Miracle Cure

Miracle cure

Outside the house,

As Trump announced,

To a journalist in a meeting,

That disinfectant and UV light,

Would give Corona a beating,

His legion fans,

Gave praise to their

Republican messiah,

And disbelieving Democrats,

Said now he should retire.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind, Detox it will be

And UV.

The theme of the sermon

Was come unto to me;

I’ve heard to my delight,

That COVID can be beaten,

By a very powerful light,

I’ve been advised

That ultraviolet

Is the way to healing,

And injecting disinfectant

Inside is almost a cleaning.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind, Detox it will be

And UV.

Before the watching

Eyes of many,

He spoke a load of shite:

He said that there

Would be a test,

“Sounds Interesting right?”

And billions around the world,

Thought he’d lost his mind,

It seemed like he believed,

He was the saviour of mankind.

Is Donald crazy?

I heard somebody say,

That lockdown will be over,

If his voters

Get their way.

Disinfectant

Manufacturers,

Were eager to explain,

That Lysol isn’t meant to be

Injected in the vain,

And the next day,

Trump attended an

Oval office bill signing,

Sneering at reporters there

And vehemently denying.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind, Detox it will be

And UV.

We’re in a time

When truth and lies

Are endlessly elastic,

And he insisted in the meeting,

He was being “Sarcastic”,

With reporters

Just “Like you”,

When he raised the question,

Of household disinfectant

Being taken by injection.

Is Donald crazy?

Has he gone insane?

In any case,

He’s on the stage

And telling lies again.

Four more years

Of total bullshit

From the one who maunders

Biden is a rival

When you could have

Bernie Saunders.

Donald lives to lie another day

With disciples, running wild,

Canvassing and cheering

For that maniac man-child.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind Detox it will be

And UV.

Autobiography

Autobiography.

I started an autobiography;

A tale of what I as a boy went through,

But by the first paragraph, I could see,

It would be of no interest to you,

Unless you want to hear a sad old fool’s

Reminiscences of reluctant fights,

Nasty teachers, crap secondary schools,

Exam failures, bullies, sleepless nights,

Vandalism, boredom, aggravation,

Suicidal feelings, blood, broken glass

Beatings, bullshit, put downs, hesitation,

And being seen as a pain in the arse,

A frustrated, confused and angry youth;

An everyday kid, to tell you the truth.

Face mask in a ditch

Face mask in a ditch

I saw a mask dropped in a ditch

By a thoughtless son of a bitch,

Or, to be fair, it could’ve been,

The daughter of a drama queen,

The brother of a millionaire,

The sister of a French au pair,

The wife of a chiropodist,

The husband of a physicist,

The grandad of an errant son,

The nanny of a catholic nun,    

The mother of a know-it-all,

The father of a criminal.

I saw a mask that doctors wear,

Dumped seemingly, without a care,

I wonder who the perp could be:

A rail worker on ecstasy?

A vicar with an axe to grind?

A policeman with a twisted mind?

A factory worker running late?

A banker in a frenzied state?

A milkman with a messed up head?

A news reporter, keen to spread? 

A roofer with a wrongful view?

A chef who didn’t think it through?

I saw a piece of PPE,

Discarded very recklessly,

Left by someone feeling vile,

Or maybe living in denial:

It’s really quite beyond my guess,

I’m ruminating, more or less,

But seriously, I have to say,

A person who would act that way,

As things progress from bad to worse

Is adding to the COVID curse,

By dumping stuff that spreads disease,

When public health is on its knees.

Product placement alert

Product placement alert

Linda said, if you want something to do,

Tomorrow, you can always wash the car;

So I did, and it looks as good as new,

And if I was able to play guitar,

I’d write you a ditty; a wondrous song,

To make you dance, feel ecstatic, alive,

And joyful, as you clapped and sang along,

To an ode, that was conceived on my drive,

Upon which is sitting, as you read this,

The shiniest old red car in our street,

But, my dear reader, I would be remiss,

And my number would be missing a beat,

If I failed to include a praise or two,

For Turtle Wax Zip Wax Car Wash shampoo.

