Let’s All Be Ghastly Toffs

To the tune of the verse of ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off!’

1

You say ‘toilet’ and I run screaming,

You say ‘pardon’ and I say, ‘It’s “what?” you pleb.’

Toilet, screaming,

Pardon, pleb.

Let’s all be ghastly toffs.

2

You say ‘patio’ and I say, ‘Or, as we call it in England, “terrace”’

You say ‘settee’ and I mutter something about ‘even World of Sofas can get it right...’

Patio, terrace,

Settee, World of Sofas.

Let’s all be ghastly toffs.

3

You say lounge and I wince,

You say serviette and I apologise for laughing in your face.

Lounge, wince,

Serviette, laugh in your face

Let’s all be ghastly toffs.

4

You say ‘dinner’ and I say, ‘Really? At lunchtime? How daringly avant-garde!’

You say ‘sweet’ and I say, ‘Frankly, I just give up, I really do.’

Dinner, avant-garde,

Sweet, give up.

Let’s all be ghastly toffs!

Democrazzzzz.......

Every few years, some of us in the UK vote in the 650 Members of Parliament for its Lower House: the House of Common Criminals, Pathological Liars and Slimy Bastards. The team with the most Common Criminals, Pathological Liars and Slimy Bastards then forms a Government and spends the next few years doing whatever they want: making laws, interfering with our money and resigning over serious errors of judgement with regard to rent boys, secretaries or forgetting which house is your main house. When the time comes for another vote we either vote them out or vote them back in.

It is, of course, a whole lot more complicated than that.

After all, we also have an Upper House: the House of Lording It Up Over the Lower Orders. Most of these 800 or so people are chosen by various Governments over the years, although 92 of them are there because their ancestor once sat on a horse watching hoi polloi beat Napoleon at Waterloo. We don’t know who they are. Also, once we’ve had enough of them, every few years, we don’t get to vote them out and everything carries on as normal.

Which sounds a bit rum, until you realise that the House of Lording It Up Over the Lower Orders only exists for the purposes of claiming expenses and talking when nobody’s listening. They are largely irrelevant.

Now, if you send this through the Looking Glass, you will end up with a European Parliament.

Every few years, some of us in Europe vote for the 751 Members of the European Parliament for its Upper House, The European Pretend Parliament. This sounds a bit rum, until you realise that the 751 Members of the European Pretend Parliament only exist for the purposes of claiming expenses and talking when nobody’s listening. They are largely irrelevant.

It is, of course, a little more complicated than that.

After all, we also have an Executive Body (surely the Lower House, no?) the European Commission of Failed Politicians, of which there are 27. All of these 27 Failed Politicians are banished to the European Commission by their Governments, and we don’t know who they are. They spend the next few years doing whatever they want: making laws, interfering with our money but definitely not resigning over serious errors of judgement with regard to rent boys, secretaries or forgetting which house is your main house, etc., because that’s how they became an EU Commissioner in the first place. Also, once we’ve had enough of them, every few years, we don’t get to vote them out and everything carries on as normal.

Which sounds a bit rum... because it is.

The Dudley Eye

This poem was commissioned, via the wonderful, beautiful and amazing Poetry on Loan people, by Dudley Council.

It's an advert for the much maligned DY Eye (DY is the Dudley post code).

I arrived in Dudley at 11, and was gone by 3. This is the result:

The Dudley Eye

Come see the Ferris wheel in Stone Street Square,

A hundred feet and more up in the air!

   A showpiece for this market town,

   To take you up and round and round.

Providing views of simply everywhere.

Come see the Ferris wheel in Stone Street Square!

Then ride this whirling wheel, this DY Eye,

Whose machinations elevate on high,

   To see such things as we admire,

   Look there: Top Church’s iron spire!

You’ll catch the whole of Dudley moving by,

When riding on this giant DY Eye.

You’ll notice, from the comfort of your seat:

The pattern of each medieval street,

   The Library, a Georgian square,

   Freemason’s Arms, the Town Hall there!

This Dudley Eye’s a memorable treat,

Where history and modernism meet.

Black Country dreams of revolutions past,

But this wheel’s revolutions don’t move fast,

   Her pace of quiet dynamo,

   Will let you turn three times each go,

So get here soon – a month is all she’ll last:

The DY Eye, a Dudley bostin’ blast!

Don't click here!

Diagnostic Questionnaire for the Royal Tunbridge Wells Homeopathic Hospital

Colour in the words and phrases which best describe you – you may colour in more than one word/phrase:

1.  gullible   stupid  easily-led  telepathic   immature  irresponsible

2.  a scientist  a bit sciencey  a bit séance-y   a fat Beyoncé   a magic person

3.  malingerer/hypochondriac   I can probably levitate   not ill/a bit ill    

4. What do you like to read the most?

books/magazines about UFOs  the Lancet   the auras of people I’ve just met

5. What were you in a previous life?

a brave lion   maybe a wolf   a famous person (please state which one)

6.   Why were you attracted you to the homeopathic hospital in the first place?

I’m Sagittarius   I’m Libra   I’m Taurus   I’m Aquarius   I’m Cancer (stage 4)

7. In your own words, please tell us what’s wrong with you; if it helps, you may illustrate with pictures of angels (please use the crayons provided):

[Think I'm Kidding? ]

De dum de dum de dum de dum, etc.

Jon

He’s pale and thin and hairy an’

He’s also an Aquarian

He is the very model of a Modern Vegetarian

Astronaut Hat

While other boys played Cops and Robbers,

our gang played games of Good Cop/Bad Cop,

which does create some limits when

there are only three of you to start with.

My turn for Bad Cop came around.

I dragged my Joint Best Friend inside

on yet another trumped-up charge:

possession of a younger sister.

‘I haven’t got a younger sister,’

he huffed, convincingly indignant.

‘Bich! Yo!’ I hollered in his face,

then pistol-whipped him with a cap-gun.

This compromised his space helmet,

(we often played in outer space),

and Joint Best Friend collapsed on to

the floor in gasping, choking breaths.

Enter Good Cop, smoking a pencil,

a Jackie Year Book in his hand.

‘I like the picture of your sister

on page eleven. Very glam.’

‘Really?’ said Joint Best Friend. ‘Let’s see!’

but Good Cop passed the book to me,

already opened at the page.

‘They could be twins,’ I said, and laughed.

‘Admit your guilt, we’ll let you walk,’

said Good Cop as I aimed the cap gun

at Joint Best Friend’s helmetted head.

‘Or not,’ I sneered, and pulled the trigger.

‘Nice work,’ said Good Cop as we cleaned

the brains off the page, revealing

the picture of a sparkly hairbrush

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the kruschev mental crisis

responsible for

epic leningrad fail

kruschev maddens at

meatgrinder prospects

   lubyanka torture

   siberia slavery

   ultimate sanction

but

   nope

   nope

   nope

as stalin decides on

greatest disgrace

a commander can endure

and empties pipe

on kruschev’s head