bathroom. Being a terrible arachnophobe, I was almost sick from fright, so she did indeed get me back. Good and proper.

It was a shame that my suppressed laughter gave me away, because the next part of my plan - expecting to be called in to take a look at the "egg" - was to amble in, pick it up, pop it into my mouth and crunch it up. I think the look on Allison's face would have been priceless. Just the same, all these years on, my prank still makes me smile when I think about it.

Birdy grew fast and within another week, when she started flying around the room, I realised it was time for her to leave the nest. She was clearly ready and cooped up in my bedroom, I was scared she’d bang into a wall and hurt herself.

Next morning, a nice bright warm day, I took Birdy in her box/cage out onto my balcony. She had only been with me a matter of days, but having been a mum to her and having won her trust, I was sad having to let her go, but knew it was the right thing to do. I opened the front of the box and Birdy hopped out onto the wall. She hopped about a bit, looking out towards the big world she was about to enter, then she turned back around, took a good long look at me like she was saying goodbye, then turned again, spread her wings and flew off like a tiny rocket.
I freely admit to shedding a few tears watching her go, but I was also pleased that I'd managed to give Birdy her life back when the little soul I'd found, feisty or not, likely wouldn't have lasted an hour or two out on the street. They say that God looks out for even the smallest fallen sparrow and on this occasion, I guess I was the one sent to do the rescuing.

For many years since then, sparrows had all but disappeared from London. No one seems to know quite why, but they went from a daily part of life, to non-existent. Recently, however, I have started seeing a few about again. I particularly noticed because they have been conspicuous by their absence for so long.

There are actually a breeding pair of sparrows nesting somewhere in the downstairs communal garden. Whenever I see them hopping around foraging, I can’t help but wonder, or even hope, that one or other is a direct descendant from Birdy and that perhaps I had some hand in continuing Birdy's line and in my own small way helped to stop sparrows from vanishing for all time.

Still, a comparatively huge chocolate egg, Allison, really?


Saturday, 17 May 2014

The Itch

Wedding bells
Nappy smells
Filled with poo and pee
Darling dear
Listen here
This really isn't me
Nagging whine
Dinner time
But, and here’s the rub
Darling dear
Listen here
I’m going down the pub
Wanting love
Elbow shove
Asked for marriage right
Darling dear
Listen here
I’m too knackered tonight
Lovely eyes
Silken thighs
Beauty I can’t bear
Darling dear
Listen here
I’m having an affair
Screaming fight
House alight
I think it’s time to go
Darling dear
Listen here
You’ve been so nice to know

Friday, 16 May 2014

Macho Man (Set to music)

Macho man, yet more of my light and cheerful words set to music and performed by my mate Chaz Crane. Light and cheerful - who am I kidding...?

Saturday, 10 May 2014

I Talk to the Trees

Remember the song, I Talk to the Trees, sung by Clint Eastwood in Paint Your Waggon? Well, I was talking to a tree earlier - an old oak tree and very chatty it was - and I asked it what it thought of climate change.
"Son," it said, "I'm four hundred and sixty-two years old and I've seen it all before."
"Really?" I said.
"The climate changes," it shrugged its upper branches. "That's just how it is. In the 1970s and 80s we had nothing but droughts, now it rains all the time and no doubt, in another few years time, we'll be back to hosepipe bans again. The only thing that remains constant is change."
"But," I stammered," a lot of scientists are telling us that man is making the climate warmer, leading to floods and droughts and all sorts of chaos."
The oak barked with laughter. "I have a giant redwood in the family and he tells me his great grandfather told him the climate was much warmer back in his day. That's why the snakes and crocodiles and other cold-blooded reptiles were growing forty or fifty feet long, or more. The extra heat provided them with the energy to grow massive. Why do you think Britain has one snake six inches long and all the hot countries have things ten, twenty and thirty feet long? Even your scientist friends will tell you that. It's all about heat and the energy they get from it. They dug up bones in Columbia from a snake they named 'Titanaboa' that was around 45 feet long, weighed a ton and they reckon some may have grown even larger than that. Imagine how much heat/energy those giants must have needed."
"So man is not to blame for climate change, then?" I asked.
"Of course not!" The oak exclaimed. "They just use it as an excuse to chop down my friends, turn them into paper and use that to send you bills for CO2 reduction. I know you're only a human, but I would have thought even you would have realised that. This is a planet. The climate changes. Get the hell over it. You humans do make a terrible mess of everything, but on this count, not guilty."
Well, that told me. Tomorrow, I am going to strike up a conversation with a patch of nettles. I'm sure I'll get more sense and honesty out of them than I will our lying politicians and assorted other climate change fraudsters.

Friday, 9 May 2014


Another song performed by my mate Charles Crane. In this one, I love the way he has combined verses from three of my offerings. Good job Chaz!

Thursday, 8 May 2014

Demon Drink Blues

This was the first of my poems (or lyrics as Chaz calls them) that my friend Charles Crane set to music and performed. Video by another blogging chum, Dioclese.

Monday, 5 May 2014

Pet Puppet

When I was a lad, I had a huge, vicious German Shepherd dog called Sabre as a pet and he used to attack small children and rip out their throats.
Tell a lie. It was a guinea pig called Floppy and he couldn't even rip the throat out of my sister's Barbie.
Floppy died during a play I was performing for my little friends. Apparently using small furry animals as glove puppets isn’t particularly good for them.
After that, I had to change his name to Stiffy and keep him in the freezer.