Powered by love (or a rhyming paraphrase of a letter, written by Russel Brand, to Boris Johnson.

“Powered by love”

Dear Boris, now that you’re recovering,

I, quite touched when I saw you nearly cry,

Have written a letter, not expecting

At all that I’ll ever get a reply:

When you gave your statement upon discharge,

Seeing your humanity looming large;

Observing your tearful sincerity;

I fancied you had an epiphany,

And wondered, how can a party, led by you,

Ever again talk privatisation,

Rescind funding, without hesitation,

And cut welfare, health and social care too?

The NHS is “Powered by love”, you said;

Will you take then, another path instead?

I genuinely felt, perhaps naïvely,  

You meant what you said when generously,

You praised the nurses, but specifically,

One Portuguese and another, Kiwi,

Then, I wondered, did you, knowing full well,

The Guardian with a story to tell,

Would very happily jump at the chance

To disparage somehow, your Brexit stance;

Did you, knowing as I say, hence decide,

The best thing to do is put on a show

And being explicit, from the get go

Was preferable to being decried;

Pre-empting as it were the front page news,

Of outlets with less sympathetic views?

Also, (though I’m not a cynical man)

When you keep repeating “Our NHS”

It’s like you and Cummings have forged a plan,

To drive home a message you want to press:

Functioning like a synecdoche,

Around a national identity,

The NHS, being a deity,

Entails governmental authority.

In other words, what better way is there

To achieve unassailable power,

Than having a pantheon; a sacred cow

To rally round in a time of despair;

You all the while hence retaining more hold,

Growing in stature, and ever more bold?

Being medically necessary,

The NHS can be used in a way,

That assists power, indefinitely.

I guess what I’m really trying to say

Is, we love the NHS, completely;

It’s like a secular Virgin Mary,

A loving and yet tortured matriarch,

A shadow to an overt patriarch,

That dominates and usually abides:

What else could the NHS ever be

Other than female; a definite, SHE;

Caring while HE tolerates and decides?

Or could it just be my cynicism,    

Competing against my optimism?

So I suppose my point is, publicity;

i.e. the public face of government,

Involves strategy and duplicity;

A truth and information management.

Up until this pandemic, you must know,

Faith in MPs was at an all-time low,

And now, many of us in this present mess,

See opportunities to reassess

Our values, our cares, our priorities,

And one day, some kind of normality 

Will return and our lives again will be,

Determined by the four formalities:

Business, profit, power and control;

Four things that seemingly make up the whole.

 I’m not a cynic, I believe in love,

Optimism, ability to change,

Humanity, goodness, and God above

And being a cynic, for me, is strange.

My prayer to you Boris Johnson is,

When your post demands a return to this:

The four formalities in the last verse,

You’ll recall the names of every nurse,

And also the vulnerability,

The humility that comes with sickness,

And that, on either side of this crisis,

Suffering and fear are a constancy:

A backdrop to many now living here,

Including nurses that we all hold dear.

For the NHS, you, your family

And all of us; I now end this letter

With a prayer, and I say sincerely:

I’m glad you’re better

Boris

Stay better.

