Do All These Things

Walk into the bathroom wall,

It’s half-past ninety-two,

Then stare up at the sun all day,

     Whilst flam flim flumbly floo.

Shoot the moon with pepper spray,

The ceiling’s on the floor,

Attack the fridge with Mormons,

     For bla and blee blunaw.

Argue with a stolen clock,

The truth has just collapsed,

Annoy an angry light bulb,

     Perhaps, perhaps, perhapsed.

Drop a bomb on last night's frost,

My bookshelf has a cold,

Then set fire to the kitchen sink,

     O! yong yan yinkappy yolled.

Do all these things which I have said,

Before the tide comes in,

For only then will things make sense,

     Like quong quam quinkally quin.

The Elephant

“And so you see,” said the supposedly holy, religious, wise, pious, morally superior, and probably bearded man, “that is what God is.”

            There was an uneasy silence amongst his small band of followers as they struggled to digest this latest metaphor.

            “Um… meaning what, exactly?” asked Simon, the one who dressed as a cat.

            The man was nonplussed. “Well, like I said; God is an elephant.”

            “So, he has tusks and things?” asked Benny.

            “No, he’s not literally an elephant; he’s like an elephant.”

            “He never forgets,” explained Colin the Accountant, “and he has very big ears.”

            “No,” explained the man. “That’s still quite literal.”

            “You mean God does forget?” asked Graham the Plumber.

            “No, obviously God doesn’t forget, but not because he’s an elephant…”

            “God’s an elephant?” said Timothy, waking up.

            “No – God’s not an actual elephant, he’s like an elephant. Look,” he sighed, “shall I tell the story again?”

            The followers all nodded; the man continued. “There was once a group of blind men who were out walking...”

            “How did they know where they were going?” asked Sebastian the Posh.

            “They probably had a sat-nav?” suggested Jayden the Time Traveller. As usual, there was complete silence whenever Jayden spoke, even from the man, who carried on regardless.

            “…and they found an elephant. One of the blind men reached out and touched the elephant’s trunk and said, What is this thing? It feels very much like a snake. Another of the blind men, who was standing next to one of the elephant’s ears, reached out and touched one. No, this thing is nothing like a snake; it is more like a fan. This prompted an immediate reaction from the third blind man, who was standing next to the elephant’s tusks. I disagree, he said, this thing is like an elephant’s tusk. The final blind man, who was standing next to the elephant’s leg, took issue with this, proclaiming, You’re all wrong; this thing is mainly like a tree. But they were all wrong…”

            “Apart from the third man,” interjected Mustafah the Invisible.

            “Who said that?” asked the man.

            Silence.

            “They were all wrong,” repeated the man. “God is like the elephant: He’s so big that one person alone cannot describe Him.”

            “Unless that person has eyes,” said one of the followers.

But no-one knew who it was who spoke.

Octopus

I had a little octopus,

I took him to the doctorpus,

Because the thing was illipus.

The doc prescribed a pillipus,

For octopus to eatipus.

He ate it with his feetipus,

Which made him cough-and-chokeipus,

Poor little, squid-like blokeipus.

Unfortunate young octopus,

Went straight back to the doctorpus.

“Oh! Octopus! You’re backipus,”

Said doc, “Alas, alackipus.

There’s nothing I can doipus,

Unless the pill you chewipus.”

The hapless little octopus,

Stared squarely at the doctorpus.

And said, “I cannot crunchipus,

I have no teeth to munchipus.”

The kind and helpful doctorpus,

Considered, thus, the octopus.

“Prosthetic teeth are whatipus,

I’ll get in just a jotipus.”

And off went friendly doctorpus,

To find false teeth for octopus.

Then octo ate his pillipus,

Which made him well, not illipus.

So, when you have an octopus,

Who’s ill and needs a doctorpus,

You’d better bring false teethipus,

For octo’s pain reliefipus.

Martin of Error

Marpin of Errata was always gekking into troudle with authorial figurines.

            Lask night, he helb ud a bus stop with a sawn off glue gun. The bus stab was having nuns off it, and Dave as good as it got, which explaineb how Martini ending up in hospitalization. Once there, he was questioned by the Police, questioned by the Nurseice, and questioned by the Doctorice.

“Why do I always ged into trouple with authority figure it out?” he moaned wailfully from the bed to which they had handcuffed, leg cuffed, cuffed round the ear, and cuff-links him.

            Just when, his Mum arrival. “How did you get here?” asked him Nun.