Sunday, 4 May 2014

Flight of Terror

I once flew to Rumania (or Romania, take your pick) on board a plane from their national airline. This was in the days before they kicked their then dictator, Nicoleae Ceaucescu, to death and before they joined the new nazi dictatorship of the european union. You would have thought they’d have know better, but no. Commie airlines, I think they were called.
Well, the hostesses all looked like the werewolf from Carry on Screaming, but hairier – I kid you not. Either that or they were cross-dressing all in wrestlers with two and a half pounds of foundation, rouge and lipstick plastered over their angular faces to disguise their five o’clock shadow. The in flight meal was clearly polystyrene painted to look like food and they grudgingly flung it at us anyway as though we were stealing it from the mouths of their starving children.
There was no sign of any other in flight service, apart from repeated attempts to flog us cartons of Marlborough cigarettes and bottles of perfume. Having, in hungry desperation, eaten the bread roll that accompanied the pretend food, which was so dry it almost choked me, I had little choice but to drink the tasteless gnat’s piss that passed for my free cup of tea and any request for water or other soft drink was greeted by an unfriendly scowl and apparent incomprehension. I didn’t like to press the point, either, in case one of the giant man-women got me in a full nelson and body slammed me onto the gangway floor.
The seats had obviously come from a medieval torture chamber and the pilot was a real loony, bringing us into land with a kamikaze style screaming dive that almost exploded my head – the sudden reduction in cabin pressure bringing me, sweating and groaning, to the edge of unconsciousness and leaving me almost stone deaf for half of my holiday so every conversation sounded like it was coming to me while submerged in a swimming pool, with pains in my ears that felt as if some torturing bastard was jamming meat skewers into my eardrums.
You just can’t pay for service like that.
Course you holiday camps can’t. Don’t talk prison blocks.

I Hear Ya.

Just because you can’t see God doesn’t mean He doesn’t exist. I can’t see Him either, I just hear His voice in my head. Usually in the wee small hours. He whispers things to me and I go and do them. Why those particular people had to be taken out, I don't know, but mine is not to reason why. I was just following orders.
For some reason the judge wouldn’t take that into account, refused me bail and had me put into a secure psychiatric unit.
Must be an atheist.
I don't much care for this jacket they've got me wearing and typing with your nose is no fun at all.

Saturday, 3 May 2014

Kill the Cabbage!

Way back in the 1970s, a scientific study showed that plants react to pain. Wired to an encephalograph, when a plant had its leaf burnt with a lighter, the needles on the graph went haywire. More than that, however, after repeating this process a number of times, when one plant was burned, all the plants nearby “screamed” as well. So not only do plants feel pain, they communicate with each other to boot.

After this experiment had been done over several days (always the same nasty white-coated man doing the burning), the moment the experimenter even entered the room, all of the plants “screamed”, although the needles on the graph showed no reaction to any of the other people in white coats.

Thus, these plants were showing reaction to pain, communication with each other, sympathy with their plant friend’s pain - even those that had never been burned themselves - and the ability to differentiate the man with the lighter from all of the other scientific bods wandering in and out, showing distress or fear before he even commenced torturing any of them.

Finally, these scientists found that all living cells, even the scrapings from the roof of someone’s mouth, showed the same reactions. They concluded, therefore, that all living things are somehow in sympathy with all other living things. These experiments have also been replicated since and have gained the same results, so this was no freak set of data.

The author of the book “Supernature” (where I first read about all this), Lyle Watson, said his research had lead him to the conclusion that the only way to have a clear conscience would be if he only ate cabbages that had died of natural causes. He also said he imagined grass screaming whenever he walked over it.

So, short of becoming a fruitarian and only eating windfall, i.e. fruit that has fallen from the tree naturally (no picking!), it is impossible to keep yourself alive without killing things. Hey, smug vegan, that lettuce you're munching on is screaming its head off (lettuce, head, get it?).

Personally, given that the carrots in my fridge are facing a horrific death by boiling, while the chicken has already met its maker in a slightly less barbaric fashion, it’s chicken and chips for my dinner and no troubled conscience. I will also honour the poor bird’s death by ensuring not one scrap of meat is left before chucking out the stripped carcass. The juicy parson’s nose* will, of course, be the first thing shoved into my gob. It’s the least I can do.

And don’t worry about the chips. They are of the pre-murdered oven variety and beyond feeling any further pain. RIP chips - in my tummy.

(*See "Parson's Nose" elsewhere on this blog, but only if you enjoy laughing).


Friday, 2 May 2014


Whenever an aeroplane full of excited holiday makers flies over my house, I get this horrible feeling that it’s about to explode in mid-air and crash. Then I cross my fingers and pray that the mangled scorched wreckage and its cargo of burning passengers doesn’t smash right through my living room window.
Just finished decorating, see.
Twelve pounds fifty a roll that bloody wallpaper cost me!

...Also, isn't it absolutely staggering how they make aeroplanes fly in the first place. Hundreds of tons of metal, rubber and plastic and somehow they get these huge, wonderful machines, up into the sky and keep them there for hours and hours and hours. Amazing!
It’s even more amazing (not to mention spectacular) when one crashes, putting the kibosh on all the gay cabin staff, the makeup-caked trolley dollies and eight dozen screaming passengers. I bet the pilot doesn’t get a reference after that.
Of course a life jacket under the seat is a waste of bleedin' time! Don’t talk black boxes!
I'll leave you with this tip. When flying anywhere, always sit right at the back of the plane.
Never yet heard of one that "reversed" into a mountain. 

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again. Mainly because the evil swines had galloped back and forth over him several times, trampling his broken shell-like body into the mud to make sure he was properly dead.
And they were laughing.

Friday, 25 April 2014

Bunny in a Matchbox

I wish I had a fluffy little bunny with huge blue eyes and floppy ears. Then I could hurl it at a brick wall, scientifically proving once and for all that “cute” does not bounce.
Millions of Vietnamese guinea pigs have found their way onto dinner plates using that exact methodology, which is where I got the idea from.
Next on my research schedule is to disprove the statement “as safe as houses”.
The petrol and matches are ready to go.
I’d be out if I were you.
...On an unrelated matter, I think the company that make Matchbox Cars should be done under the Trade Descriptions Act (1968). I put my replica e-type jag in the road and let three double-decker buses and an ice cream van run over it and it still wouldn’t fit in a matchbox. It was too wide!
Deliberately mislead us with false advertising. That's what they do. Fraudsters.

