I went to a boy’s school in Cumbria
It was lovely a place as could be,
Except for the school
With it’s misogynistic rule,
The forced runs, it’s food
And no heating.
I loved the fells and the becks,
And the views that stretch on forever,
Over hill and dale, midst summer or gale
It is beauty irrespective of weather.
But the boys I never did like,
Which inevitably led to many a fight,
So tucked in my room
I’d read through the gloom,
Till I loved thought over fought
beauty over cruelty,
and that which appeared to me true.
So fight if you like,
Mock and make light,
Of everything you see or hear,
But that which is dear
Is a self without fear
Forthright, loving, and kind.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Her Majesty’s Secret Service
‘Listen Agent 0001 your Majesty, we need you for a top secret mission for Queen and country’ said M. Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II took the Marlboro red cigarette, her fiftieth of the day, out of her mouth and flicked it. The cigarette bounced off M’s forehead, spun through the air, out the open window and into the pram of a passing peasant’s baby.
‘M, I’m ready to do my duty for myself and my country.’ Said Her Majesty as she poured herself a double scotch with extra scotch, and topped it up with meths.
‘Shouldn’t you lay off the hard stuff agent 0001? It is six thirty in the morning” said M with concern.
‘Listen M,’ said the Queen angrily, ‘my life, my country, so we’re playing by my rules’ said the Queen as she let off an enormous postern blast of gas. ‘Sorry, I had eggs this morning’ said the Queen.
‘Very well Your Majesty Agent 0001 Queen Elizabeth II, let’s get down to brass tacks’ said M sternly. ‘We need you for a search and destroy mission.’ The Queen looked up from her copy of Private Eye.
‘Is it that bastard Murdoch? Is he using his media mogul power to influence the world into all out nuclear war where he will hide in his secret lair and then return when it’s all over to start a new world order?’
‘Not quite Agent 0001’ said M, ‘it’s far, far worse than that.’
Her Maj slipped her final throwing knife into her hair as a hair pin. Prince Philip was busy gutting a rabbit.
‘Phil, it’s the big one’ she said seriously.
‘Good luck. May the force be with you’ said Prince Philip in his high falsetto voice.
‘I do this for God and King Harry’ said Queenie as she back flipped out the kitchen door, down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through the state dining room, along another corridor, right, down another corridor, right again, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, left, more corridor, past the guards, out the front door over a corgi and somersaulted into her souped up Range Rover, through the sun roof.
‘Let’s roll, Fido’ said Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
‘Woof’ barked the corgi. The air was palpably stuck with seriousness. They both new that today was the day Barrack Obama would die for his evil schemes.
In his office M looked out the window. His eyes were staring at nothing as he thought of the danger the Queen was putting herself into. ‘What a woman’ he thought to himself appreciatively. Osama Bin Laden would soon be a bloody smear on his Welsh cave hideout and the world would be a safer place. Osama Bin Laden, after all this time would finally pay for his crimes.
Suddenly panic gripped him Something wasn’t right. Something deeply, deeply, worryingly, staggeringly, incredibly, amazingly wrong was nagging at his attention. Then it hit him. He lurched from his man size baby high chair and fell on the florr. Picking himself up, he rushed to his desk and started throwing papers all over the place as he looked for the secret mission note from Miss Moneypenny’s replacement.
Eventually he found the note, covered in her familiar green crayon.
Kill obama
My God, thought M. Queenie, Britain’s top secret agent, was going to kill the leader of the free world. He ran through to his receptionist’s room.
‘What have you done?!’ screamed M at his receptionist. Jade Goody looked up vacantly with a great big stupid smile on her fat face.
‘Watcha, how’s it going M? Eh? Like M & M’s your name is but only a half one like low fat M & M’s or something – ‘
‘You’ve gone and told the Queen to kill the wrong person! It was supposed to say Osama Bin Laden. You’ve written Obama you intellectual cripple!’ M was fuming. Damn these Back To Work Schemes. How he wished Miss Moneypenny was here with her style, charisma, sexiness, and above all, an IQ rating bigger than her shoe size.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Jade Goody’ said M and left her to look at the pictures in her copy of The Beano.