Love ********

Cockwombles

Cockwombles

Underground overground wandering free

Cockwombles of lockdown Great Britain are we

Making good use of the time we’ve got spare

Driving and visiting everywhere

Uncles and aunties grandads and nannies

Brothers and sisters mums and dads

We’ll be popping around

Pick up a pizza and take it round your friends for tea

We congregate in the park and the street

Breathing all over the punters we meet

Underground overground wandering free

Cockwombles of lockdown Great Britain are we

We’re not infecting the people we see

And anyway how can we possibly be

Expected to stay at home in quarantine

We don’t shit about COVID nineteen

We’re so incredibly clever we stealthily 

Out in the country leave everything

Even bottles and tins

Plastic containers old magazines and bags of dog poo

It’s what we do

Underground overground wandering free

Cockwombles of lockdown Great Britain are we

Making good use of the time we’ve got spare

Driving and visiting everywhere

I don't want to join that group

I don’t want to join that group

I don’t want to join that group

It seems a very angry thing

That’s keeping people in a loop

To which I’ve nothing new to bring

I’d thank you for the invite though

I’m guessing it was automated

Asking everyone you know

To join the group already stated

I don’t want to join that crowd

It doesn’t appeal at all to me

The membership’s a bit too loud

And proud as far as I can see

And having looked I have to say

The politics behind it all

Appears a little bit one way

Unless I’m being cynical

I don’t want to join that team

Of people over-keen to guess

Posting comments in a stream

Of suppositions more or less

Based on their conjecturing

On which way the wind will blow

Posturing and lecturing

In my opinion all for show

I don’t want to join that band

I guarantee I won’t be missed

Being sometimes out of hand

I’m likely to be booed and hissed

By people who I’ve never met

With strong beliefs at odds with mine

And so it is with scant regret

That I reflectively decline

Badge of honour

Badge of honour

Hancock’s announced a badge has been made

For those who for years have been underpaid

Taken for granted treated like crap

Living on the edge in a poverty trap

These days for nurses everyone cheers

Three years ago there were jeers and sneers

And NHS workers were seen by many

As not worth a rise not even a penny

Junior doctors by government powers  

Were forced into working impossible hours

And if they threatened to go on strike

They were smeared by press and public alike

The public who wouldn’t or couldn’t see

Else why is there now a majority

Of the very same who three years ago

Told public services where to go

When skint and all but on their knees

They asked for an end to years of pay freeze?

But back to the badge well aint that sweet?

Or in the words of someone’s tweet

“This is not the thick of it secretary

This is life and death get PPE”

Well-meaning gestures are well and good

But it needs to be fully understood

That this government was til recently

Slashing and cutting recklessly

And as a result they closed down

Services in every city and town

Cos it seems to me unless I’m nuts

The reason for closures is government cuts

And till I see more evidence of sharing

To me the only badge worth wearing

Is the one that’s still on my coat today

Showing support for the BMA

Donald Trump doesn't like The WHO

Donald Trump doesn't like The WHO 

Donald Trump doesn’t like The WHO,

For reasons that I Can’t Explain;

I asked, and he said, Who Are You?

And that, he Won’t Get Fooled Again.

Behind Blue Eyes, he thought it through,

Reminded me that, I’m A Boy,

And if The Kids Are Alright Too,

A Substitute, he’ll soon employ.

Though I Can See For Miles, it’s true,

And be Anyway Anyhow Anywhere,

Donald Trump doesn’t like The WHO;

It’s a Legal Matter beyond compare.

The Seeker of a brand new bill,

In a Magic Bus, has driven away,

And at 5.15, he’ll make a deal,

With Boris The Spider, in the UK.

Donald Trump doesn’t like The WHO,

His supple wrist is bound to crack;

He’s acting deaf, dumb and blind too,

And My Generation’s not Happy Jack.

See Me Feel Me Touch me Heal me,

Join Together, but in my view,

However much you think, I’m Free,

Donald Trump doesn’t like The WHO.

Domestos

Domestos

I wonder, can a leopard change its spots?

Altering its methods permanently?

Did our boy, on the road to Domestos,

Metamorphose upon epiphany?

Will he, I’m wondering, revert to type,

Returning to the old established way,

Of promising steak, while handing out tripe

To adoring masses, shouting “Hooray”?

He’s enacting now, things he rejected:

Helping the many, rather than the few;

Things that the many had not expected,

Under a rule of Conservative blue.

Will our boy revert post COVID 19?

The answer to that remains to be seen.

David Roland

Dave Roland

What can I say that hasn’t been said,

In relation to the ninety six dead,

At Hillsborough under “Blazing sunshine”,

On April fifteen, nineteen eighty nine,

Where, amidst the tragedy, Dave Owen tried,

To save the life of a young man who died?

I didn’t know Dave, but I would have liked to;

He seemed like the kind of person who,

Had a positive effect upon everyone,

Was “Youthful, unique, kindhearted and fun”,

And, in the words of his daughter, Michelle,

Made “People feel good about themselves” as well.