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

Easy Peasy

I can rhyme quite easily, age on age
Filling up each long blank page
Spouting words with little meaning
A fault for which I have a leaning
Because I’m here you keep on reading
When mercy is what your heart is pleading
And though I have a kindly heart
You must finish all before we part
Ever had a dream where you can’t escape
The victim of murder, robbery, or rape
Chased by monsters and can’t get away
Well, you’re in one now, even though it’s day
The poet spins in darkened grave
Niceties’ eternal slave
This tosh insults his metered ear
But he’s down there, while I’m up here
So let him keep his clever wits
While I write on of bums and tits
Being worthy ain’t my gig
Which rhymes, of course, with pig or prig
Everything I write will match
Day and night, but here’s the catch
Is my poetry worth a light
Or is it just a bag of shite
I sod about with words and rhymes
A thousand, thousand, thousand times
Sausage-like I’ll string my words
Writing of plums, whey and curds
I must stop now to my great sorrow
But I’ll be back upon the morrow
Filling paper white or blue
With, yes, a great big heap of poo

Monday, 21 April 2014

Bonkers in the Nut

Can you really become insane, if worried that may be the case
Surely you can’t go loop the loop with such a solid base

Can you get to crazy town if you think you are on the train
Surely insanity would soon remove such insight from your brain
Can the loony gene creep up on you if standing vigilant guard
Could it slip past all defences, or would that be just too hard

Can a complete and utter basket case be aware of his mad condition
Or is a loosened screw too tiny to spot, even with perfect vision
Can you be bonkers in the nut, but sane enough to feel it creeping
Or does madness take its hold when the brain’s switched off and sleeping

Can you really be a crazy person if you know you’re acting weird
Guess I’ll just have to question the magic creatures in my beard

Sunday, 20 April 2014

Sponsored Walk

I was thinking about doing a charity walk to Brighton and back. Then it occurred to me that it might be a bit too ambitious. I’m not the fittest person around, what with all the laying about in bed and constant boozing. Not to mention the chips, cakes, kebabs, marijuana, fizzy pop by the bucketful and my intravenous coffee intake. A little too much self abuse leaves the old legs a bit wobbly, too. That doesn't help when you're clinically obese and have twenty stone of lard to cart about. 
Anyway, I decided a walk across all the Thames’ bridges in London might be a bit more manageable. Decision made, I had another beer, put a couple of pasties and a tray of chips in the oven, smoked a fat joint and set about planning the route. Cross over bridge, walk along, cross back, walk along, cross over next bridge ... I’d almost plotted very nearly five bridges in my A to Z - three actually - when I got to thinking about how tiring it would be. Not only that, but there was the wear and tear on my shoes to consider and being London, there would always be the chance of a light drizzle, or of it being just a bit too warm.
My bridge walk was starting to look like a bridge too far, especially considering the bad name I would end up with for taking a cut from the sponsorship proceeds to cover necessary expenditure on lager, burgers and sweets; plus the shoe wear and tear thing, of course. It’s not as though I can afford to sue anyone for defamation of character, so they could call me all the thieving lowlife scumbags under the sun and get away with it.
I suppose I could have done the walk and just kept all the money raised. Selflessly walking over all those bridges would be damned hard work, after all (particularly if it did turn out to be just a bit too warm) and surely deserved some kind of reward? It’s not as if I actually know any skint cripples who need the dosh. They all get more benefits than I do anyway and they don’t even pay rent in those homes.
If I did go down the route of trousering the cash, I realise I would have to keep quiet about pocketing it, but figure I could avoid possible prosecution by saying that had been the plan all along in really tiny small print at the bottom of the sponsorship form. You know, a bit like the sort insurance companies use to get out of ever honouring any claims. It’s OK for them to take the piss out of their customers, but if I helped myself to a few measly pounds meant for less fortunate bib-dribblers, suddenly I’d be the bad guy! Not sure if keeping the cash could be described as an act of God, though. That might be pushing my luck a bit.
I haven’t even got many friends, so probably couldn’t raise more than about thirty quid and that wouldn’t exactly give sight to the blind, or tongues to those talking-difficulties types who grunt and wave their hands about a lot. Might be just as well to give the idea up as a bad job. My shoes have already got holes in them anyway and all that walking would only make them worse.
There's that possible light drizzle to take into account as well. If that didn’t hold off, I bet I would even be condemned for buying an umbrella, or for sitting in the pub all day drinking the sponsorship money away until it stopped spitting outside. These charity donors are always tight like that. Don’t see them doing a bridge walk when it’s drizzling, or a bit too warm. Oh no, all too happy to leave that to genuinely concerned people like me. Hypocrites. 
Sod it. I think I’ll smoke another joint and eat some toffee instead. Don’t suppose any of you fancy sponsoring a bacon-sandwich-athon? No?

Friday, 18 April 2014


When I was a young boy of eight, I knew this evil little swine called Tom who used to catch spiders, pull all their legs off and collect them in a matchbox. He had hundreds of them in there.
One day, Tom offered to show me his much-prized, though gruesome leg collection and as I leaned over to take a closer look, the rotten sod pretended to chuck them at me. Well, always having been completely terrified of spiders, I panicked and jumped back, in the process accidentally smacking my sister in the face with my elbow and making about two pints of blood gush out of her nose.
So it wasn’t all bad news. Fat cow.

Wednesday, 16 April 2014

Icy Wasteland

I was watching the news the other night about some awful disaster, when I became transfixed by the image of a young, half-starved boy. He was trudging through a huge snow drift, whipped by howling arctic winds, every step obviously costing him a great effort. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket and little else, his feet were protected against the freezing temperatures by only a skimpy pair of socks and thin, open-toed sandals, more appropriate for a desert than an icy wasteland.
I was absolutely horrified. I’d never seen anything so terrible, or quite so pathetic. I ask you, socks with sandals! Didn’t his parents ever teach him any fashion sense?