‘M, I’m ready to do my duty for myself and my country.’ Said Her Majesty as she poured herself a double scotch with extra scotch, and topped it up with meths.
‘Shouldn’t you lay off the hard stuff agent 0001? It is six thirty in the morning” said M with concern.
‘Listen M,’ said the Queen angrily, ‘my life, my country, so we’re playing by my rules’ said the Queen as she let off an enormous postern blast of gas. ‘Sorry, I had eggs this morning’ said the Queen.
‘Very well Your Majesty Agent 0001 Queen Elizabeth II, let’s get down to brass tacks’ said M sternly. ‘We need you for a search and destroy mission.’ The Queen looked up from her copy of Private Eye.
‘Is it that bastard Murdoch? Is he using his media mogul power to influence the world into all out nuclear war where he will hide in his secret lair and then return when it’s all over to start a new world order?’
‘Not quite Agent 0001’ said M, ‘it’s far, far worse than that.’
Her Maj slipped her final throwing knife into her hair as a hair pin. Prince Philip was busy gutting a rabbit.
‘Phil, it’s the big one’ she said seriously.
‘Good luck. May the force be with you’ said Prince Philip in his high falsetto voice.
‘I do this for God and King Harry’ said Queenie as she back flipped out the kitchen door, down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through the state dining room, along another corridor, right, down another corridor, right again, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, left, more corridor, past the guards, out the front door over a corgi and somersaulted into her souped up Range Rover, through the sun roof.
‘Let’s roll, Fido’ said Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
‘Woof’ barked the corgi. The air was palpably stuck with seriousness. They both new that today was the day Barrack Obama would die for his evil schemes.
In his office M looked out the window. His eyes were staring at nothing as he thought of the danger the Queen was putting herself into. ‘What a woman’ he thought to himself appreciatively. Osama Bin Laden would soon be a bloody smear on his Welsh cave hideout and the world would be a safer place. Osama Bin Laden, after all this time would finally pay for his crimes.
Suddenly panic gripped him Something wasn’t right. Something deeply, deeply, worryingly, staggeringly, incredibly, amazingly wrong was nagging at his attention. Then it hit him. He lurched from his man size baby high chair and fell on the florr. Picking himself up, he rushed to his desk and started throwing papers all over the place as he looked for the secret mission note from Miss Moneypenny’s replacement.
Eventually he found the note, covered in her familiar green crayon.
Kill obama
My God, thought M. Queenie, Britain’s top secret agent, was going to kill the leader of the free world. He ran through to his receptionist’s room.
‘What have you done?!’ screamed M at his receptionist. Jade Goody looked up vacantly with a great big stupid smile on her fat face.
‘Watcha, how’s it going M? Eh? Like M & M’s your name is but only a half one like low fat M & M’s or something – ‘
‘You’ve gone and told the Queen to kill the wrong person! It was supposed to say Osama Bin Laden. You’ve written Obama you intellectual cripple!’ M was fuming. Damn these Back To Work Schemes. How he wished Miss Moneypenny was here with her style, charisma, sexiness, and above all, an IQ rating bigger than her shoe size.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Jade Goody’ said M and left her to look at the pictures in her copy of The Beano.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Ode to an end to Love
She had big boobs, it’s true,
I loved them,
And that’s why I rue
The day she left,
With her marvellous chest
To live with some guy
From Gloucester.
I loved them,
And that’s why I rue
The day she left,
With her marvellous chest
To live with some guy
From Gloucester.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Rachel
Rachel
Rachel, you ain’t got no knees
It’s sad I know but please,
Don’t worry ‘bout having them gone
You sold them, you know that it’s wrong
Oh Rachel you said some stupid things
As you sold that Russian your limbs,
You said you weren’t going to miss ‘em
My friend, she just wouldn’t listen, as we sang
CHORUS
Rachel you ain’t got no knees
Rachel, why did you lease,
Your left leg to a muslim
Your right arm to a Jew,
The Catholic’s an appendix
And the Buddhist’s your poo?
Rachel, Rachel,
your two limbs too few!
