Sunday, 31 July 2011


You can rob me of everything, but you will never, ever take my dignity! For my dignity’s my own and nothing you can do or say could prise it off me. Take the rest, but never take my dignity!

Or my vintage strat! Everything but my dignity and my vintage strat! And all of my other guitars: the twelve-string, the fretless bass, the white Jimi Hendrix which I got for my fortieth (and, while we’re at it, the vintage Marshall amp that goes with it), the Paul McCartney violin bass, and the other two acoustics!

Take it all… but leave those things intact!

Leave those things intact… along with my complete collection of Smiths’ vinyl! You can take everything but you cannot take my dignity, my guitars and my Smiths’ record collection!

…Or the biographies of Morrissey or the shelf of Beatles’ books which I have been collecting since I was fourteen or my poetry books! Take everything, but you will never have those!

In fact – you can’t take any of my material possessions; I want them all: the house, the car, the fine china, the bed, the towels, the welcome mat, the collection of Smurfs, the cat (yes, the cat), Fido (ha – didn’t know we had a dog, did we?), the mind-reading ceramic pelicans, all of that Star Trek stuff, everything with the letter ‘0’ in it and the statue of Bernard Cribbins.

Leave it all… but you can have my dignity.

Friday, 29 July 2011

A Pandaric Ode (Geddit?!)

O! Panda! Full of Pandaness,
You chewy bamboo Panda mess!
An’ everone say, “Lovely, la-la Panda!”
All zooward-bound to getta Panda-gander.
Your funny blacksy-white,
Brings Panda-ish delight.
A symbol of endangered beasties,
From North and South to Westy- Easties.
So cuddy bear, so spesh and fab like toy,
But wary we should be if him annoy (*sinister corduroys*)

For Panda’s temper, “Gosh and fie!”
Him breathing flamies up to sky,
And scorch to cinders all the world around him
When people look and stupefy-astound him.
Then he an scary creature,
Bit fascist, like an Nietzsche.
The Panda cannot pause… reflect…
Him simple want the place a-wrecked;
All krayzeee like an monochromish dragon,
Then only safetly place is Fireman wagon.

Oh! Panda! Whatta do wiv you?
Such black-eyed stare and munch bamboo.
We lock yew up and frow away ’a key,
And safe un-Panda world for me and thee.
For Panda carn’t be trusted.
Panda? We am disgusted!
O! Panda, Pandamaniac,
You Panda Pyromaniac!
You really just a ordinary bear,
All luffly, but a psycho; so – beware!


Dysfunctional venetian blinds attacked impeccable pot plant credentials with artificial remnants of deselected squad members from Manchester United’s treble winning squad because the persuasive and articulate Treaty of Versailles concluded that Germany’s war reparations simply weren’t enough.
            The orphaned gestalt Superstate of Europe was left to contemplate its collapse whilst eating an unofficial ice-lolly left over from the bacchanalian street party to commemorate the criminalization of pensive water balloons filled with plutonium 244 whose half-life was as impressive as Queen Elizabeth II’s collection of midget sandcastles. The density of failure amounted to an insurmountable event horizon in lesser spotted job vacancies at the alt. reality cake fair. Mesozoic reptiles scored impure thoughts off a time-travelling drug trafficker intent on cornering the market for longer than the half-life of uranium 235, which pulled a supercilious face at plutonium 244, who suddenly felt inadequate and bullied.
            Interloping mastodons swung merrily during dangerous orthodontic surgery enhanced by strawberries and cream from a defibrillated mobile phone sim card. Blaming all the recent woes on hormonally imbalanced venetian blinds, the European Supernanny State hid all of its food in a fit of pique worthy of a Pope; but which one?
            Never again before, during or after in the field spaniel of human irrelevance had so much money been owed by so many to so few. This was their finest theft.
            “Don’t blame me!” shouted a Nigel, as the weight of all the lies crushed his stupid little face inside out.

Thursday, 28 July 2011

Extracts from "The Oxford Panda Dictionary"

pandacea – noun, a solution or remedy for all panda-related difficulties or diseases, “…the time-honoured pandacea – hide in a vat of Irn-Bru…”

pandanol – noun, trademark for panda paracetemol.