By all accounts, he was an excellent man;

I read that he was a Bowie fan;

And nurses, in their “Compassionate” way,

Played Bowie tunes by the bed, where he lay,

And those angels, I read, with every song,

Turned up the volume and sang along.

Dave Roland, who passed away recently,

Was a Man completely unknown to me,

But reading his story, I understood,

That he helped people, and made them feel good;

An example to others, definitely,

And indeed, “That should be his Legacy.”

Captain Tom Moore

Captain Tom Moore

At the time of writing, Captain Tom Moore,

Is two weeks shy of a hundred years old,

He served in Asia, in the last World War,

He’s “Typical Yorkshire, very controlled”,

With a walking aid, he’s lapping the grounds;

Out in his back garden every day,

His efforts have now raised millions of pounds,

And he intends to give it all away.

One hundred lengths he’s nigh achieved, no less,

And as donations continue to pour,

With love and respect for the NHS,

He’s determined to do a hundred more,

As the country salutes, a life, well led,

And that’s about all that needs to be said.

Despicable Me

Despicable Me

I didn’t get many likes today

No one had anything much to say

But someone posted flippantly

For all to see

Despicable me

A nasty comment was on my wall

It didn’t make any sense at all

I looked at it bewilderedly

Confusedly  

Despicable me

It leapt at me with a digital roar

Was it a troll? I couldn’t be sure

It said that I was utterly

Quite literally

Despicable me

I was perplexed I can’t deny

I didn’t delete I didn’t reply

It caught me unexpectedly

Surprisingly

Despicable me

I really didn’t know what to think

Was there intent to cause a stink?

I asked myself repeatedly

What could it be?

Despicable me

I have to admit it had me beat

The comment was rude and indiscreet

It made me feel undoubtedly

Self-consciously

Despicable me

I didn’t get many likes today

But I left the post up anyway

I’m actually totally   

Emphatically

Despicable me

"Miracle"

“Miracle”

 As thousands more die in the USA,

It seems Donald Trump is out of his depth.

What then, does the president have to say?

With knowledge verily lacking in breadth?

Something about Hydroxychloroquine:

He’s designating it a “Game changer”;

Against scientific advice, he seems keen,

To place more lives in the path of danger,

In what amounts to the throw of a dice.

And he has little or no assurance,

By way of expert medical advice,

For people lacking in health insurance:

“It’s like a miracle”, he says, with cheer,

The virus from “China” will, “Disappear”.

Captain Cunt

Bully Beef

When Johnson’s discharged from hospital,

I hope one of the senior staff,

Gives him the kind of verbal maul

You’d give a teenager, who for a laugh,

Drank bleach for a dare, quite recklessly,

And hence ended up in A&E,

Diverting valuable staff away,

From dealing with the everyday;

Something along the lines of: “Okay

Boris? Feeling better now are you?

Oh, we’re elated that you pulled through

Like George, smiting the dragon, eh?

Bursting with the spirit of Blitz can-do,

Heroically taking one for the crew.”

“Well listen here, you lump of fuck;

You only ever fought in a dream:

Lying there, bereft of all pluck,

While a brilliant, underfunded team;

The cream of our public services;

Ambulance drivers, doctors and nurses;

(People who’d never hide astray

In a fridge), kept the Corona at bay.

Those unsung heroes from overseas,

With the minimum of PPE,

Fought for you determinedly;

Missing their terrified families,

They risked their lives and ceaselessly tried,

Minus the basics you failed to provide.”

“A team of foreigners, subjected to

A cynical, xenophobic drip-feed,

In spite of-and it’s well known to you-

Their dedication, in times of need.

And why? Because that rhetoric plays

To tabloids, and people, set in their ways;

People who, incidentally, would know,

If only you’d given them the get-go,

How drastic things would turn out to be,

And, Instead of placing your clammy hand,

On every sick person in the land,

You’d taken things more seriously,

And not through hospitals, recklessly flew

With nothing but adulation in view.”

