Thursday, 9 April 2020

Nigel and his red white and blue tinted lenses

Nigel and his red white and blue tinted lenses

Nigel the nationalist, bought one day,
Fantastical specs in an antique sale;
He put them on eagerly, straight away,
And thus begins this unusual tale,
Of a patriotic, very proud male,
Visiting many a glorious place,
And the glasses that never leave his face.

Nigel’s glasses have magic properties;
Keeping all cold reality at bay,
And only the glory in things he sees;
Never a hint of despair or dismay.
Like propaganda, or a children’s play,
They embellish the facts selectively,
And their wearer sees things subjectively.

For instance: he witnessed, Agincourt, France,
Where Henry the fifth, with eight thousand men,
Contested the throne, with longbow and lance,
And slaughtered the French again and again;
Each British knight being worthy of ten;
Yes, he was there, and he heard Henry roar:
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!”

In eighteen o five, Nigel was at sea;
At Trafalgar, he watched, as Nelson’s fleet,
Gave cause to the French and Spanish to flee,
As had been expected, easily beat,
Though Nelson died, in that great battle’s heat;
“Thank God I have done my duty”, he said,
With repetition, and then he was dead.

Oft through those lenses of red white and blue,
Nigel fancied he regularly saw,
Napoleon’s army at Waterloo;
Veterans of twenty three years of war,
Routed by the Duke of Wellington’s core,
Sweeping the field as the French fought and died,
And Napoleon fled with wounded pride.

At other times, shades of Rorke’s Drift appeared:
A hundred and fifty soldiers in red,
By four thousand Zulus, should have been speared,
Mutilated and surely left for dead, 
If not for the fact they were British-bred.
Hence many a Zulu met their maker,
As in the film, starring Stanley Baker.

His spectacles took him over the top,
Of a muddy trench in nineteen sixteen;
He saw wave upon wave of Tommy’s drop,
In a spectacle of slaughter obscene,
And he asked himself, what does this all mean?
But even the glasses changed nothing here,
So he turned away, and ran to the rear.

In the nineteen forties, from a spitfire,
The glasses gave him an aerial view:
He saw the Battle of Britain, entire,
And the bravery of the heroic few,
As into the Nazi bombers they flew.
They were proud British bulldogs, through and through,
And that’s why he chose to leave the EU.

Nigel saw Monty send Rommel to hell;
The bulldog spirit was in him for sure,
On Juno beach, he had it as well,
Being there, on D-Day, in ‘forty four,
And a year later, with a lion’s roar,
When victory came, he hovered in praise,
Over Churchill, on that finest of days. 

He was on the spot when the Junta tried
To take back the Falklands, staking their claim
On The Malvinas and, “Gotcha!” he cried,
When the Belgrano sank, in Thatcher’s name,
As the British armed forces, upped their game.
With Stanley then taken, he reflected,
And cheered when Thatcher was re-elected.

The above and more does Nigel perceive,
With red, white, and blue, distorting it all,
In many things he is led to believe;
The specs play the pipe; he follows their call,
To a promised land; a glorious ball,
Where the sun lights up his every desire,
And never sets on the British Empire.

Those glasses, make things seem rosy indeed,
And, presently, they’re being put to use,
As Britain, once more in an hour of need,
Faces a different type of abuse:
A Corona virus is now on the loose,
Going by the name of, COVID 19,
And Nigel’s vision is sweeping it clean:

“Britain is proud to be standing alone,
We had a vote and we’ve made our point clear:
We’ve set ourselves free from the Eurozone;
There’ll be no EU ventilators here
Boris will save us, we’ve nothing to fear”.
So says Nigel, as battle commences,
Seeing the world through those tinted lenses.

And as this history’s yet to unfold,
I’ll end Nigel’s story, or at least pause;
No one knows the outcome, and, truth be told,
Do I have good reason to mock his cause?
If he’s right, I’ll even offer applause.
Till then dear reader, I’ll leave it now,
As our Nigel awaits his finest hour.

Wednesday, 8 April 2020

Pay cap vote June 29 2017

Pay cap vote June 29 2017

The NHS is up there with the best,
And that’s why I came out, the other night,
To stand in the street and cheer with the rest,
The heroes in the front line of the fight
Against this devastating, dread disease,
With all its remorseless brutality,
Bringing nurses and doctors to their knees,
In the face of their own mortality.
Yes, I stood and cheered, and will do again;
Indeed, I could say, I feel duty bound,
To applaud the brave relievers of pain,
Risking their lives to keep all safe and sound,
Including the voters who looked away
When cheering Tories capped NHS pay.