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Pet Ferret

I was sitting on the bus the other day thinking about the two pet cats I used to own and how I would spend half my life cleaning out their litter tray, or picking up sicky fur-balls, when I began to wonder if a ferret wouldn’t be a better bet. A better pet, actually.
It seemed like a good idea at first, until the ferret I was imagining turned nasty and bit me. Flipping painful, I can tell you. Made me realise just what poor old Richard Whiteley had been put through on his afternoon TV show all those years ago when a piece on ferrets went sour and the one he was holding locked its teeth on his finger and wouldn't let go. The ferret wrangler telling him it was only playing didn't cut much ice, that's for sure.
To get my imaginary ferret off, I had to force my mobile phone into its mouth to prise its jaws open and it hurt so much, I got really angry and shouted at it and waved my bloody hand in its face.
“Look what you’ve done, you spiteful little git!” I yelled. “I saved you from the ferret sausage factory out of the goodness of my heart and just look at the thanks I get!”
A moment later, a girl walked past the bus toting a fine pair of baby feeders and attention grabbed, my pet ferret ceased to exist. Sad really. Even if it was a bit aggressive.

Fear of Flying

I have a mate who is absolutely terrified of flying. He’s never been abroad for a vacation unless he could get where he was going using boats, trains and coaches and eventually, sick of wasting half of his leave days travelling to and from his holiday destination, he decided to do something about it and booked himself onto one of those fear of flying courses.
He went last weekend. It crashed. No survivors.
I suppose I should have said “had a mate”
A fear of static caravans may have been a safer option.
Or milk floats.

Monday, 14 April 2014

White Lightning

My family never had much money when I was growing up and couldn’t afford to buy me expensive toys and games like the other kids had. To make up for this paucity of plastic playthings, I developed a truly amazing imagination and came to inhabit a world that was authentic in every detail.
My favourite escapist game was daydreaming about being a cowboy. Not any old cowboy, but the greatest gunslinger around. I was a good guy with a hard edge and baddies feared me and my blazing law-bringer because they knew I was super fast, deadly accurate and remorseless in my battle against the forces of evil.
Like any decent lawman, I rode a fantasy steed called White Lightning – an equine friend more fleet of foot and more loyal than any other horse in the west. Wore an imaginary Stetson to shade the hot sun from my eyes (even when there was a bit of a light drizzle outside). Had a pretend Winchester thrust through a loop on my fanciful, hand-tooled, Mexican saddle and toted a made up colt 45, complete with non-existent mother-of-pearl handle, carried in a fictional many-notched holster slung low on my hip.
In my time as a fake US marshal, I cleaned up several lawless towns, tracked and gunned down many a murdering bank robber and rogue comanchero, butchered the entire Indian nation (in my day, pre PC, the injuns were always the bad guys), created the legend of the mysterious hero on the thundering white stallion and kissed two girls from my school, Sharon and Tracey, whom I liked to visualise as pretty and obliging inhabitants of my tough western utopia – though in reality they were the pillows off of my bed.
A large, tatty, soft toy monkey I owned came in handy during my cowboy games and we had regular fist fights, in which I would punch him from one side of the room to the other and back again. We would roll around the floor, Mickey trying to strangle me and then I would gain the upper hand and throw him against the wall like a Vietnamese guy killing a guinea pig.
Mickey’s face (Mickey the Monkey) was made of rubber and squashed under my knuckles in a most satisfying manner. Usually, outlaw Mickey was called Roger Cooper, named after a little shit from my school who used to twist my ear or give me dead legs and I would beat him mercilessly. If voodoo worked, Roger would have been black, blue and dead.
Anyway, one day, I was galloping along on White Lightning in hot pursuit of a particularly vile bunch of outlaws who had just robbed and murdered a stagecoach full of young women (including that bitch Sharon, who I’d gone off after she spat on my school blazer when I was standing in front of her in the dinner queue), when an unfortunate accident occurred.
Just as I drew my shiny peacemaker to bring down the first of the leering, unshaven desperadoes, a mentally constructed diamond-back rattle snake slithered into my path, thus spooking my pretend steed, causing him to rear up and throw me violently to the ground. I hit the mythical desert floor hard and the jarring impact made my dreamt up six-gun go off – the imaginary wayward bullet entering my head via my nose, blowing out my heroic brains and allowing the villains to escape.
I was never the same after that.
These days, I just drink a lot of White Lightning, rock back and forth a lot and dribble down my chin. I still miss my super powers, though. Particularly the x-ray vision and my bat cape. Wibble.

Sunday, 13 April 2014

Pedal Off!