Pandama – an undiscovered country in Central America, pop: 7 (est. 2009); official language, Panda semaphore; capital, Pandama City.

panda-Merican – adjective, relating to, representing, or involving all of the native pandas in the North and South Americas (approx. 2.7).

pandatella – noun, a long thin cigar, erroneously eaten by pandas when it’s dark and they think it’s a bit of discarded bamboo.

Pandacake Day – noun, Shove Tuesday, when panda shaped pancakes are traditionally flung in the air, dropped on the floor and ignored.

panda – 1. verb, (of a panda; see 2.) gratify or indulge; 2. noun, fire-breathing bear, often expert at stop-frame animation martial arts.

panda car – noun, a small police patrol car, driven by a polar bear (hang on, can we check that? – Ed.)

pandamic – adjective, (of a disease; panda-related) viral infection, often on a social networking site.

pandamonium – noun, wild and noisy disorder or confusion, uproar, upon discovering that you’ve run out of fire-extinguishers and there’s a panda on the loose.

pandagyric – noun, (of a der ficko irriot) public speech in praise of pandas.

pandic attack – noun, sudden overwhelming feeling of acute and disabling anxiety about pandas (and their wives).

pandajandrum – noun, a person who has, or claims to have a great deal of authority or influence in the global panda community (population: 12, no, hang on, 11).

panda cotta – noun (what another one?!), a cold, Italian dessert made with double cream, syrup and bamboo shoots. Mmmm – yummy.

pandaloons – noun, (archaic; 17th Century) camouflaged pink trousers formerly worn by pandas to make them look cuter than they actually are.

pandamime – noun, theatrical “entertainment” mainly for children (but also for der ficko irriots) which involves music, topical jokes, slapstick humour and pandas in drag (but how can you tell? – Ed.)

panzer – noun, a unit of German armoured pandas.

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

Corruptions of the Opening to “Pride and Prejudice”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Unless he’s gay.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife, or a playboy lifestyle; but which one to choose? Oooh, that's a tough one...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of sound investment advice.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a pre-nuptial agreement.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune will usually piss it away on drink, drugs and loose women.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune is a target for gold diggers, like Elizabeth Bennet.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune probably has a serious character flaw, personal hygiene issues or is hideously ugly; how else to explain the singlehood status?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Yeah, money first and then the wife; always that way round. Love can wait, but money? Well, you have to get your priorities in life right, haven’t you?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. The corollary of which is that skint men don’t need wives? Is that what’s being said here? Or maybe it’s this: girls, find a man with money. I mean, why else mention his fiscal position, hmmm?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune – and not merely a fairly good fortune or an average fortune or even a promising business which is too small to be called a fortune – but a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Discuss (450 words). My desk; Monday morning.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of no fortune is unlikely to be the hero of this book. Who wants to marry a pauper? God – you’d have to get a job as a domestic! Eurrgghhh! Work? No thanks!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single mum in possession of a good fortune is called JK Rowling.

It is a truth is stranger than fiction universally loathed acknowledged that a single cream man in possession of a firearm fortune favours the brave, must be in I want doesn’t get of a wifely duties, lie back and think of England; you’ll only have to do it once if you’re lucky.

Face the Music

It was time to face the music score an eighth symphony of Beethoven was deaf as a post office of fair trading cards on the table tennis. The decision to do so had not been taken lightly dusted with a feather boa constrictor. At which point the cheap plastic turning Japanese keyboard stormed into the room for improvement demanding wife an explanation of liquorice all sorts but, for no good reason, the reply was not forthcoming.
            The visiting display cabinet of miniature line-dancing uranium badgers was attempting an unsuccessful resuscitation doll, it dolls for thee, while the audience participation levels were disappointingly low morale booster jab to the left wing of the party all night long for your touch that and I’ll kill you, and only you, are the one for me.
            Mistakes? I’ve made a lot…

Porcelain hands scratched lies in the air like a portmanteau sock-mending kit which she didn’t understand because all was obscure in the vicious call-centre department store in a dry in place in a dark, warm cupboard love me do not enter at your own risk losing everything.
            Plate of copper-handed ridicule; masqueraded dictionary ignorance with forlorn lovers’ tiff; anger melted, truth absconded, whale song exploded-extrapolated, meteors landed gracefully on a runway with all its landing lights intact.
            Despair and disillusionment all too often. Shut up – the rudest thing you can say to anybody. Relive the moments of passion from a limp, bleeding art-form which is your worthless life. It will all end of days and confused.