Tuesday, 7 April 2020



With policies of the bluest hue,
You’ve imprinted your mark upon our age,
And now, I find myself likening you
To a caterpillar at pupa stage;
A chrysalis in hibernation state,
Watched and attended to with loving care,
And I’m wondering, what will be your fate?
Are radical changes going on there?
I say, with the deepest sincerity,
I hope you’ll burst from your hapless cocoon,
A picture of health and vitality,    
And with brand new wings you’ll fly away soon,
Leaving a vacancy there in your stead,
For an admiral, of the deepest red.

Monday, 6 April 2020

Olympics 2020 men’s 100 metre final (COVID STYLE)

Olympics 2020 men’s 100 metre final (COVID STYLE)

Athletes, their respective venues, and local GMT.

Christian Coleman (USA): National Stadium, Tokyo, Japan. GMT 23:00.
Noah Lyles (USA): Luzhhniki stadium Moscow, Russia. GMT 17:00.
Divine Oduduru (Nigeria): Barra Park Stadium Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. GMT 11:00.
Nigel Ellis (Jamaica): Birds Nest Stadium, Beijing, China. GMT 22:00.
Yohan Blake (Jamaica) LA Memorial Stadium, Los Angeles,  USA. GMT 07:00.
Andre de Grasse (Canada): FNB Stadium,  Johannesburg, South Africa. GMT 16:00.
Abdul Hakim Sani Brown (Japan): Munich Stadium, Munich, Germany. GMT 16:00.
Akani Simbine (South Africa) London Stadium, London, UK. GMT 14:00.

In spite of Corona, isolation
And lockdown forced upon every nation,
Thanks to worldwide cooperation,
Olympic will and determination,
The day of reckoning is finally here;
Billions in living rooms now can cheer,
The athletes, each, in a separate location,
Poised in silent anticipation,
Lined up against each other on screen,
In empty stadiums, immaculately clean,
Psyching themselves for the ultimate test;

A record breaking personal best:

In Tokyo’s National Stadium today,
Christian Coleman of the USA,
Gives his compatriot, Noah Lyles,
In Russia’s Luzhniki, the briefest of smiles,
Divine Oduduru’s hoping to thrill,
Nigeria in the Barra Park, Brazil,
Nigel Ellis in Beijing’s Bird Nest,
Has assured Jamaica, he’ll run his best
As has Yohan Blake, in Memorial, LA;
He’s dying to win a gold medal today,
Andre de Grasse hopes Canada will see
Him win, in South Africa’s FNB,
Japan’s Abdul Hakim Sani Brown,
In Munich’s, determined to bring the house down,
And, South African, Akani Simbine,
Hopes, from London, to sweep the board cleanly.

On your marks,
Get set,

Lyles is off fast;
Coleman too,
Oduduru’s lagging,
Blake’s through,
Ellis and Grasse
Are neck and neck,
Brown’s keeping
Simbine in check,
Nearly there
Lyles is in full flare
But Oduduru’s
Had a burst;
He’s gone
From last to first.

He’s over the line,
In a very fast time:

Oduduro; new Olympic champion,
In the quiet and empty Russian stadium,
Sees on the screens each fellow athlete,
Congratulate him on his wondrous feat;
He was up against the best, and what’s more,
There’s never been an African winner before,
And I hope in future, many will speak,
Of this race, in so many ways, unique;
Will it overshadow COVID 19?
The answer to that, remains to be seen;
I wonder if, four years from this day,
The race will be run in the usual way,
And though dear reader, it has to be said,
The entire event, came out of my head
I’m sure you’ll agree, as I grind to a halt,
It was less of a race, in the absence of Bolt.



They kicked in the door with tempers inflamed
Entered the house of the named and shamed
Dragged the occupant into the street
Handcuffed his hands and tied his feet

Over his head they placed a sack 
Went off in a van with him in the back
To an undisclosed remote location
Where there began an interrogation

As one of their members all the while
Filmed and recorded the kangaroo trial
With muffled voices they screamed their hate
And battered him into a bloody state

He begged pleaded and offered bribes too
But showing no mercy was their common view
And when they were done they left him there
Half dead in the middle of night and nowhere

After farewells and mutual praise
The merry gang went their separate ways
And being a conscientious man

Their driver with alcohol cleaned his van

Into his house he stealthily crept
And as his wife and children slept
He left his mask and suit in the hall
Previewed the film and uploaded it all

On a fake account with traces removed
Ensuring involvement could never be proved 
He posted the footage there to be found
Like a virus to share and spread around

Curled up in bed with his sleeping wife
At ease and totally content with life
He felt the caper a job fairly done
And the film of a standard second to none