Oh kids don’t hawk out your joints
To ASDA for nectar points,
Don’t swap them for cider
Or sell them for a fiver
Or you’ll be like Rachel with two limbs too few!
Rachel, you ain’t got no knees
It’s sad I know but please,
Don’t worry ‘bout having them gone
You sold them, you know that it’s wrong
Oh Rachel you said some stupid things
As you sold that Russian your limbs,
You said you weren’t going to miss ‘em
My friend, she just wouldn’t listen, as we sang
CHORUS
Rachel you ain’t got no knees
Rachel, why did you lease,
Your left leg to a muslim
Your right arm to a Jew,
The Catholic’s an appendix
And the Buddhist’s your poo?
Rachel, Rachel,
your two limbs too few!
Oh kids don’t hawk out your joints
To ASDA for nectar points,
Don’t swap them for cider
Or sell them for a fiver
Or you’ll be like Rachel with two limbs too few!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Work
They say time heals all: but tonight
The ticking clock hails nothing new,
But endless seconds echoed away 'till five o'clock;
The first timid trace of dawns' dim light.
The air is thick. It doesn't move, but hangs,
just as it does in the light. Theres no difference then
between night and day, no cut off point,
no spiritual sensation of a big bang
To mark something changed. Tomorrow,
The working day will be the same, the coffee,
Idle chatter with the clerk at her desk:
Days marked by an ever deepening sorrow.
The ticking clock hails nothing new,
But endless seconds echoed away 'till five o'clock;
The first timid trace of dawns' dim light.
The air is thick. It doesn't move, but hangs,
just as it does in the light. Theres no difference then
between night and day, no cut off point,
no spiritual sensation of a big bang
To mark something changed. Tomorrow,
The working day will be the same, the coffee,
Idle chatter with the clerk at her desk:
Days marked by an ever deepening sorrow.
Coolio
Oh Lord, save me from everything iniquitous,
Oh Lord, save me from myself
Save me from Tuesday night’s and sat on the edge of the bed
Staring with existential dread,
Save me from holiday’s
Save me from nothing to do
Save me from TV, coffee, tea & death
Save me from me
Save me from pencil death staring at the whiteboard of eternity
As pencil necked men pencil in pointlessness on the eyelid’s of
Monday morning, face fucked from here to Friday on the back
Of productivity & pro-activity & performance, Oh Lord! Save
Them for they do not know, oh Lord! Save them for they do not see
The words that haunt them are the words that
Blind them, the words that blind them
Are the words of work that blinds and
Haunts them, on Tuesday’s of Huddles at three PM
When the soul is stretched thin over coals
Of scores racked up & spat out & sucked up
Into the vacuum of the Trial of the Castle of
Postmen going postal, of old age and pension
Slips, collected and dejected marching out of
Post offices, unwanted & unloved and hated above &
Below and holed
just there.
Oh Lord, save me from myself
Save me from Tuesday night’s and sat on the edge of the bed
Staring with existential dread,
Save me from holiday’s
Save me from nothing to do
Save me from TV, coffee, tea & death
Save me from me
Save me from pencil death staring at the whiteboard of eternity
As pencil necked men pencil in pointlessness on the eyelid’s of
Monday morning, face fucked from here to Friday on the back
Of productivity & pro-activity & performance, Oh Lord! Save
Them for they do not know, oh Lord! Save them for they do not see
The words that haunt them are the words that
Blind them, the words that blind them
Are the words of work that blinds and
Haunts them, on Tuesday’s of Huddles at three PM
When the soul is stretched thin over coals
Of scores racked up & spat out & sucked up
Into the vacuum of the Trial of the Castle of
Postmen going postal, of old age and pension
Slips, collected and dejected marching out of
Post offices, unwanted & unloved and hated above &
Below and holed
just there.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Stewart's Diary
I've been keeping a diary for my friend.
I think I need to record for posterity how evil Stewart is.
27/11/2007
Day one: Stewart is going to Seville to watch football. He tries to hide the real reason for going, but all his friends know he's going to perv at men in shorts. Stew admitted that he has no time for his friends anymore. It could be because he has AIDS. Stewart incited me to call a work colleague a tramp. Now I have an enemy in the office who tells me to fuck off. I shouldn’t listen to Stewart but I feel obliged to because he has herpes.