Nevertheless, fighting, arguing, fighting, arguing, resort to drugs, drink, self-doubt, crashing hypocrisy, the desire to outdo even the weak. The meek shall inherit the worthless. The meme shall inherit the dearth of originality. Dark words meander along a random organized path of indecision and unrequited violence. Metastasis. Why doubt the existence of such words? Free as birds in the air about to be shot. Tumbling down like a blown up village.

Let’s face the music and. 

Tuesday, 26 July 2011


The magician’s hat did not contain a rabbit or a dove or  a dishwasher or a table or a book by Friedrich Nietzsche or yesterday’s knickers or an invisible spaceman or a wobbly wooden chair or soap or a half-eaten Bishop’s mitre or the reason why it happened or glass testicles or God’s false beard or the theme tune to Star Wars or crisps on a Wednesday or that look you give me when you’re cross or the Whore of Babylon’s merkin or  the words which they failed to put in the Oxford English Dictionary or a startled mousse or the Defenestration of Prague or the Diet of Worms or a special clock or an answering machine which actually answers or Mars or a mechanic in a hurry or the excommunication of Henry VIII or milk or the final countdown or readers’ wives or a drunken reprobate or an unpaid gas bill or karma or savage cuts or a complete disinclination or an insincere over-apology or Martin Luther King’s astronaut suit or Ghandi’s last tea bag or the tie worn by Che Guevara on his First Holy Communion or different crisps or a cup of tea or a cup of tea or a cup of tea or a cup of tea with no milk.

Monday, 25 July 2011

Que Seura Seura...

Whatever will be, will be.
Whatever is, is.
Whatever was, was.
Whatever would have been, would have been.
Whatever is not, is not.
Whatever can’t be arsed, can’t be arsed.
Whatever is not curtains, is not curtains.
Whatever breaks easily, breaks easily.
Whatever Nautilus Beanfeast! Nautilus Beanfeast!
Whatever is written in ink, blood and stone, is written in ink, blood 
     and stone.
Whatever contains nuts, contains nuts.
Whatever is a bicycle, is a bicycle.
Whatever the weather, the weather.
Whatever drives into a brick wall at 80 mph, drives into a wall at 80 
Whatever should have been, should have been.
Whatever disappears forever, disappears forever.
Whatever happens in Amsterdam, happens in Amsterdam.
Whatever rains from plastic clouds, rains from plastic clouds.
Whatever is attacked by an irate pencil case, is attacked by an irate 
     pencil case.
Whatever decides on deicide, decides on deicide.
Whatever patently steals St Elmo’s fire, patently steals St Elmo’s fire.
Whatever swallows thallium accidentally, swallows thallium 
Whatever makes the universe a dangerous armchair, makes the 
     universe dangerous armchair.
Whatever unblocks the drains with underwater chickens, unblocks the 
     drains with underwater chickens.
Whatever kills 99% of all known germs dead, kills 99% of all known 
     germs dead.
Whatever covers the Royal Family with decoupage, covers the Royal 
     Family with decoupage.
Whatever gets beyond a joke, gets beyond a joke.
Whatever is tired and stale and wasn’t even funny in the first place, is 
     tired and stale and wasn’t even funny in the first place.
Whatever whatever, whatever…
Whatever… so what? 

Sine amore...

Withdraw. Become secluded. Isolate
the self. Protect it. Trust in no-one. Hide
from everybody. Hate the world again.
Escape from feeling. Slaughter dreams. Arrest
and banish thoughts of brutal truth. Believe in
nothing. Leave the world behind. Be blind
to love. Embrace your silence. Have a care
for no-one. Be alone, untouched, aloof
and distant. Smile for no-one. Laugh for no-one.
Preserve the damaged self. And walk away.
Do not return. Escape the world and thus
escape from you, who’ll not see me again.