Was sure to be seen by hordes of punters
And knowing for certain it would be banned
He entered sleep with another one planned

Saturday, 4 April 2020

Boxset (dedicated to Ben Powis)

Boxset (dedicated to Ben Powis)

Since socialising is against the law;
You can’t visit friends, or go to the pub;
Amazon, Netflix, iPlayer, More 4,
Sky Atlantic, and The ITV Hub,
Are alternatives to restaurants, bars,
Coffee shops, theatres, and cinemas,
And, I have to say, you’ve a treat in store,
If you’ve never seen Breaking Bad before.
But if you have, that’s no problem at all;
Without giving any spoilers away;
Once Walter and Jesse have had their day,
You can watch the prequel: Better Call Saul.
There’re fifty episodes of that to get through,
Between now and Corona: season two.

Have you watched The Sopranos and the Wire?
If you haven’t, you can catch them on Sky,
(I’d also recommend Boardwalk Empire,
But HBO pulled it, I’m not sure why).
I’ve heard that Westworld’s a pretty big deal,
And much the same of The Real Chernobyl;
You can binge for weeks on The Walking Dead,
One of my favourites, it has to be said,
I’ve been from the start, a fan of that show;
Its array of characters, good and bad,
Fighting each other in a world gone mad,
With many a hapless zombie in tow,
Is sure to frighten and captivate you,
Between now and Corona: season two.

Game Of Thrones I’ve not seen, but I must say,
(And this is a spoiler alert, I’m afraid),
The ending, it’s said, went somewhat astray,
And disheartened viewers want it remade;
Some even signed a petition, I heard,
For the longer series they’d have preferred.
Personally, I’d rather watch Ozark;
It’s blend of comedy, often quite dark,
Underhanded deals with the FBI,
Marty Byrde laundering for the cartel,
Living on the edge and going through hell
As agents, gangsters, and hillbillies die,
Makes for an extremely compelling view,
Between now and Corona: season two.

Stranger Things four has alas, been delayed,
Due to the virus outbreak I’ve been told;
I hope, by the time it’s finally made,
It’s teenage cast hasn’t grown too old.
Have you seen the trailer for series four?
It’ll leave you salivating for more,
And I bet you’ll be gutted, just like me,
If you’ve already binge-watched the first three.
But despair not; Sneaky Pete’s back again,
Starring Bryan Cranston, who, if you recall,
Was in Breaking Bad, as was Arron Paul,
Who’s now in The Path, playing Eddie Lane.
I’ll watch them, as I’ve nothing else to do,
Between now and Corona: season two.

Friday, 3 April 2020


Some (April 3rd)

There was no figure, they haven’t a clue.
I don’t really know quite where to begin;
Four doctors have died and “Some” nurses too,
“Some”: now, allow that small word to sink in:
And ask yourself; as fatalities mount
And the NHS is brought to its knees,
Do those, deemed less important, even count?
Are nurses and porters not VIPs?
As we stood in the street and clapped last night,
It seems the powers-that-be knew not at all
How many have died, and even as I write,
All that I’m hearing is, numbers are “Small”.
Four doctors and “SOME” nurses so-far dead;
That’s what Matt Hancock, health minister said.

Thursday, 2 April 2020

Not enough stuff

Not enough stuff

We’re short on stuff
There’s not enough
The luck is tough
The sleep is rough
The food is duff
There’s job rebuff
Councillors bluff
Guff huff and puff

The bailiff comes
To struggling mums
In filthy slums
Where kids eat crumbs
There’s empty tums
Bleeding gums
Persistent hums
And dirty bums

There’re cold rads
Loans shark ads
Heartless cads
Towering pads
Flammable clads
Runaway lads
And violent dads

There’s vented spleens
Angry scenes
Ruined jeans
Homeless teens
Out-of-date beans
Soggy greens
Broke machines
And lack of means

There’s dereliction
Vows of fiction
False depiction
No conviction
Tension friction
House eviction
Drink addiction
Harm infliction
Of broken dreams
Abandoned schemes
Damaged beams
Ripped seams
Low esteems
Silent screams

There’s scant relief
No legal brief
There’s rotting teeth
Endless grief
Collective beef
And disbelief
Was our chief
An Eton Thief?

And it could it be
And it’s legacy
Of poverty
Was actually
The fantasy
Of an MP
On a yacht at sea?