I hate ruddy cyclists. There, the cat’s out of the bag. Face it, push-bikers contribute nothing, don’t pay any road tax and if one ever runs into you or your car you will discover, to your cost, that they don’t have any insurance either. I don’t drive and never have, so I’m hating cyclists purely from the perspective of a pavement basher, but one who still sees the essential unfairness of one bunch of road users freeloading off another bunch.
Bikers ride on the pavements even when no single car is in sight. They weave through pedestrian precincts and dodge down the wrong side of the road as if they were invulnerable to harm. They sail through traffic lights, road junctions and crossings, ignoring common sense and all the rules of the highway, terrifying innocent shoppers and mums with prams and toddlers, intimidating people on foot with their near silent approaches, with no slightest sign of remorse or sense of wrongdoing.
They ride like brainless idiots, scooting in and out of traffic, going from road to footpath and back again, without signalling their intentions or giving a moment’s thought to the motorists who have to slam on their brakes or swerve dangerously in order to avoid them. They don’t give a rocket-propelled shit about anyone but themselves, yet still have the cheek to feel they are hard done by, constantly whining about the lack of cycle lanes (which they rarely use anyway, even though they are provided gratis, courtesy of tax-paying car drivers), forever bleating about how inconsiderate other road users are to them, for crying out loud. The traffic lights do apply to you as well you know, dickheads.
And what is their excuse for acting like crazed mobile yobs and expecting the rest of us sinners to dodge out of their saintly leg-powered ways? That they are using an environmentally friendly mode of transport, that’s what. Well, you dangerously bloody arrogant cycling terrorists ain’t too friendly to my environment. No sir. May I also point out, here, that the bicycle was not designed for lazy chavs to walk their lead-less muzzle-less pet pit-bull Sampson, nor are they meant to be used as mobile telephone kiosks. In other words:
And I hope the dope on the racing bike who jumped the red light and almost knocked me down recently, broke his sweaty weather-beaten neck about ten yards further up the road. If I see that whelk again, I’m going to tip him over and watch him wriggling like an upended beetle, struggling to get his feet out of the stirrups before a huge tanker lorry comes roaring past and squishes him into paste like the turd-burrowing insect he is.
Personally, I would like to see a total holocaust among this breathtakingly selfish fraternity of bi-wheeled ignoramuses. Then, once we’d wiped out the sticky-Lycra wearing buggers, we could have all their mountain bikes melted down and turned into electric trams and statues of famous walkers like Scot of the Antarctic, Ian Botham and various American astronauts. The latter didn’t walk very far, I know, but it was on the moon, so hey, that’s still gotta count.
Anyway, cyclists, I hate you because you are a menace to the public, a pain in the bum with your bitching about car drivers when you are to blame in almost every accident and near miss and because you think it’s OK to dump your bike wherever you like – on the floor outside shop doorways, for example, because you’re only concerned with what you want to buy and not if anyone else can actually get into the place thanks to your thoughtlessly erected barricade.
Mind you, at least cycling with criminal stupidity means the mortality rate on the roads for bikers must be considerably higher than for other users and with each one that gets themselves wiped out, I guess that makes the rest of us that little bit safer.
Tossers, the lot of you. Use a bit of common sense and common decency and who knows, I might stop hating you. Except for Boris the bike Johnson, the fat blond philanderer, with his stupid rent a bike scheme, wasting untold millions putting gaudy bright blue cycle lanes all over the bloody place that will likely get used about as often as the moon turns the same colour as the lanes.
There’s one bike lane near me at the end of a quiet, rarely used road, and it’s about five feet long with a little bollard separating it from the road proper. Why? What for? How much did it cost and which over paid wazzock decided it was a good idea? These people are so dumb, it’s enough to make you spit red-hot rivets. That money could have gone to the kid’s hospital or a hospice, instead it’s wasted on an unused bit of green tat on the road that probably took about six council workers to lay.
And just to add insult to injury, that wally, Ken Livingstone, when incumbent as mayor of London, decided it would be a good idea to also put cycle lanes on the pavements at Vauxhall where I live (one of the heaviest used road junctions anywhere). So now, as a pedestrian, you can avoid getting knocked down by traffic, think you’ve made it to safety and still risk getting killed crossing the cycle lane to the pavement proper after foolishly dropping your guard. No pelican crossing for those and if you’re blind or can’t move too quickly, then God help you.
Then we get rid of that fool Livingstone and Boris the bike spends millions putting in blue cycle lanes all over the place (no doubt blue to differentiate his madness from the green madness that came before) which I have NEVER seen one cyclist using. Not one. Not ever. What he should have done is had written right down the middle of them in huge yard-high letters “DO NOT CYCLE HERE, IT IS STUPID AND DANGEROUS AND MAY RESULT IN DEATH OR INJURY TO INNOCENT PEOPLE” and then the cycling morons would have been all over them like ants.
And quit the wheelies, already. If that’s the only lame trick you can do it just makes you look like a sap. Unless you intend falling off and seriously injuring yourself, in which case, please continue. I like a good belly laugh and seeing any of you pig ignorant cycling maniacs bleeding on the pavement is one of life’s simple pleasures…
Did I mention that I hate ruddy cyclists, by the way?

Sunday, 6 April 2014

Jolly Wheeze

A good practical joke to pull on a friend while walking in the countryside, if visiting an exotic continent where he isn’t familiar with the local fauna, at least, is to tie a six-foot length of string to a large twig and secretly attach it to his belt. Once that’s done, you should tap him on the shoulder and warn him he is being stalked by a “deadly branch snake”, one of the three most venomous and aggressive reptiles in the world. Keep a straight face while telling him this and try to look as worried and fearful as possible so that he is fully convinced.
Naturally, as your buddy begins to move away from the area, the twig will follow right behind him, wriggling “menacingly” through the grass and with any luck, he will panic and break into a run.
To frighten him even more, by this time you should be screaming for help and waving your arms frantically above your head, while warning him, in a loud, shrill voice, that the snake is almost upon him and that no anti-venom for this particular viper exists. Make it very clear that a single bite and he will be as dead as the proverbial doornail in ten agonising minutes, shortly after his face has turned black and his tongue has swollen to the size of a half-inflated rugby ball. Which fate, no amount of desperate poison-sucking-out, or tourniquets will save him from.
Driven to a dribbling frenzy, your mucker will take to his heels and run and run, crying, pooping his pants and gabbling madly, until you finally lose sight of him completely. Of course, with no possible way he can outdistance the branch snake, short of ripping off his strides and hurling them into a bush, he will eventually drop to the floor exhausted, freeze in the foetal position from sheer terror and very likely black out entirely.
At this point, when you stumble across his unconscious body, you can wake him up by urinating on his face and then explain that the whole thing had simply been a jolly wheeze on your part. He is likely to be a bit peeved at first, but then will see the funny side and congratulate you on your convincing gag. That’s if some big hairy thing with fangs hasn’t got to him first and killed and eaten him.
Should that be the case, you will likely only discover an odd tuft of your pal’s scalp, a few scattered teeth and one or two gnawed bones. This will mean that your amusing scam has backfired somewhat and that it might be best if you kept quiet about the whole affair.
Alternatively, if your easily fooled friend has been badly mauled, but is still breathing, finish him off with the put-them-out-of-their-misery attachment on your Swiss army knife. Be sure to keep the wounds irregular and in keeping with him having been savaged by one or more large critters. Don't want some interfering jungle Miss Marple catching you out, after all. Then you can fly home and driven insane by guilt and remorse, hack your family into bloody kebabs with a garden hoe, or other sharp-edged tool, before being shot dead through your kitchen window by a trigger-happy police marksman.
Dear oh dear, and all because your gullible chum was stupid enough to run away from a harmless bit of stick in the first place. Let’s face it, daft sod deserved to die.
And your nagging wife and her parasite children.
I also know a practical joke about a fatal untreatable disease, but that involves drugging them first so you can put the required green and yellow marks all over their bodies with felt tip pens. Trouble with that one is, sometimes you are a tad too heavy-handed with the drugging part of the exercise and they never wake up. Where’s the fun in that? I found it a complete waste of effort.