Diminish every sense to nothing. Vanish.
Obliterate cold words of comfort as
they try to surface; drown them all.
Dismiss the light. Exist no more and freeze
inside still shadows. Disappear from view.
Surrender what is left to safety. Lock
away your broken fragments. Throw the key
into the deepest ocean. Find your darkness. Shed
your outer shell of being. Scorch the stain
of your existence. Cease …nihil sum. 

Sunday, 24 July 2011

Some Apologies

Firstly: to all of those ignorant, semi-educated English folk who think that apologize should be spelt apologise, and the fact they occasionally see it spelt apologize is yet further proof  of the “creeping Americanization” of the racial purity of the English mother tongue – your ignorance is all my fault, and I am deeply sorry for it. You clearly haven’t read enough novels and I am sorry about that, as it’s my fault.
            For those of you who are intellectually imbecile enough to think that there could possibly be such as thing as “Americanization”, I’m sorry; your error in assuming that one can reduce the diversity of thought and opinion from a country the size of America into one, catch-all, meaningless, pejorative arrow is my fault.
            I apologize unreservedly for those of you who buy their opinions from newspapers, the television or the internet without thinking about them. Your willingness to acquire an idea, label it as your own and then repeat it confidently is my fault. Sorry.
            To the fickle-headed, schadenfreude-addicted dimwits amongst you who buy into the modern obsession with celebrity – from the infidelities of the Saxe-Coburg dynasty to the latest weight statistics of a former soap actress – I apologize with considerable remorse. Your fascination with the banal, the trivial and the idiotic is entirely my fault and says more about me that it does about you.
            For those of you who pretend to love reading whilst secretly preferring reality tv shows and gossiping about people you’ve never met, a huge sorry. My fault, obviously. Your analysis of the characters on these shows is incontrovertible evidence of the worthlessness of humanity and I am sorry for that; please forgive me.
            To those who lend their puny allegiances to any given political party, despite the fact that each one is clearly wrong-headed, mendacious and self-serving: I apologize. I am sorry that your incredible naïveté and stupidity isn’t evident to you and am sorry, for it is clearly all my fault.
            And for those of you who now feel aggrieved because I haven’t apologized to you for your own particular pathetic inadequacies: sorry.

Saturday, 23 July 2011

Mystery Goddess, Part One

The mysterious woman of mystery and enigmatic, prismatic mistiness gave all of her loyalty points to the dog.
            Sixteen years is a long time in politics. Youtube now provided the soft-tears soundtrack of sigh and swoon as the future went from one side of her compass to the other.
            She had lost touch with herself, leapt and wept in the dark, swapped a handful of poems for… a handful of poems, then hid behind the voluptuous persona camouflage of a goddess.

All of which was fine by me so far. But then what, eh? Hmmm? Well?

Questions you can’t answer and don’t have to.



Be beautiful.

Remain mysterious. 

Friday, 22 July 2011

A Fist in Your Mouth, An Elbow in Your Eye

Unusually for my blog, every word of this is true.

Violence is in my veins.

Father? Sent over to mainland Britain to set up cells for the IRA. He “disappeared”. His violence didn’t, though. He left it to me. A legacy of fist and boot. Thanks, Dad.

Started at nursery school. Aged four, I smashed a gun-shaped brick into the face of another child. Five stitches. The nice lady who ran the school asked my parents to take me away and not come back.

An early lesson learnt at home was to make someone else start the fight. This worked well at my first proper school. Always fighting – but somehow never to blame. Until I smashed James’s face in with my fist. He’d been boasting about his front adult tooth. So I smashed my fist into it and voila – he had to have a false tooth and my parents had to find a new school. (Why are so many of my friends called James or John?).

I lasted five terms. Terrorized the children with “Gonny’s Gang”. Even the older kids wanted to join. When I smashed a replica gun into the face of Jonny (that name again), leaving him hospitalized and with a nice fancy scar on his face, I was given my marching orders.