Wednesday, 1 April 2020

Sex addict

Sex addict

There lived a sinner on the pond of strife,
Who, from one calamity to the next,
With death in pursuit, to the end of life,
Relentlessly vaulted with his pole flexed,
Staying but briefly on each stepping stone,
(Long enough merely to satisfy need),
With no other self in mind but his own,
Admirers he impregnated with seed,
Till finally he reached the dreaded shore,
Whereupon, a wave of uncertainty,
Swept him away to whatever’s in store,
In that unknown place of eternity,
Where saints and sinners, once caught up by death.
Are destined to dwell, beyond their last breath.

Tuesday, 31 March 2020

Into the woods

Into the woods

I took the dog to the woods today
Avoided families
And kept at least two metres away
From joggers and OAPS
The drones were flying high in the air
And there were coppers everywhere
And all because Corona’s
Upon the nation

Lockdown time for everyone
I’ve never seen so many  
Pedestrians wearing masks before
You can go out for a run
Or wander to the supermarket store 
Close contact is not allowed 
Don't gather in a crowd
You’re liable to break the law
And if your spouse or kids have a dry cough
A fever or aching head
Well then it’s lockdown for everyone

Will the lockdown be over soon?
I’m sure I have not a clue
If it goes further than May or June
Will Boris know what to do?
The Housing market’s had a great fall
And restaurants have gone to the wall
And all because Corona’s
Upon the nation

Lockdown time for everyone
A list of do’s and don’ts are
Coming through everybody’s door
PPE is next to none
Will Boris help the homeless and the poor?
Businesses shutting down
There’s not a pub in town
The cinemas are no more
We’re short on ventilators and hospitals
Struggle to find a bed
And so it’s lockdown for everyone
And so it’s lockdown for everyone 

Monday, 30 March 2020

Fred's tinfoil hat

Fred’s tinfoil hat

Due to low sustenance a lack of kip
Sunlight and fresh air giving him the slip
And possibly a temporary blip
Fred felt a strong urge to shoot from the hip
A need to compellingly spread the word
About conspiracy theories he’d heard
Concerns that had never before occurred
Now presently seemed no longer absurd

For example the Corona disease
Was funded by Gates and elite MPs
Supported by US drug companies
And produced in a lab by the Chinese 
The Illuminati run the E.U.
The Nazis never had a far right view
Hitler’s still alive somewhere in Peru
In a basement writing Mein Kampf part two
Greta Thunberg’s spreading climate change lies
The royals are green lizards in disguise
The Whitehouse is rife with communist spies
ISIS use weapons the U.S. supplies
Kennedy was killed by the C.I.A
Bin Laden’s running Guantanamo bay
Every single Shakespeare sonnet and play
Was written by Will’s wife Anne Hathaway
Jesus was a Persian hermaphrodite
Ali verses Liston was a rigged fight
There’re trolls in Norway’s forests at night
Hacking Facebook accounts out of pure spite
McCartney died in nineteen sixty six
Morgan Freeman’s really Jimi Hendrix
Marilyn Monroe was killed by a mix
Of the mob’s and Robert Kennedy’s tricks
Big corporations are using fluoride
Government mass poisoning is implied
Elvis’s demise is strongly denied
He signed off his death though he never died
Syrian families crossing the sea
Are only fleeing their economy
Obama wasn’t born in Hawaii
His birth certificate’s a forgery
Mass shootings in America aren’t real
They’re faked by lobbyists after a deal
The second amendment is wrong they feel
And they want it taken out of the bill
The moon landings never happened at all
Bush caused the towers in New York to fall
Trump’s a puppet at Putin’s beck and call
And Earth is not a celestial ball

The list goes on with no sign of exhaust
Conspiracy theory website sourced
Whimsies from logic and reason divorced
Some even denying the holocaust
Are daily fed by harbourers of dread
To the gullible scared easily led
Or simply sad people eager to spread  
Like Fred with a tin foil hat on his head  

Sunday, 29 March 2020

Fly tipper

Fly tipper

The council’s said that, for ever how long,
Certain recyclables won’t be taken,
And now, selfish people, either wired wrong,
Or with manners recently forsaken,
Are dumping their plastics, bottles and tins
On the roads, pavements, and over the park,
And many a neighbour’s recycle bin’s
Utilised by fly tippers after dark.
Things already bad are made even worse,
And I’d place a bet; it’s not only here;
The subject matter of this angry verse
Is bound to increase in volume I fear,
So, if you’re a fly tipper and reading this,

Saturday, 28 March 2020

He’s on it (3 am)

He’s on it (3 am)