            “I could ask you the same question, but I’m sick of questions, what with,” he replied, somewhat somewhatfully.

            “Don’t you take that tome with me, younj man!” she said, all harsh and stuff; and just to prove her point, which was quite blunt, she set fire to his ears and ran around the ward shouting obscenities, which was hardly comprising because she hadn’t had a fix all day.

            “There are distinct disadvantageous to being cuffed to a bed when your hair is on fire!” grumpled Maritime, as the fire spread. He didn’t really care because he had always fancied being bald. “You could have at least left me my high brows,” he moaned. “I look like Dunking Goodgrief.”

            Later that day when it was later, Marmite was discharged from hospitalital with his MOT, upon which he ran over a traffic warden “because he was there”; nop realizing that that was not a legal defence.

The Judge gave him fifteen minutes of community disservice, and a life sentence – to run consensually. “Have you anything to say before they hang you?” asked the Judge at the end of his sentencing.

            “Yes,” reply Martin.

“Which you have just said; short but sweet. Take him away.”

And they did.

200th Blog Farewell

Strides off purposefully into the sunset,

   falls off the edge of the world…

Ghastly People!

Ghastly people! Nhastly people!

Mainly pain-in-harstly people!

Rosemary and p’hastly people!

            Ghastly! Harstly! P’hastly!

Ghastly people! Nhastly people!

Silly bedroom fhastly people!

Hang them from a mhastly people!

            Ghastly! Fhastly! Mhastly!

Ghastly people! Nhastly people!

Think they’re oh-so-clhastly people!

Bloated, fat and vhastly people!

            Ghastly! Clhastly! Vhastly!

Ghastly people! Nhastly people!

Watching Hutch and St’hastly people!

Drive their cars too fhastly people!

            Ghastly! St’hastly! Fhastly!

Ghastly people! Nhastly people!

Swoon for Mr D’hAstly people!

Want to live in c’hastly people!

            Ghastly! D’hAstly! C’hastly!

Ghastly people! Nhastly people!

Playing pass-the-phastly people!

Shop at Marks and Sp’hastly people!

            Ghastly! Phastly! Sp’hastly

Ghastly people! Ghastly people!

Ghastly, ghastly, ghastly people!

Ghastly, ghastly, ghastly people!

            Ghastly! Ghastly! Ghastly!

Radio Edit

Years later, my mother asked what had happened to my beloved red Roberts radio.

            I threw it against the wall in a fit of rage; pieces went flying all over the room. I picked them up; hid them in the bin. The giant battery hung limply from its attachment like a broken heart.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

It sounded better than the truth.

Mep!

As I was out on a rather too late walk last night, my attention was diverted from contemplation of the cloudy sky by the sound of ducks conversing urgently over something which was clearly of great import for them.

            I carried on my way, as did the duck-conversation. I am not ashamed to admit that I eavesdropped on this petit duck tete-a-tete, so compelling did it sound. I grew eager to discover what was causing them such excitement; but while I did so, it struck me that the ducks used only one word: Mep! I listened intently.

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

It continued.

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

“Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

            “Mep!”

 Mep! was certainly the closest approximation to a word which my ever-vigilant ears could discern; I thought it odd that ducks should engage is such an obviously pressing exchange whilst employing only one word.

            What could that word mean? My mind raced.

            Fox!

            Quiet!

            Hide!

            Car!

            Or maybe they were responding to me? “Footsteps!”

            I resolved, upon my return, to discover what they were talking so animatedly about.

Thus it was that I found myself half-an-hour later consulting my Duck-English/English-Duck Ducktionary/Dictionary. There was only one entry:

Mep interj./onomatopoeia in communication between ducks, an exclamation which translates directly as Quack!

So that’s what they’d been saying!

O! Marple Big!

For SL

 “Now just one thought –

are there marble pigs, and can they fly?”

Sarah Leavesley

O! Marple big! So oink! So round!

So fifty-feet above the ground!

As delicate as concrete socks!

O! Marple big! So maked of rocks!

                        Oink! Oink! Oink!

O! Marple big! You am so fat!

Unlike the odd-shaped marble cat!

Which isn’t feline anyhow,

Because it am a marble cow!

                        Moo! Moo! Moo!

O! Marple big! So flying high!

So up above in porcine sky!

To walk beneath you is bad luck!

A flying marple big? Quick! Duck!

                        Quack! Quack! Quack!

O! Marble Moo-Cow!

O! Marble moo-cow, what arts’t thou?

Art thou indeed a marble cow?

And not a cow of flesh and bone?