Two terms at the next school, where I elbowed a child three years older than I was in the face. It was a cracker. You’ve never seen a black eye like it. I was sent to boarding school to sort me out.

Which was fine by me; no supervision. First week, first victim, another James (another one!). He’d gone around saying he was the toughest person in the year because he was a year older (der – thicko, intcha!). Right fist. Black eye. We said he’d fallen out of bed.

And so it continued for six years. Until I asked to borrow the golf club of the arrogant git whose father was, we were repeatedly told, the DI responsible for putting away the Guildford Four. As I teed up into his jaw, (smashing it in twenty-three places!), I explained, amid his screams, that his father worked for my adoptive father, who was a High Court Judge, and that my actual father would have blown his father into smithereens. Got that yet, you cunt?

The final school? Just short of two years. Well, it was the sixth form and I discovered that girls didn’t really like violence. Thus it was that I invented my widely documented squeamishness. I simply faint at the sight of blood. Quite the opposite, but you have to come across all sensitive with the ladies these days, don’t you?

Got into one final fight with a psycho in Deptford. I was at Goldsmiths’ College. All arty and that. He had a knife. Sliced off two of my fingers. Twenty-three (twenty-three! That number again; must have been karmic retribution) stitches to put them back in place. I still have pins and needles in the tips of my fingers even now.

So, I gave up fighting. Can’t punch with a spastic hand. Lucky they were on my right-hand and not my left, guitar-playing hand.

Two of my sons followed in my footsteps. Son Two absolutely floored the bully in the year above him. Right-hook, busted tooth. Knocked him clean out. Go my son. And some other kid was stupid enough to call Son One an “Irish Cunt” and got a black eye for his pains.

But schools these day? They don’t kick you out, do they?

It’s been too long since I’ve broken someone’s nose or given a thumping black eye.

The violence is still in my veins. 

Tuesday, 19 July 2011

Flantoum in Flagrante Delicto

I flagrant flaky-pastry you,
And fly about your flambeau flank,
So flair my flaccid flinty flash,
Whilst flanging on your flash-flood flap.

And fly about your flambeau flank,
My flashy, flash-tube, flashback fled,
Whilst flanging on your flash-flood flap,
Our flannelmouth went flame-gun flame!

My flashy, flash-tube, flashback fled,
Upon your flameproof, flame-tree flood,
Our flannelmouth went flame-gun flame!
Despite the flaxen flinders flaw.

Upon your flameproof, flame-tree flood,
Your flawless, floaty, flat-pack flaunts,
Despite the flaxen flinders flaw,
Our flavours’ floodgate flocculation.

Your flawless, floaty, flat-pack flaunts,
Without my flippant flimflam flex,
Our flavours’ floodgate flocculation,
All flimsy, flinch when flogged with flowers.

Without my flippant flimflam flex,
Your flesh, my flesh, our flesh all flushed,
All flimsy, flinch when flogged with flowers
Your flesh, my flesh, our flesh went fly.

Your flesh, my flesh, our flesh all flushed,
Our flesh, your flesh, my flesh all flowered,
Your flesh, my flesh our flesh went fly,
We FLUID! FLUTTER! Fluffy… floppy.

Monday, 18 July 2011

The Space Between Us

Two people looking at the stars at night,
As far apart as two points in the sky.

Sunday, 17 July 2011

Oh, Luk! Eeyt’s Doorh’m Rayne und Rayne… und Sonne?