He’s on it like a moth on a cabbage leaf
Like an atheist on disbelief
Like sympathy on a widow’s grief
He’s on it like a patient on pain relief
He’s on it like a ref on dirty play
Like a rough sleeper in a doorway
Like a raver on MDMA
Anastasia Steele on Christian Grey
He’s on it like Bach on a symphony
Like a poet on an epiphany
Like Guido on a conspiracy
Like a broker on a currency
He’s on it Like May on an epic fail
Like a lie on a bus on a campaign trail
Like Tory bias in the Daily Mail
He’s on it like Corbyn on a fairy tale
He’s on it like Boris on a bad hair day
Keeping Andrew Neil at bay
Bumbling on with nothing to say
But he won the election anyway
He’s on it like a box set on Netflix
He’s on it like Marr on politics
Like David Blaine on magic tricks
He’s on it like gloom on News at Six
He’s on it like moobs on middle aged men
Like scaffolding around Big Ben
Rosy red cheeks on little children
And yet more gloom on News at Ten
He’s on it like a robber in a vacant house
Like a Liverpudlian eating scouse
Like a man-monster beating his spouse
He’s on it like William shooting grouse
He’s on it like the sea on King Canute
He’s on it like Galloway with a flute
Like a sky diver on a parachute
Like milkshake on Farage’s suit
He’s on it like cream on a rash or spot
Like Guinevere on Sir Lancelot
Like Philip Green on a pension pot
Ripping it off and buying a yacht
He’s on it like a virus on a nation
Paralysing a population
In dire need of vaccination
Doctors nurses ventilation
He’s on it like Leery on an acid trip
Like an OAP on a cruise ship
Like a man with a dream on a lucky dip
Like a masochist on a madams’ whip
He’s on it like a fraudster on a scribe
He’s on it like Zelensky offered a bribe
He’s on it like Trump on a nasty jibe
A blatantly racist diatribe
He’s on it like a troll on a billy goat
Like a refugee on a crowded boat
Like a countertenor on a high note
He’s on it like Cruella on a canine coat
He’s on it like a King on a diadem
Like three wise men on Bethlehem
Like a jewel thief on a priceless gem
Like Michael Stipe on R.E.M
He’s on it like blossom on a fruit tree
He’s on it like stripes on a bumble bee
Like an early riser on a cup of tea
He’s on lockdown like you and me

Friday, 27 March 2020

March for the NHS (800:200,000 = 0.4%)

March for the NHS (800:200000 = 0.4%)

Yesterday, our NHS was revered;
At 8 pm, people all down the street,
Stood on their doorsteps and massively cheered,
And who would deny that sentiment sweet?
Three years ago, I attended a march;
Protesting contracts, conditions and cuts;
Against privatisation, looming large,
We shouted the odds, with no ifs or buts.
There were nigh eight hundred of us that day
And I lie if I say, I wasn’t proud,
As I, in support of the BMA,
Marched down the high street with that worthy crowd,
Though, for a big town, it could have been more:
Two hundred and fifty times to be sure.

Thursday, 26 March 2020



Isolation is a means to an end;
Adversity sometimes feeds the muse;
Eventually things will be on the mend.

I hope your partner doesn’t tend
To physical, mental, or verbal abuse;
Isolation is a means to an end.

Is lockdown driving you round the bend?
Put on some music, turn off the news;
Eventually things will be on the mend.

Pick up the phone; catch up with a friend,
You’ve bundles of time, to talk and swap views.
Isolation is a means to an end.

Stay in the house, don’t be a bellend;
Write something down, you’ve nothing to lose,
Eventually things will be on the mend.

Some immune systems fail to defend,
Let’s keep them safe, there’s no excuse.
Isolation is a means to an end,
Eventually things will be on the mend.

Wednesday, 25 March 2020

Dame Vera (a belated birthday greeting)

Dame Vera (a belated birthday greeting)

Happy birthday, Dame Vera Lynn;
Who wouldn’t be cheered by your smile?
As troubled times once more begin,
Amidst uncertainty and trial,
I, upon observing your face
Discern an optimistic place
That my ancestors left behind,
Residing somewhere in my mind.
This patriotic mystery
(Though patriot I’ve hardly been),
Brings, as we face COVID 19,
A certain sense of history,
And I, in mind of your refrain,
Can’t help but sing We’ll Meet Again.

Tuesday, 24 March 2020

Frustration in the care home

Frustration in the care home

Shirley and Sheila sat watching TV,
As Boris announced the isolation.
Arthur and Sidney sipped coffee and tea,
Listening as he spoke to the nation.
What’s all this nonsense? I don’t understand,
Said Charles, the veteran, to Steve, the nurse,
Why have all family visits been banned?
We lived through conflict, and that was far worse.
It's not right, said Fred, there's really no need;
Why all this panic? we’ve been here before.
Mavis and Sam evidently agreed:
They had, after all, survived a world war.
In short, their reactions got on Steve’s tits;
For God's sake said he, you can’t catch The Blitz..