Wednesday, 2 April 2014

R.I.P Gemma

R.I.P. Gemma
When I was at junior school, a seven-year-old girl called Gemma choked on a fish bone in the dinner hall and died. It was a rather inexplicable thing to happen, given that she actually had shepherd’s pie for lunch, but perhaps the previous day’s washing up hadn’t been as carefully done as it should have been.
The ambulance crew tried desperately to revive her for almost an hour, but sadly, all to no avail. Even several whacking great, skin-crisping jolts from the mains supply failed to spark her up again and an expert doctor later told the coroner’s court that even if they had managed to restart her tiny heart, she would have probably been left with all the brain power of a broccoli floret, but minus all the iron and vitamins.
Gemma’s surprise death left all of her teachers, fellow students and the headmaster utterly distraught at her passing and her parents were inconsolable, particularly given that Gemma was an only child and her mum had recently had her womb and ovaries mistakenly removed while in A & E with a suspected broken ankle.

On the upside, the break later turned out to be no more than a simple sprain, but that didn’t cut much ice with the now barren woman negligent doctors had accidentally turned her into. Probably been doing drugs at a wild party the night before and being a bit bleary eye’d, they’d mixed up her name with a cancer sufferer who’d had her leg strapped up and been sent home with her tumour intact, mistakenly believing she was going to live. Or so I suspect.
After Gemma’s cremation (which smelled slightly of kippers, exacerbating the general grief), her parents never really got on too well and eventually, after lots of bitter public rows and acrimony – and after the compensation money had been spunked on foreign holidays, bingo and rent boys – her dad left her mum for a younger, prettier woman and had four very bright and athletic children by her. And he gave her a clump in the mouth before he buggered off for good with his fully functioning younger model. Hit her three times, in fact. Said he had to because she didn’t go down after the first two and he couldn’t get his leg high enough to kick her in the back otherwise.
On top of the horrendous guilt she had to bear for not having given Gemma her usual packed lunch on that fateful day, everything else became too much for her depressed and alcoholic mother to cope with. Liver shrunk to the size of a butter bean, the poor woman went downhill fast, making five desperate attempts at suicide, before finally succeeding with an overdose of weedkiller, washing up liquid and liver salts – her fresh-smelling, pathetic corpse, later found under a large cloud of fizzy green bubbles.
Still, let’s face facts, if Gemma had lived, I expect she would have only grown ridiculously old and then died anyway. Probably would have been ill loads of times as well and she had a pug face on top of a stick-thin body, so I doubt she would have ever got a man. Lesbian, most likely. They’re none too picky, apparently. Don’t really know what all the fuss was about.
And yet they still keep telling us fish is good for us. Can’t believe a word they say, the conning swines. I’d stick with burgers, if I were you. At least all the bones, beaks and bumholes in that McCrap are minced up small enough to swallow without choking. Not until your clinically obese neck has filled up like a balloon full of cheese straws, anyway.
Will that be diet coke with your three thousand calories of cholesterol and sugar? …Well, you greedy git? I’m waiting. Go on, make a decision, who knows, it might just burn a few grease cells out of your fat-addled brain.

Tuesday, 1 April 2014

Stop That Pigeon!

I was looking out of my window the other day, watching the world go by, when I saw a particularly tatty pigeon flying past. These disease-ridden rats of the sky are foul unhealthy things, so without hesitation, I snatched up a glass ashtray and threw it at the feathered flapper. Unfortunately, aim a tad poor, I missed the avian beastie by several feet, the ashtray consequently hitting the garden wall below and shattering into about a thousand pieces.
Well, one of the largest shards of razor-edged glass then shot into the street and struck a passing woman on the side of her face. Shocked and dazed, cheek gashed open to the bone, white polyester blouse and crimplene slacks rapidly becoming soaked with blood, the female pedestrian fashion-victim dropped her Quicksave carrier and unwisely staggered off the pavement and into the road, slap bang in front of a speeding motorcycle.
Luckily for the canny shopper, the leather-clad rider was on the ball and swerved in the nick of time, thereby missing the witless woman by mere inches. The helmeted chap’s manoeuvre proved ill-advised, however, cruel fate sending man, pillion passenger and machine into the path of a giant tanker lorry racing from the opposite direction. Unable to break in time, or otherwise avoid a collision, the lorry smashed into the motorcycle and crushed it flat, thereby propelling the luckless biker into the air, whereupon he crashed through the windscreen of the tanker’s cab and butted the driver in the face, knocking him unconscious.
Out of control and unguided, the lorry jack-knifed, hurled the dead bike rider into a nearby tree - where he landed on a branch adjacent to the one his unconscious pillion passenger was draped over - mounted the pavement and careened at high-speed through the gates of the junior school opposite my house.
The wayward wagon then ploughed a deep furrow across the playground and demolished several classrooms, before coming to rest in the assembly hall. In the process, it not only wrecked year three’s papier mache nativity scene, but also killed forty-one ethnically diverse children in the middle of singing “all things bright and beautiful”, their geography teacher, “no-nonsense” Mr Frith and Gertrude, a passing West Indian dinner lady, who had unwisely chosen the wrong moment to leave her post at the turkey twizzler tray to go for a sneaky fag, poor woman ending up tangled around the lorry’s back axle with the butt of the unfinished ciggy jammed up her nose.
Filled with thousands of gallons of highly flammable petroleum, the tanker finally exploded in a ball of flames, creating a conflagration that spread rapidly through the building, causing five million pound’s worth of damage and barbecuing another one hundred and seventy-three school kids, the deputy head, Mrs Narendra Patel, six other assorted piss-poor teachers, Bill the caretaker and Violet, a blue-haired school cleaner, who was due to retire the following Monday after thirty years of faithful service on minimum wage.
To cap it all, the blaze miraculously leapt the school wall and raced across a forty-foot lawn, before consuming the old folk’s home next door, leaving no survivors among the aged residents and putting the kibosh on two Irish nurses and four Ghanaian care workers who sadly choked on a mixture of noxious fumes emanating from burning dentures and colostomy bags while desperately trying to drag some of the charcoaled oldsters from the cinders.
The only bright spot in this terrible tragedy – apart from the bricks in the school wall which continued to glow for several hours after the fire was finally extinguished – the motor bike passenger’s miraculous escape from serious injury - apart from his broken legs, nose, ribs and collar bone - became somewhat tarnished several weeks later when he hung himself from his adoptive family‘s banisters out of pansy-arse survivor guilt syndrome.
Luckily for his step-parents, taking a leaf out of Madonna and Jolie’s book, they had recently bought/adopted a little foreign baby, so didn’t really miss the soft twat. They may have seen things a little differently, however, if they had known at the time, while not bothering to attend his funeral, that they had actually wasted their money on a little cutey that was already infected with the ebola virus that was set to eat its eyes and internal organs within a matter of days.
That pigeon was a blasted menace. Filthy bird!
And I missed Eastenders, what with being distracted from my TV guide by all the people outside running about in flames, screaming, and the sirens of the emergency vehicles that turned up just too late to be of any help. Anyone get murdered this week?