Und aunward thoos we travailled oop ta Doorh’m
Whereso we foond the rayne the restte of Angleland
Had lorst. We soaked oop mutch but mutch was leaft,
For magick nauw, as if it was forsooth, an Raynebowe
Appeyared, thauwgh not an Amy Raynbowe, naw,
A raynebowe sutch as neever ‘fore bin seen,
All northern, lykke, and gyante lykke the arche
Which myghte be playced aboove an entranced wayye
To Paradise or sim’lar. Then, we stooped
To gawple mewte amayzent at the syghtte
Of thees mirackellous, divynne, yewnique
Und colour-splendour’d appareytion, flowteeng
Ackrauss the firmament aboove. Watt corght
Mine eye und traipped me all-surrayndered thourght
Was thees majestic raynebowe’s neeyt reflecktion
Alawng the length of sea, whitch mayde the sea
Joost lyke an layke een scale. The sea? An layke?
It wurze, I swayer, exacktly lyke sum traifling
Uffair of man-mayde siyze.
                                                       The raynebowe endid
Auw starrted in thysse Northish sea. It rauwse,
A magick arck ackraurse the eyven skye,
Und multi-colour’d splendiful all flye.

There’s northyngge eeqwual to the syghtte A saure
That naurthurn soommer yvenyngge. You’d huv nort
Buleeyved  eeyt, nauw, oonless you’d beeyn u weettness
Lyke witness A waurse fortyooned be indeeyde.

Saturday, 16 July 2011


Execrable, dystopian, myopic dilettante,
Cantankerous, ad hominem, all too-la-la enchanté.
A stultifying charabanc still a posteriori,
Obliterated behemoth, jejune and a priori.
Belittled, pharaonic, disambiguated deus,
Germanic dereliction, shamanistic Gallileus.
Some Messianic, garbage-filled, dyspeptic desecration,
No jocular or fatuous Hellenic micturation.
Fellated, enervated, deconustructed, onanistic,
Auspicious balanitis, orgiastic, atavistic.
Defiant, ineluctable, bionic caravanserai,
Pathetic demerara, though we still don’t know the answer why.
A misanthropic, feral, argumentative disaster,
Colonic irrigation, kinaesthetic alabaster.
Irrelevant zoology commanding extra salad,
Excitedly ironic with a heartfelt weepy ballad.
Cacophonous, diaphanous, garrotting melanoma,
The words herein will leave you in a deep linguistic coma.

Thursday, 14 July 2011

Choose Your Own Ending

There’s a piano by the seaside at the water’s edge,
And an existential carpet on a ski-slope sledge.

There’s an out-of-tune banana which is over-ripe,
And a talentless pretender who believes his hype.

There’s a diplodocus catfish on at gas mark ten,
And a cheap asthmatic wardrobe who’s in charge again.

There’s a Philostrate conundrum with a bish-bash-bosh,
And a telepathic lamb-chop saying, “Oh, my gosh!”

There’s a hudabrastic cock-up due to mince-meat legs,
And an over-active chicken stealing all those eggs.

There’s an asystolic apple with an eye for fame,
And a homonymic lamp-post which is quite aflame,

Who and why before and after during this or that,
If you don’t believe this nonsense then I’ll eat my hat/
                                                                                 your cat/
                                                                                 her flat/
                                                                                 our gnat/
                                                                                 whose bat?/
                                                                                 oh, drat!/
                                                                                 er, that’s that…

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

Articles of the Convention of the Union of Sand and Spade Seaside Republics (USSSR)

Article 1

The Hierarchy

a)     No-one is in charge.

b)     The USSSR is a co-operative working for the common good and everyone is equal.

c)      People with holiday beards must exhort the workers to exceed their efforts, not by making propaganda speeches against the evil, villainous tyranny of the North Sea (although this is allowed) but by virtue of their digging efforts, for it is only through digging that true happiness and enlightenment for the oppressed proletariat may be found.

Article 2

The Five-Day Plan

a)     The happy and enlightened workers, who are happy and enlightened through the happiness and enlightenment that digging (trenches, holes and for sandy walls, etc.) brings, will increase the production of sand-dug sea defences along the coast of County Durham against the tyranny of the oppressor, in this case, The North Sea, by an unrealistic %.

b)     To create sea defences out of sand that will stand for a thousand years and more as a glorious and permanent testament to the workers’ superiority; or until The North Sea demolishes them, whichever comes sooner.

c)       Photographs will be taken.