Monday, 23 March 2020

For cough

For cough

Did you see the zombie herd
Acting blatantly absurd
Queuing up for half the night 
To buy up everything in sight
Rushing through the sliding doors
Of the supermarket stores
Like locusts on a farmer’s field
They swarmed over the crop yield 
Congregated like sardines
Fought over tins of beans
Hoarded cold/flu remedies
Trampled over OAPs
Coughed and sneezed along the aisles
Carried food away in piles
Screamed at workers on the till
Drove home shameless with their fill
They went way beyond the pale
Now there’s no loo roll for sale
No frozen chips no tins of stew
Yes we have no bananas too
There’s no pasta not a jot
No cereal they bought the lot
No chicken duck beef pork lamb
Milk butter eggs cheese or ham
No vegan or veggie fare
The bakery’s been stripped bare
There’s no nutrition left in here
Just spirits wine cider and beer
Having emptied all the shelves
In view of no one but themselves
The zombie herd content well-fed
Considers not the nurse half-dead
Who despairing of mankind
With another shift in mind
Enters now the store deadbeat
And finds there nothing left to eat

Sunday, 22 March 2020

Mother's day

Mother’s day

With disinfected hands I gave a card,
And liquid anti-bacterial soap,
To a nurse at the home from where I’m barred,
And where mum is safe and healthy (I hope).

Friday, 20 March 2020



Every city town
And sports ground
No food found
The unsound
Running around
With arses brown
Panic bound

It’s a Chinese
Bat disease
Feel the squeeze
Keep away

For the duration
In hesitation

The carefree
Is definitely
An Enemy
To the elderly 

Be seen
To keep hands clean
Beggar queen
Fat lean
And in between
Split the scene

Till twenty one?
No fun
Sorry to shun
This long run
Has just begun
Stay clear son
Till it’s all done

Sunday, 15 March 2020



Panhandlers perish where they lie
The stampeding herd passes by
Desperate shoppers panic buy
The feckless recklessly defy
Groundless accusations fly
MPs expert advice deny
Helplines give no reply
There’s no team in I
Temperatures high
With one last sigh
And a cough dry
Old people die
As doctors try
Relatives cry
Asking why

Saturday, 7 March 2020



Gawd bless ya, good day’s dawnin’ to yer son.
Me name’s Ron, AKA; Ronnie the Hat.
What’s that yer eatin, me old currant bun?
Pie mash and liquor? I’ll ‘ave some a that.
I Fancy a pig’s ear or ten right now,
Down the old rub-a-dub; you comin too?
I’ve ‘eard there’s gonna be a bull and cow;
An argy bargy with the Croydon crew.
Some fuckin slag from across the water
Is ziggin and zaggin my fork and knife,
Bad north and southin’ my bricks and mortar
And threatening me with a drum and fife.
I’m gonna postage on his lump of lead
And I aint stopping till he’s well brown bread.

There’s something Pete Tong with my watch and chain;
It’s bothering the saucepans and trouble,
Givin me old ‘arris a Micheal Caine,
And causing all kinds of Barney Rubble.
Lads on the manor take the gypsy’s kiss,
Giraffing at ‘ow I rabbit and pork;
They mug me right off; I’m Moby of this;
I can’t even go for a Bowl of Chalk
Without being followed by Gawd forbids
Bubbling behind me ‘ammer and tack;
I orange and pear me own teapot lids
Are Penn’orthin’ with ‘em, just for the crack,
And it’s making me feel bow an arra;
The ‘amptons need to get off me barra.

I went to the quack’s and he said to me:
Stan, can you tell me when all this began?
I told ‘im I want a cup of Jack Dee,
And I’m Ronnie; who the fuckin’ell’s Stan?
No sir, he said, it’s all on computer
You’re Stan; Stanley Smith is your proper name,
Then he butchered  ‘is pistol and shooter,
And said, ah, these symptoms here are the same
As yours, and the long and short of it is,
The rare condition you’ve somehow acquired
Has a name: it’s known as Cockneyitis;
The last case recorded has long expired,
The affliction appears unbeatable,
And, it would seem, sadly, untreatable.

Gawd blimey, would you Adam and Eve it?
I don’t even know how I jellied eel,
I’ve been rabbitin’ a pile of Tom Tit, 
Ronnie the Hat aint even Ian Beale,
The quack says he ‘asn’t got a Scooby,
He’s sent me away with some Jimmy Hills,
I need a few Nelsons and a ruby,
But I can’t mix it with the Jack and Jills.
I’m better of going to uncle Ned;
Cockneyitis has made me jittery;
This orange peeling in me crust of bread
Is a diabolical liberty.
I wasn’t born near the sound of Bow bells,
But I can’t help calling ‘em Auntie Nells.