Tuesday, 25 March 2014

None so Bold

I remember a time good people, when the English were proud workers
But the man closed all our industries and now he names you shirkers
I remember a time not long ago, when there were oh so many jobs
But the man imported cheap migrant labour and now he calls you slobs
He’s insulted you for years folks, yes he’s treated us all like fools
He’s sold out our great country, following his own sick set of rules
He kowtows to anything foreign, gives his respect to one and all
But the English could be dying and he’d leave you where you fall
He’s sold off our family silver and auctioned off all our gold
But he’d sell his mother’s soul, my friends, to be in the Euro fold
This man his name is quisling, our enemy, our deadly foe
Should’ve put the traitor against a wall and shot him years ago
And our young folks die for nothing, so loyal, brave and true
They died fighting wars from history and sadly they still do
Bullets and bombs they face my friends, courageous to a man
Maimed and killed for freedom, though the man knows it’s a sham
Democracy expired years ago and all justice will soon follow
Though they pretend we still have liberty, their lying words are hollow
The man has back-stabbed our people and stolen all we’ve got
And don’t think that’s by accident, it’s all part of his nasty plot
Like the Romans, soon, the English, consigned to history’s bin
But the man won’t shed the smallest tear, on his face an evil grin
Now little left but fading memories, of glorious feats of old
There were never any as great as us and never none so bold

Friday, 21 March 2014

Whatever Happened to Melody?

I don’t like house, I don’t like rap
I think they’re so much artless crap
They rumble on in a mindless babble
Hypnotising the drugged-up rabble
You don’t need skill, you don’t need a thing
You don’t even have to learn to sing
Shout out loud your list of shopping
As all the while the air you’re chopping
With relentless rhythm and lots of bass
You’ll soon acquire the aggressive face
Shout about killing and shout about drugs
Yelling to a room full of spaced-out mugs
Back to front trousers and a baseball cap
An angry mouth with unstoppable yap
Are all you need in these strange times
Apart from a pill and a couple of lines
I may be getting old, I may be out of touch
But I see more beauty in an elephant’s crutch
They don’t know love, or understand gentle
I think they’re twisted, or possibly mental
I mentioned already that house is crap
So I wrote these words to the rhythm of rap
This is my tribute to their kind of song
Come and pop some E and then sing along
Drugs are good, drugs are good, you know you really should
Drugs are good, drugs are good, you know you really should…

Solemn Vow

Me and drink had some fun times
Like when I fell over, hit my head, broke a rib
Got up to mischief, stayed out too late
But with never a lie, only ever a fib

Fourteen cold lagers on a Friday night
Thirty-seven more up until Monday
In bed till gone two, missed a day’s work
Still drunk, I thought it was Sunday

Drink’s been a stout friend
Supported me through all the troubles of life
Through funerals, weddings, Wednesday night telly
And the problems I had with the wife

I’ve quaffed my share of cider and wine
Drunk sherry and binged on the hard stuff
But when it comes to the old amber nectar
I never could get quite enough

With the juice in my veins I’ve laughed a whole lot
But then probably wept even more
I understand highs and I understand lows
With even keels I’m just not so sure

My constitution not the force it once was
I’m older now, but much wiser too
I know that drink is my enemy
And also exactly what I must do

I’ll give the booze up, I’ll abandon it
Cut it out of my life like a cancer
I will abstain and jump on the wagon
That is the only real answer

No more for me the devil’s brew
No more turning into that bad Mr Hide
No more antics and no more sorrys
A wave of sobriety henceforth I will ride

No more guilt and no more shame
No more agony and no more pain
I will be good and I’ll be nice
I’ll be white bread, I’ll be white rice

I will stay sober for all my tomorrows
And that is my honest vow
As for tonight, I can just catch the offy
But only if I leave you right now…