Instead a cow of marble stone?

                        Moo! Moo! Moo!

But why arts’t thou a cow of marble?

Duns’t it cause thee endless trarble?

A cow of stone? Forsooth and sigh,

And moany mumble, y-o-y?

                        Moo! Moo! Moo!

So! Yes! I see! I see that now!

You are, for sure, a marble cow!

At first, I’d thought (Oh! der-brained prat!),

You were an odd-shaped marble cat.

                        Miaow! Miaow! Miaow!

Clothe Me!

Clothe me in my clothes, for nothing else will do,

   Don’t dress me up in fountain pens,

Or cover me in glue;

   Don’t make me wear a bowl of soup,

Or paint me Navy blue.

Just clothe me in my clothes, for nothing else will do.

Crown me with a crown, for nothing else suffices,

   Don’t coronate with marmalade,

Or nuclear devices;

   Above my head, don’t leave a cow;

Or Middle Eastern spices.

Just crown me with a crown, as nothing else suffices.

Shower me with showers, or else it ain’t sufficient,

   Don’t shower me with hoover bags,

Or theta's co-efficient;

   Don’t spray me with chrysanthemums,

Or peasants not proficient,

Just shower me with showers, or else it ain’t sufficient.

Stop me with a stop sign, to end this silly verse,

   Don’t stop me with banana skins,

Or Shakespeare’s witches’ curse;

  Don’t try and halt with four-wheel drives,

Or Mrs Mumble’s nurse,

Just stop me with a stop sign, and end this silly verse.

Be Glad

for Pippa 

Walk towards the sun, and if you find

Yourself abandoned by the cold –

            Be glad.

Walk away from clouds, and if you find

Yourself beneath a sky of blue –

            Be glad.

Walk beside a lake, and if you find

Yourself entranced by surface ripples –

            Be glad.

Walk inside a wood, and if you find

Yourself amazed by branching patterns –

            Be glad.

Walk atop a hill, and if you find

Yourself made small by what you see –

            Be glad.

Walk along your path, and if you find

Yourself content with simple things –

            Be glad.

Fambly

When Uncle Matt

Became a cat

He killed my sister’s fluffy rabbit.

To make amends, we bought some more,

They only fed his lust for gore;

A most alarming habit.

When Aunty Vi

Became a fly

She lost her appetite for food;

“Ingesting the faeces

Of any species,

Strikes me,” she said, “as rude*.”

When Aunty Trish

Became a fish

Her scales were of a golden hue;

But breathing water made her tired,

And thus it was that she expired.

We flushed her down the loo.

*although, what she actually said was, “Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz bzz bzz-bzz

                                                                                          Bzz-bzz bz bzz.”

Extraordination!

In order to comply, the Church of England Sinodd have today voted to allow the following to be ordained as priests:

1 People who are only “unwittingly” racist.

2 Beards.

3 Magic People.

4 Badgers.

5 Fun Percussion Instruments, like the Tambourine.

6 Blue Whales.

7 The concept of architecture.

8 Morrissey.

9 The population of Wales.

10 Muslims.

11 People who went to a comprehensive.

12 Left-handed sailors.

13 Knives.

14 Guns.

15 Balloons.

Matthew 14:22 -33 = -18.78

Hello campers. Today’s Godspell is taken from The Gospell Accordingly to Matthew, so listen.

And just before that, but not after, the alarum clock went off, and Jessiz wemt to him Apologists, walking on the lake, which was normal for him at that time, as it was the Year of the Waterskiing Messiah. The Apologists were very, very. “It’s a ghost! Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?!!” them screamed, as would you have done had you been there; admit it.

“Fear ye not, for it is only I.”

“Who’s ‘I’ when he’s at home – or walking on the lake?” asked Peter, who was called Peter.

“Jessiz!” replied Jessiz.

“That explains a lot,” said Peter, who was called Peter.

“Come on on, the surface of the water is luffly,” commanded Jessiz.

            Then Peter, who was not called Trevor except on alternate Tuesday afternoons, walked on the water towards Jessiz. But when he saw the wind he was afraid*, before he realized that it was impossible to see the wimd, just as it was inpossible to walk on water, and he samk.

            “Not as easy as it looks, is it?” said Jessiz, and everyone agreed that this proved that he was, and so should you, and if you don’t, well then.

This is a Godspell of the Lawn.

Response: Blimey.

*…is what it actually says.

A Most Audacious Bear

Last night I met a most audacious bear,

Who laughed at me because I wasn’t there.