Thursday, 5 March 2020

The return of spring

The return of spring

As the cold winter disappears,
And blossom blooms upon the trees,
I, in the autumn of my years,
Can’t help but smile and feel at ease.
Inhaling the scent of flowers,
Sweetened by cool April showers,
Colouring meadows nature grown,
Adjoining fields by farmers sewn,
I listen to lusty songbirds
Trill a natural symphony;
An instinctive epiphany,
Far beyond the reach of these words,
Chirruped and loudly retweeted,
From nests tirelessly completed. 

In a woodland, not far away,
Amidst spring’s early morning spell,
I spend the best part of the day,
There, where elusive creatures dwell.
On rare occasion, they appear:
Dormice, rabbits, foxes, roe deer,
Woodcocks, pheasants, geese, guinea fowl,
And even now and then, an owl.
With warm and pleasant thoughts benign,
Returning along busy streets,
I can hear a woodpecker’s beats,
Against a cedar or a pine,
And in my mind, it drowns the sound
Of morning traffic, rush-hour bound.

In early May, I love to be
Where hyacinthoides (or blue bells)
Beneath a leafy canopy,
Adorn the woodland’s glades and dells.
In youth, I never really knew
The beauty of a violet blue;
With roving eyes on other things,
Distracted, I missed many springs.
Older now (and maybe more wise),
I much appreciate their hue;
Too soon for me, their time is through,
And when they cease to greet my eyes,
As in a romance, bound to end,
I miss them like an absent friend.

As the trees’ blossom dissipates 
In favour of a future fruit,
And pollinated, abdicates;
As the bluebells return to root,
New flowers bloom and hatchlings fledge,
Machinery cuts back the hedge,
Spring lambs are reared, soon to be sold,
Hay is gathered, baled and rolled,
And I, with dog companion stroll,
Cheered by a cloudless sky of blue;
Indeed, I love the summer too,
In many ways it warms my soul,
And yet, for all it’s bound to bring,
I long for the return of spring.

Sunday, 23 February 2020

Pritti Patel

Pritti Patel

Pretty pitiless Pritti Patel
Some say (but not I)
You’re rather attractive
To me you’re a demon out of Hell
Who’s economically inactive?
Pitiless Pritti
Please do tell

And whilst you’re at it
Oh Pritti Gal
What kind of deal
Did you make with Israel?
Did Netanyahu
Make your head swell?
Pitiless Pritti
Please do tell

Pitiless Pritti
Can it be explained?
What did you mean in
Britannia Unchained?
Do you want to shrink
The welfare state?
And ruin the course
Of a worker’s fate
Oh Pitiless Pritti
You drive me crazy
When you say
British workers are lazy
Would it bring  joy
If conditions fell?
Pitiless Pritti
Please do tell

Pitiless Pritti
When migrants are finished
Will worker’s rights
Be further diminished?
It’s such a short while
Since you’ve achieved power
Are there eight million
Jobless now?
Do you wish to employ
The sick and needy
In order to feed
The wicked and greedy?
Would you make
Pensioners work as well?
Pitiless Pritti
Please do tell

Pitiless Pritti
You’ve made me distraught
Is poverty not
The government’s fault?
Do you see yourself
As a Thatcherite belle
A member elite
Of the Tory cartel?
To me you’re a demon out of Hell
Pretty pitiless Pritti Patel

Saturday, 22 February 2020

Vegan fail

Fillet of steak was a favourite course
Served rare and bloody with thickly cut chips,
Tomatoes, mushrooms and peppercorn sauce,
And many a time would he wipe his lips,
As he chewed and swallowed in between sips
Of Malbec or Shiraz of deepest red,
Prior to mopping with crusty French bread.

One day, in a paper, he read a tale
Of a mother and calf, badly beaten,
And he pondered the fate of cows for sale;
Milked nigh to death and finally eaten.
He thus researched, and upon completion,
Decided he no longer fancied steaks,
Milk in his coffee, or on his cornflakes.

He did more research, and gave up on cheese,
Butter, eggs, and all other dairy fare.
He turned attention to the rivers, seas,
And the mammals and fishes living there.
He mused on fishermen’s nets in despair.
Suffice to say, he no longer ate fish;
Haddock or cod had no place on his dish.