Wednesday, 19 March 2014

Not Heard the Last

Powdered milk and dog-end day, got no money, got no pay.
Got no family, got no wife, but I got trouble and I got strife.
See me coming, head for the hills, turn your backs you Jacks and Jills.
Talk to the window, talk to the wall, glass and bricks don’t hear my call.
Life so pointless makes me yelp, but don’t need pity, expect no help.
Grey the colour, my imprisoned soul, turning black down in this hole.
Can’t face food, eat banana, eat some more, but that’s manana.
Nails long, with unkempt hair, not much matters when in despair.
Heart thump hard, stomach knot, count the blessings I ain’t got.
Live in hope and struggle through, is what they tell me I must do.
Battle on, tho all for nothing, not counting pain, hurt or suffering.
Could friends save me, if still any, who would miss me, not too many.
What thought’s true, oh what is real, will this get worse or start to heal.
Reality become so hazy, twisted thoughts make me crazy.
Mood so bleak, dreams all tattered, how did life leave me so shattered?
So where the loss if I should quit, this life of endless empty shit?
But how could this boy ever quit, deprive you of his sparkling wit?
How could this fine lad ever die, with still this twinkle in his eye?
Why deny you this huge brain by slipping quietly down the drain.
Oh the humour you would miss, without me here to take the piss.
Life's been hard, life's been rough, but it wont beat me, I'm too tough!
Go spread this defiant word, the last of me has not been heard!

Tuesday, 18 March 2014

Pain is a Pain

Pain! It hurts, doesn’t it? Not a nice sensation at all. When you have pain, you will try anything to take your mind off it, but usually without success. I once had sex in the desperate hope of distracting myself from a particularly head-splitting migraine, but all to no avail. Had to give up after a few minutes or risk vomiting on – on um, nope, her name escapes me – the lady I was with at the time and my raised heart rate and blood pressure simply meant the explosions of agony inside my skull were coming with far greater frequency and with considerably increased force. Yes of course I fancy you, love. It’s not you, it’s me. Now please clear off and leave me to die in peace.
Pain is a good thing, of course. It tells you when you’re ill and makes you ring the doctor, warns you when you’ve twisted your ankle to stop you jogging long enough to bind it up, alerts you to the danger of pressing your face to a dark but scorching hot plate – again – and generally keeps your curious fingers out of lit barbecues and spinning bacon slicers.
Pain and fear of pain makes you careful on stairs, keeps your thumbs out of the way of hammers (most of the time), ensures you remain wary of bare wires even when you’ve been assured they’re no longer live; causes you to snivel and creep your way out of the argument with the big guy who would obviously beat you to a pulp if provoked and generally saves your backside in a myriad of ways.
Pain, however, also has this tendency for excess. Take the pain I had a while ago caused by the abscess which suddenly appeared under my tooth. When I woke up in the morning with the entire left side of my face throbbing mercilessly, it told me in no uncertain terms that something was amiss and also motivated me to get to the dentist with all possible haste. Once alerted to the problem and taking appropriate action, however, surely, job done, pain could have taken its foot off the pedal and eased up on me? It bloody well didn’t, though. In fact, despite popping pain killers and antibiotics like they were going out of fashion, it kept getting worse and worse, to the point where my face swelled into something Popeye-esque and apparently in imminent danger of bursting and I spent half the night with a bag of frozen peas clamped to my jaw, pacing my kitchen muttering: please stop, oh please stop, oh please, please, PLEASE…!
Pain, I’m grateful for the warning and for spurring me to seek professional help, but can you tell me what the purpose is of leaving me trapped on my bed in the foetal position, grizzling like a two-year old with colic and desperately praying to God, begging Him to make the agony end? Where is the logic in making me so completely debilitated, I can’t even think straight? Doesn’t that leave me at increased risk of further pain-causing accidents, like thoughtlessly setting fire to my face instead of my cigarette, or doing up my fly without getting Percy out of harm‘s way first? Isn’t pain supposed to protect me, not lead me senseless and dribbling into otherwise avoidable danger…
Pain should be on a scale of 1 to 10, not 1 to 10 – plus a triple word score and a bonus of fifty pain points for using all of its letters. In deference to tyrant pain, I was unable to do much of anything for 72 hours, including having a shave or a proper wash. My bedding looked like it had been in a tumble drier, but I couldn’t even think about straightening it up and apart from a tin of tomato soup and two custard tarts, I was barely able to feed myself. The pain killers said take with or after food, but I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to get any proper food in it and each tentative chewing motion sent a bolt of lightning up through my nose and straight into my brain, which rather takes away all the pleasure from a soft-boiled egg. But no matter, the pain killers failed to kill any of the pain anyway. Didn’t bring it down by one sodding notch, though enough paracetamol was floating around my system to turn my liver into a single lump of scar tissue.
Pain at that level is utterly counter-productive. How are you supposed to escape the crocodile that just bit your foot off if the initial pain paralyses you? How are you supposed to fight off the bully if his first punch makes you curl up on the floor and weep gentle tears of self-pity? How are you supposed to seek treatment when your broken legs won’t take you anywhere and your smashed hands can’t dial 999? And how are you supposed to brush your teeth and attend to your dental hygiene when your jaw line, stretched to Mini Driver proportions, won’t let you open your mouth wide enough to get the brush in?
Pain, therefore, has a sadistic streak and will pointlessly jack up your torment levels just because it can, watching you miserably squirming for its own warped entertainment. Pain was either invented by Mother Nature who, too busy dragging Father Nature around shoe shops, cares not one jot for the suffering of her creatures, or by a vengeful God with a twisted sense of humour, whom I personally wished to have a very stiff word with, but as the only sounds I could squeeze from between my tortured gums were groans and whimpers, I was forced to put His telling off on hold.
Pain begins each paragraph of this essay in order to reflect the rhythmic pulse of raging hurt which, as I sat down to write this, continued to torture my rearmost molar, as well as my jawbone, cheek, eye, ear, throat, tongue and the top of my head. What has the top of my head got to do with my blasted tooth? What?
Pain, though it pained me to say it through swollen lips, is quite simply an occasional friend with a permanent mean streak. As for my damaged sciatic nerve, now that really is a pain in the bum.