Article 3

Health and Safety

a)     By order of the Health and Safety Comintern, coats will be taken to the beach in a back-pack where they will remain in a back-pack.

b)     By order of the Health and Safety Comintern, splashing, wading out into the water and getting sand absolutely everywhere must at all times be the prime consideration, until the workers arrive at the beach, where anything goes [see Article 1 a) ]

c)      By order of the Health and Safety Comintern, shoes, especially, must be kept dry. Until they get wet.

The Mission Statement of The USSSR

Build Walls! Dig vast, labyrinthine Trenches! Live to Work! Defeat the Tyranny of the North Sea! Victory will be Yours! Dig! Shout! Scream! Splash! Get wet! Sandy! and Cold! for one day… you will have to pretend to be a grown up.


Live in disguise.
Walk asleep.
Be navigated by your auto-pilot.
Allow things to appear as they are not.
Settle, compromise… accept less.
Abandon ambition.
Let your inner thoughts be at variance with your outer actions.
Capitulate regularly.
Learn, grow… then maintain the status quo.
Learn, grow… then maintain the status quo.
Learn, grow… but always maintain the status quo.

And, of course, don’t follow my advice.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Footsteps in the Sand

Nautilus Beanfeast (Yo! Glenn!) was walking along the beach. Just as this thought – How did I get here?­ – was forming inside his head, another question overtook it. It was this thought – How did He get here?
            This thought was directed at the man standing (the walk’s at an end?) next Nautilus Beanfeast; he was clad in turn of the millennium Arab-Israeli gear, straggly hair, unkempt beard and sandles.
            I know you, said Nautilus Beanfeast.
            “Yes,” said the man.
            Jeevus Cripes Almighty Bore, Son of Odd!
            “Something like that.”
            What the hell are you doing here? I thought you weren’t real, anyway.
            “Well, as you can see, I am real and I am here.”
Nautilus Beanfeast decided to ponder this answer; this was a relief – the author was, after all, notoriously bad at constructing passages of dialogue.
            I therefore conclude that I am dead, that this is the afterlife, and the journey along the beach is a hackneyed metaphorical cliché for my life. I saw it once on a poster at a flat in Tootin Bec in 1988.
            Jeevus Cripes Almighty Bore, Son of Odd, stood there nodding sagely.
            Nautilus Beanfeast looked back and saw two sets of footprints in the sand.
            So, if this set of footprints is mine, whose is the other’s?
            “You have three guesses,” said Jeevus.
            Ooh, different from the original allegory. Right, well, obviously I don’t need three guesses. The other set of footprints belong to an invisible gorilla. No? Okay, I’ll stop being tedious; they’re yours, aren’t they?
            “Yes,” said Jeevus Cripes Almighty Bore, Son of Odd.
            Nautilus looked back at the two sets of footprints and saw that in some places there were only one-and-a-half sets of footprints.
            Why are there only one-and-a-half sets of footprints in some places?
            “Sometimes I like to hop?” explained the Son of Odd. “You’ve no idea how boring it is to walk with everyone throughout their lives, especially if they’re a particularly well-behaved nun who actually believes all of this shit about stuff.”
            Nautilus Beanfeast looked back at the sets of footprints a second time. He noticed that one some occasions, the Almighty Bore’s footprints were facing the wrong way.
            He looked quizzically at the Son of Odd.
            “Okay! Okay! Sometimes I walk backwards as well; it’s not as if you could see me.”
            Nautilus Beanfeast looked back at the sets of footprints again.
            How come I can see all the way back to the beginning of a journey which lasted decades?
            “It’s a metaphor?” suggested Jeevus.
            And, while we’re at it, your use of a set of footprints on a sandy beach as a metaphor for my life is pretty deflating. You’re essentially saying that my life has had as much lasting impact as a set of footprints in the sand, in other words none, and that the ocean of time will have eradicated them as soon as I have ceased to be, reducing my life to nothing more than a transient imprint amounting to nothing.
            “That’s correct,” said Jeevus Cripes.
            Okay, fine. Well, just before my life’s journey is obliterated by the waves of inevitability , how come, in some places, there is only one set of footprints? Hmmmm? So tedious, so hackneyed, so clichéd! (Mimics Jeevus) “Those were the times when your life was going through difficult patches.” (Nautilus mimics himself in the role of a naïve imbecile) Then why did you abandon me during those times? (Jeevus again) “No – those were the times when I carried you.” (Nautilus as himself again) Ooooh – soooooo profound!
            “Actually,” said Jeevus Cripes Almighty Bore, Son of Odd, “those were the times when I abandoned you. Have you any idea how embarrassing you are when you’re pissed? And, while we’re at it, some of your haunts left something to be desired; I do have a reputation to consider and I couldn’t be seen to hang out in places like THAT!”
            So, what happens now? Asked Nautilus Beanfeast.
            “Nothing,” replied Jeevus. “This is simply your brain’s deluded hallucination as it goes into its death throes.”
            How fantastically unimpressive, thought Nautilus. My dying thoughts – a banal conversation about the journey of life with a pretend deity. I would have preferred a cup of tea with the girl of my dreams.
            But it was all over, and Jeevus Cripes Almighty Bore, Son of Odd, the beach and the footsteps disappeared as the last neurological impulses in Nautilus Beanfeast’s brain fizzled out.