He suffered the ridicule of his peers
They called him rude names (though mostly in jest),
And when he joined them for after work beers,
His diet was sorely put to the test;
He’d guzzled too much, along with the rest,
And at closing time ended up on the street,
In search of more beer and something to eat.

And alas, his veganism was shed;
The gallon of lager led him astray,
A meat craving switch turned on in his head,
And to the kebab house he found his way,
Where a doner ended his brief foray.
The lure of the lamb was hard to ignore;
He was defeated and vegan no more.

These days he’s oft at the dinner table,
Awaiting a fillet of rare cooked steak.
He’d tried for a while, but wasn’t able
To live on a solely vegan intake,
The pledges were all too easy to break;
He’s back to being a carnivore now,
In spite of the calf and suffering cow. 

Friday, 7 February 2020

Hamlet (Redundant)

Hamlet (redundant)

In my heart there is a kind of fighting
That doesn’t allow me to sleep at night.
I wake before dawn with thoughts of writing,
And stare at a screen of Microsoft white.
My wife (who writes at least as well as me),
Lies in light slumber, after deep sleep.
She hasn’t time to sigh ponderously;
She works for us both now; pays for our keep.
I bring her tea and toast; breakfast in bed,
Go back downstairs, sit staring at the screen
And try to convert the thoughts in my head
Into saleable points, not before seen.
But, alas, I’m bereft of ideas;
With thoughts of money, my muse disappears.

Sonnet the hedgehog

Sonnet the hedgehog

I can’t remember the last time I saw
A hedgehog in my back garden at night,
Scurrying around outside the back door,
Or curled up in a ball of prickled fright.
They used to feed upon the slimy slugs
That damaged the flowers, and ate the greens,
And they purged the number of harmful bugs
That spoiled the strawberries and runner beans.
These days, bugs are free to commit their crimes,
The slugs are no longer met with dispatch,
And I look with sadness, back on the times,
When hedgehogs policed our edible patch.
Now hedges by fences have been replaced,
And my back garden is no longer graced.

Friday, 31 January 2020



House the homeless,
Feed the poor,
Open up
A foodbank store,
For the hard core,
The injured
And the scarred.
Teenage kids
Who’ve run away,
Sons and daughters
Led astray,
Give them all
A place to stay,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

Not in Nigel’s back yard,
He don’t want your mess,
Find another dosshouse,
This is his address.
Take that
Sleeping bag away,
You’re permanently barred,
You can rummage
Rubbish bins,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

Flee the war,
Sail the seas,
Cross the barbed wire
With a million
Tortured, drained
And starved.
Leave the spies,
The secret police,
The night terrors
That never cease,
There’s asylum,
Love and peace,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

Not in Nigel’s back yard,
He’s told you loud and clear,
This plot of land’s
A private band,
You’re not welcome here.
There’s sympathy
But there’s no tea,
Sorry if that’s hard,
You can be a refugee,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

A nature trail,
Help the birds
And bees prevail,
Breathe the air
No longer stale
With fossil
Fuels marred.
Harness power
From wind and sun,
Get the carbon
Down to none,
There’s a clean up
To be done,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

Not in Nigel’s back yard,
Take yourself away,
Greta doesn’t speak for him,
He needs a holiday.
While you've been
Slating cars and planes,
He's been on his guard,
Go on strike,
Hold up the trains,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

Not in Nigel’s back yard,
He’s got things to do,
He don’t want a wind farm
Ruining his view.
Your invasion
Of his space
Is held in low regard,
Make the world
A better place,
But not in Nigel’s yard.

Monday, 27 January 2020



I reached a stage
Of online rage
With a troll on
The Guardian’s homepage
And he called me a fake
A soy boy snake
A fruity cake
And a snowflake

He followed me
Became a pest
Sent me a friends’
Request in jest
And he called me a fake
A soy boy snake
A fruity cake
And a snowflake

He shot the breeze
Aimed to tease
With laughing emojis
If you please
And he called me a fake
A soy boy snake
A fruity cake
And a snowflake

I asked him what his
Problem was
He said he did it
Just because
And he called me a fake
A soy boy snake
A fruity cake
And a snowflake

I typed FUCK YOU
The screen went blank
The laptop died
My heart sank
And he typed I’M A FAKE

He hacked my emails
My account
Blackmailed me
For a large amount
And he called me a fake
A soy boy snake
A fruity cake
And a snowflake

He lifted
My identity 
Now all my followers
Think it’s me

And if you’re reading this
The moral is
Beware of trolls
Who take the piss

He called me a fake
A soy boy snake
A fruity cake
And a snowflake
And I took the bait
That knocked me dead
When I should’ve ignored
And blocked instead