28/11/2007
Day Two: Stewart is adamant him and jesus are the same. He sent me a picture of a T-Shirt saying Jesus is gay to point out the similarity. I think Stewart would be much happier if he came out of the closet and admitted his religion. He sent me a list of his favourite things today:
Stewart CS: cheese
Stewart CS: poo
Stewart CS: weeeeee
He also admitted that he doesn’t get paid enough or frequently when he said “Stewart CS: i hope we get paid before xmas again this year” as he hasn’t been paid since February and has to eat on peoples charity.
29/11/2007
Day Three: Stewart hasn't mailed me yet - the depression caused by the lack of money and having Bad AIDS must have made him even more ill. Poor Stewart, if only someone would give him the break he deserves he could a decent job rather than having to whore himself out to these mysterious events in Tel Aviv, Birmingham and Munich.
Stewart sent me an e-mail, immediately showing his schizophrenic problems by telling me
Stewart GIBCS: mate i am a legend
And he proceeded to continue to claim he is better than Jesus by calling one of His miracles a trick
Stewart GIBCS: not like a water into wine trick
Stewart also told me he wants to write philosophy. However, his intentions are mis-aimed as he told me he is
Stewart GIBCS: contemplating the steak in the fridge.
30/11/2007
Day Four: Stewart phoned me and the first word he said was "gay". Maybe he thinks I'm a bit slow, but his hints that he might bat for the other side are blatantly obvious. Stewart’s favourite past-time is knitting. He collects GoodFood magazine – need I say more?
20/10/08
Stew is trying to change me. I pity the fool for his BAD AID's as it makes him take up pointless quests. Today Stew winked at me four times and blew two kisses. I have two witnesses. HE MUST BE STOPPED!!!!!
I think I need to record for posterity how evil Stewart is.
27/11/2007
Day one: Stewart is going to Seville to watch football. He tries to hide the real reason for going, but all his friends know he's going to perv at men in shorts. Stew admitted that he has no time for his friends anymore. It could be because he has AIDS. Stewart incited me to call a work colleague a tramp. Now I have an enemy in the office who tells me to fuck off. I shouldn’t listen to Stewart but I feel obliged to because he has herpes.
28/11/2007
Day Two: Stewart is adamant him and jesus are the same. He sent me a picture of a T-Shirt saying Jesus is gay to point out the similarity. I think Stewart would be much happier if he came out of the closet and admitted his religion. He sent me a list of his favourite things today:
Stewart CS: cheese
Stewart CS: poo
Stewart CS: weeeeee
He also admitted that he doesn’t get paid enough or frequently when he said “Stewart CS: i hope we get paid before xmas again this year” as he hasn’t been paid since February and has to eat on peoples charity.
29/11/2007
Day Three: Stewart hasn't mailed me yet - the depression caused by the lack of money and having Bad AIDS must have made him even more ill. Poor Stewart, if only someone would give him the break he deserves he could a decent job rather than having to whore himself out to these mysterious events in Tel Aviv, Birmingham and Munich.
Stewart sent me an e-mail, immediately showing his schizophrenic problems by telling me
Stewart GIBCS: mate i am a legend
And he proceeded to continue to claim he is better than Jesus by calling one of His miracles a trick
Stewart GIBCS: not like a water into wine trick
Stewart also told me he wants to write philosophy. However, his intentions are mis-aimed as he told me he is
Stewart GIBCS: contemplating the steak in the fridge.
30/11/2007
Day Four: Stewart phoned me and the first word he said was "gay". Maybe he thinks I'm a bit slow, but his hints that he might bat for the other side are blatantly obvious. Stewart’s favourite past-time is knitting. He collects GoodFood magazine – need I say more?
20/10/08
Stew is trying to change me. I pity the fool for his BAD AID's as it makes him take up pointless quests. Today Stew winked at me four times and blew two kisses. I have two witnesses. HE MUST BE STOPPED!!!!!
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