                        *          *          *

Nautilus Beanfeast was walking along the beach…

(Oh, very fucking unexpected, said the reader)

There, in front of him, was the girl of his dreams. “Fancy a cup?” she asked.

The Rain it Raineth Every Day

I hope-y for an sunny walk,
All inna mumf of grimpy Splosh!
I walk in wiv a slate-grey ksky,
And hoping not get awfy wash.

                        (Der – stewp id! Wotchoo
                        ix pecked ink, hmmm?)

Me warkled long an look for sea,
De-zerted sandy covey cove,
When Bliy me! Sudden hear a bang!
A funderstorn mine ears behove

                        (See? You am a ficko;
                        we said it all along.)

The sksy above all dripsy-drips,
Did starty fall ing on I’s face,
But only pitter-patter splat,
And not yet ever single place.

                        (Yet! Juss chew wait,

The rain eet rainy splash all wet,
The rainy! Splash! And DOWNPOUR! SOAK!
Ve funderstaum all boing! And bam!
I soaky! Drippy! DRENCHY! Bloke!

                        (‘Arf, ‘arf, har, har, har!
                        There wentings our sidesplits,
                        you massiff irriot; we
                        tolt chew.)

But not to be defeated I,
I fort, “How bad can soaky get?”
It turns out: Very much, a lot,
Complete and total total-wet.

                        (We am still orl larff-
                        out-louding, you ornamental buffoon)

The sudden sodden soaking soak,
Just like I fell in swimming pool,
I’s cloves and shoes ‘n’ ever fink,
Got through-and-frew wiv rainy drool

                        (Euurrgghh; vat sounds yuk!
                        You am are an yukkies, intchoo?)

And nearly drowned all drowndy glugle,
Drowny Fergus Gonny-gurgle,
All wet disrobed then dry as dry,
Me put on clothes belong to I.

                        (Har, har, har! Hey – you
                        fgot a say – “And ven ve
                        rain stopt.” Pfffsst!)

And then, of course, the rainy stopt,
It didn’t carry on for much,
It troof I fort it rhathver fun,
I never mind the rain, as such.

                        (All’s wet that ends wet!
                        Der, ficko! Ven why quote
                        Twewff Night, er?!)

Friday, 8 July 2011

Badder Van a Sharkie Naughtie

Him nasty stingie-waspie sting,
All stingie onna stingie-sting!
All waspie-ouch and ouchie-wasp,
Him waspie-stingie everfing!

Him stingie always everwhere
Like inna tween me fingers… yell!
And onna neck! Oh eff! Oh heck!
And unnerneath a armpit smell
                                                (kissy better now
                                                all smash ‘n’ luvvy
                                                mmmm French)

Now runna way and hidey hide
Be hind computer flappy-tap,
I’ll getta celery and crash!
Him waspie-head and glass all smash!

(Der – ficko, me! Watch wotchoo do necks time, ‘kay?
Don’t smasha glass, you irriot…At lease him waspy dead now,
shurrup, der; look a shark…)