He spoke aloud in sounds I could not hear,

And said to me, “I see you! Disappear!”

I counted up to ten then back to nought,

Which made this most audacious bear quite fraught.

“You should have counted up,” he said, “to twenty.”

“But bear,” I said right back, “a zero’s plenty.”

The bear, who wasn’t here, made this remark:

“Things always seem much clearer in the dark.”

He told me that his wife would be here soon,

“Two weeks ago, just for the afternoon.”

We made unnecessary preparations,

For Mrs Bear got lost at railway stations.

At King’s Cross, she arrived in a canoe,

Then whisked her husband off to London Zoo.

He said to me, just as he flew away,

“We’ll meet again, but not before that day!”

I sat alone and sadly wondered when?

But never did I see that bear again.

This poem is for anyone who has ever lost their favourite Teddy Bear.

When I Was…

Upon a time, once, slept I soundly,

Dreamt of days so long since passed,

A ray of sun shone,

On those days gone,

Leaving scarce a shadow cast.

A dream of memories in monochrome,

Where worries disappeared like summer’s smile,

And things that happened, largely now forgot,

Existed as they had, just for a while.

All sadness lived in childhood’s passing,

Dreamt within this dream: a dream –

Of times and places,

Faded faces,

Life’s too brief but golden gleam.

I held on to the things that I had dreamt,

And waited for an ending to arrive,

Then woke I with this solitary thought:

What time destroys, a memory can revive.

The Campaign to Ban Sunday Evenings

I’ve recently discovered a pressure group which aims to ban Sunday evenings and replace it with Wednesday afternoons. This seems like an eminently sensible idea to me. Sunday evenings are notoriously depressing, particularly so for children at boarding school (for whom the suicide rate doubles on Sunday evenings), parents who have to organize Monday morning, and everyone else.

More information can be found here at their wonderfully entertaining and informative website:

bansundayevenings@pretenditswednesdayinstead.com

In my household, we are currently enjoying early closing and a stroll in the sunshine; care to join us?

How to Confuse Your Enemy

We all need to confuse our enemies from time to time, even if we don’t actually need to. With that in mind, this.

1 Speak to him in Welsh (unless she’s Japanese).

2 Give him a piece of paper with PTO only written on one side.

3 When they ask you how you are, reply, “Not often; well, not recently, anyway.” Laugh naturalistically (if there is such a word, which there is).

4 Start a conversation thus: “I was watching Top Gear and I totally disagree with what Jeremy Clarkson said about Moroccan black.” Leave the room if they start to talk.

5 Insist on calling them ‘Peter’ (unless they are called ‘Peter’). It worked for Jesus.

Follow these steps several times a day.

Beyond

I found a key,

Unlocked a door;

Inside I found

An empty store.

Inside the store,

I found a space,

Which took me to

Another place.

The place was vast,

And deep and round,

It led me far

Beneath the ground,

Where darkness slept

For years on end;

Beyond that place

I saw a bend.

I walked towards

This curving line,

Which spiralled down

Towards a mine.

The mine was long,

And straight and true,

And like a giant

Chimney flue.

Descended I,

Towards a floor,

And saw a thing

Not there before:

And arch so tall,

It reached the sky,

And travelled up,

To Heavens high.

And as I stood,

And looked in awe,

I saw a strange,

Familiar door.

I reached towards

That door so wide,

And stepped beyond,

The world outside,

Where everything

There’d ever been

Was carved in stone,

And so serene.

I stood and stared,

And then I saw

A face I knew…

…and nothing more.

Little Deb Riding Hood

Little Dead Riding Hood was dead, to begin with, and then she remembrance that she had a barcel to deliver to her grampma, and woke up again. “Not a barcel, you blinkin’ irriot!” shouted her Mam, who was a Mam. “A basket-case!”

            So, Little Lord Fauntleroy taked the basket-case to hers Grampma. “Look out for the psychopath! He’ll eat you!” shouted her Mam, who was a shouter. “Hopefully,” she whispered. But Little Deaf Riding School dibn’t hear hers shouter Mam, on account of being deaf, except when she listerine (like all childers, chuckle, ‘arf, ‘arf).

            On her way through the Tiger Woods, Little Red Riding Pig came across the psychopath, who was dressed as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, on account of being confused about disguises.

            “Are you a spyocpath?” asked Little Nosey Parker Pen, who had never seen a wolf before.

            “No, I’m a wolf,” said the psychopath.

            “Phewee!” remarked Little Hope of Recovery. “They’re extinct, which means you must be a fig-roll of my imagination.”