“Whilst you survived, too many have died;

Colleagues of mine, have met their ends,

The worst paid of whom, it can’t be denied,

Is a thousand times worth one your friends,

Some of whom, lacking morality,

Have made millions from this calamity;

Complacently smirking as we speak;

Creaming the profits week upon week.

And while this damage you’ve already done,

Thanks to your colossal unfitness, 

To hold the prime minister’s office,

Can’t be undone now by anyone,

Perhaps the time you were helplessly sick,

Will in your memory actually stick."

“For the first time in your charmed life,

Of pampering and super-entitlement,

Did you feel humble in the face of strife,

Away from Number 10 and parliament?

Were you frightened, staring into the void?

With struggling lungs, almost destroyed?

And as you lay there, did you grasp,

The sense of your phrase “Operation last gasp”?

What idiots you must take us for,

To Winston Churchill, self-comparing,

When you’re not even Captain Mainwaring,

Oh Boris, you really are a card for sure;

The only man you’ll ever be to me,

Is Captain Cunt with a capital C.”

"Maybe now, after facing real grief,

You’ll drop the personae of a boy’s-own,

Eton educated bully beef,

And return to office, maturely grown,

(Preferably with a cabinet brand new)

To do what you were elected to do,

By Mail addled serfs, Conservative led,

(Quite bafflingly so, it has to be said).

Or, perhaps Boris, even better,

You’ll send the Queen an urgent letter,

Telling her you’ve decided to resign;

That would indeed suit me just fine,

Being as I am, quite sick of your face,

You’re not a PM, you’re a fucking disgrace!”

Rocket Science

Rocket Science

I scroll through Facebook, see images there,

Of families gathered and friends well met,

And I ask of them, with dawning despair,

Which part of stay at home, do you not get?

As I understand, it’s only okay,

To work when it’s strictly necessary;

You can walk outside for an hour a day,

Visit doctors, in an emergency,

Drive to the chemists and shops for foodstuff,

Essentials and drugs of prescriptive kind;

And that’s about all; it’s simple enough;

You don’t need a rocket scientist’s mind,

And so, once again, I ask, with regret:

Which part of stay at home, do you not get?

Whiskey and a thin cigar

Whiskey and a thin cigar

I puffed away on a thin cigar,

In the evening air, as the clouds cleared,

Alone in the garden, regarding a star.

Enjoying a gift from Panama,

As smoke, dissipating, disappeared,

I puffed away on a thin cigar.  

I sat and pondered how some people are

By warm humanity, to friends endeared,

Alone in the garden, regarding a star.

The whiskey I’d poured didn’t go far,

And as to the bottle, my arm was steered,

I puffed away on a thin cigar.

I thought of discussions, often bizarre,

Philosophical, and uniquely weird,

Alone In the garden regarding a star.

And as I raised yet another jar,

In memory of a friend revered,

I puffed away on a thin cigar,

Alone in the garden, regarding a star.

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.

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.

Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis

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.

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 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,

Go!

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,

Coleman’s

Nearly there

Lyles is in full flare

But Oduduru’s

Had a burst;

He’s gone

From last to first.

Yes!

He’s over the line,

In a very fast time:

9.59.

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.

Vigilante

Vigilante

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 mask 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

LEFTIST REMAINER WOKESTER  HUNTERS

Was sure to be seen by hordes of punters

And knowing for sure it would soon be banned

He entered sleep with another one planned

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.

Some

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.

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

Dirty bums

There’s cold rads

Loan shark ads

Heartless cads

You’ve-been-hads

Towering pads

Flammable clads

Runaway lads

Violent dads

There’s vented spleens

Angry scenes

Ruined jeans

Homeless teens

Out-of-date beans

Soggy greens

Broke machines

A lack of means

There’s dereliction

Vows of fiction

False depiction

No conviction

Tension friction

House eviction

Drink addiction

Harm infliction

Reams

Of broken dreams

Abandoned schemes

Damaged beams

Extremes

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

Austerity

And it’s legacy

Of poverty

Was the greedy

Ideology 

Of an MP

On a yacht at sea?

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.