            “Where are you going?” asked the spsychopath.

            “To my Grampma’s with this basket-case,” reblied Little Goldilocks Sleeping Beauty Wicked Stepmother Ugly Sisters Hood.

And orff she wemt.

When she arriviste at her Grampma’s cottage, which was a cottage (and made of cottage), Little Pillock noticed that the wolf was in the bed instead.

            “You’re a wolf,” remarked Little Dorrit, and not for the first time.

            “In point of fact, I’m a psychopath and I have eaten your Grampma and now I am going to eat you!”

But at that moment, a mad axe-murderer stormed in, and things got a bit tasty.

THE END

Two Beats Short of a Poem

To be read in the nasal twang of an EL Wisty

The flowers spoke in multi-coloured sighs,

like painting rainbows on the breeze with parrots’

feathers. The lake observed the sky the whole

day long; the sky returned the compliment

by splashing colours on the surface of

the lake: some blue for when the lake was sad;

some red for anger; pink for passion; orange

… for no good reason. Stars at night pierced holes

along the surface of the lake, each one

a journey’s end. The soil complained about

the endless cold and damp; and who could blame it?

The hills and valleys danced so slowly that

each movement took ten generations. Silence

between the birdsong was the landscape holding

her breath whilst playing hide-and-seek with time.

And you and I, we watched this for an age,

and wondered why we were alone…

On Dangerous Animals

A silent sheep is a dangerous sheep,

Who’ll try to dispose of you when you’re asleep.

Beware of this cloud-shaped but deadly assassin,

Who’ll shoot you, or stab you, or give you a gassin’.

Some evil-doers remorsefully weep,

But not the abominable, villainous sheep.

A statuesque cow is a dangerous cow,

Whose favourite sentence is, “Kill them all now!”

Stay out of the way of this murder-machine,

If you value your kidneys, or liver, or spleen.

Some killers ask, “Forgive me, please, now,”

But not the despicable, menacing cow.

A mud-covered pig is a dangerous pig,

And murdering folk is his favourite gig.

Avoid, if you can, every one of these felons,

Who enjoy slicing up all their victims, like melons.

Some bad guys repent, some don’t give a fig;

The latter applies in the case of the pig.

But… a murdering fox is a beautiful fox,

As charming and sweet as a musical box.

Although he could never consume more than one,

He’ll murder a houseful of chickens for fun.

Administer lethal electrical shocks,

To he who would dare to pursue the mild fox.

Free Advice

I’ll give advice to you for free:

Avoid the educated bee;

It quotes from Shakespeare all day long,

And suffers tantrums when it’s wrong.

Advice I give to you for nuthin’:

Avoid the magic, German puffin;

It takes your stuff and makes it vanish,

Then blames it on the pesky Spanish.

If what you need is free advice:

Steer clear of interfering mice;

They like to point out all your flaws,

Whilst varnishing their mousey-claws.

If more advice is what you need,

Then nothing further should you read;

The news I have may spoil your day:

Henceforth, pal – you’ve gotta pay.

I Do Not...

I do not have the answers,

I simply eat the pies,

Which hide from ballet dancers,

Who don’t like flabby thighs.

I do not read the star signs,

For fear of catching ‘flu,

Instead I paint my ley-lines,

In pink and green and blue.

I do not speak Swahili,

To people who are “French”,

It makes them touchy-feely,

Just like a naughty wench.

I do not eat lasagne,

Especially when it’s cold,

I wait until manyana,

Unless it’s grown green mould.

There’s plenty which I won’t do,

And plenty which I will,

And plenty which I don’t do,

In case it makes me ill.

Careful, You Clumsy!

O! Accident! You rear your stupid face,

When glass is smashed upon my kitchen floor,

From clumsy, clutzy, butterfinger-whoops,

And things are nasty sharp which weren’t before.

O! Accident! As welcome as a wart,

When bang my head without a builder’s hat,

From unobservant, absent-minded fool,

And head is bumpy where it once was flat.

O! Accident! You accidental der*,

When hammer on a nail attached to hand,

From useless when it comes to DIY,

And things go all to pot ‘though caref’lly planned.

*as in “Der, ficko, irriot!”

Resolutionize!

Happy New!

1 No Smoking

2 No Drinking

3 No Bad Food

4 No

5 Or that

6 The resolve weakens

7 Grrr and Aaarrggh

8 Cave in!

9 Eatsmokedrinkexcessively

10 Why bother?

Out with the old, in with the old!