There’s bull in the china shop
and bullshit in the air –
there’s a crash of metaphors
as Britain despairs –

Parliament’s members
throw stones in the house –
whilst Farage smirks broadly
as they bring home his cows –

Johnson – in his jodhpurs –
readies his horse –
the reins will be passed
under Brexit’s hard fall

The Collection

I am almost the same age
as Mr. S. Armitage

Today I bought
a collection of his work

from the secondhand
book shop – just off the drag –

where words are piled
between pencilled prices –

I feel bad – please tell me how
I can pay him the rest –

so that I am not short-changing
Mr. S. Armitage

Mind The Gap

They’ve got a Dead Cupboard
in this Underground station –
hid from swilled passengers –
a Central route to Heaven

Behind those locked doors –
they hide the fresh body –
where the platform-removed
is stored temporarily

There the dropped dead
waits for the official –
to pronounce upon
this stiffened individual

The zipped-up fallen
is bagged – airtight –
he will not be required
to tap his ticket tonight

Dear Nanny

Dear Nanny,

rees mogg dear nannyYou taught me so
very much – like
the fact that the plebs
are far too rough –
‘..Only to be touched
during buggery ..

and then wear a rubber
to avoid disease..’

My dark heart is decorated
like our attic room –
where you taught me love –
Oh! I miss your bosom
Now I have buggered
all of the prols –
with eloquent speeches
off my fountain pen’s furl –
I have time enough left –
and plenty of spunk –
to replenish our love
and become as one

Your loving ‘son’
Jac-Jac x

Deleted Facebook

This phone feels lighter
after I deleted the app –
today I’ve restarted
with a single act

No pushes from Facebook –
that microscope
into others’ lived lies
and hashtag tropes

My thoughts were narrowed
by the blinkered view –
No yearns for ‘Likes’ –
No fear of peer reviews

My Generation

There’s cash to be screwed off this ageing population
of us the near-needy – the to-be-nursed generation

Flyers and ads freefall from the ‘papers
promotions galore to entice us old-agers

Walk-in baths with a seat for tired pins
and packaway loos – such convenient things

Save now for your funeral and reduce the high cost
Insure your fucked body – shield your kids from a loss

They’ll sell off the house and divide the proceeds
Now dead your true worth – two holidays to Greece.

Kermode’s Lament

He walks the Croisette
between palm leaf shadows

this gloom-filled film critc
nursing a flopping hangover

A review for a near deadline
with just enough vitriol

next time this critic
will avoid the film festival

He promised the wife
and Fortnite-fixed kids

that never again
will he do this flick-trip

Instead he’ll drag them
kicking and screaming

to a safe place
which is way beyond streaming

The Archers 5-5-18

Brian was drunk, sat alone down The Bull,
when Jazza rolled in and pulled up a stool:
‘Hey Brian, you ok? Fancy a bevvy session?
It’ll help relieve your current depression.’

Sunrise on Sunday can be sooo boring,
PC Burns lamented whilst street-patrolling,
but then he drove by a dreadful thing,
Brian Aldridge, there, asleep on The Green.

‘Move along Mr Aldridge, you are quite drunk,
you appear to have thrown up yesterday’s lunch.’
Brian pulled out a wedge of bung-thick cash,
which Burns deftly pocketed for his wedding bash.

Jazzer awoke to Fallon’s soft snoring,
she was lost in her dreams about decorating.
He slipped from the bed, feeling quite naughty,
knowing her beloved would be home shortly.

Once more Brian woke, this time to a kiss,
from Linda’s new dog, right on the lips.
He stood and stretched his ancient frame,
Linda retreated, taking off down the lane.

‘Brian you’re a mess,’ Jennifer hissed,
as he climbed into bed, still quite pissed:
‘Ha! You should see the state of The Green,
the Environment Agency has even more to clean.’

Blow Winds

Ms. Stormy Daniels
you’ve raised a tempest –
not quite Shakespearian
but that of a temptress

A swellhead scorned
is a dangerous thing –
but once he’s made POTUS
he’ll act like a king

Rumble thy bellyful!
Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
Much like Shakespeare
he’ll end with exclaims

Poor naked wretches
whereso’er you are
That bide the pelting
of this pitiless storm

Ms. Gyllenhaal

Aye, I would ask Maggie Gyllenhaal
to be my bride, with her feisty call,
and looseness of her expressive doe,
above, and under her doen breasts I’ll go:

but her new child meets, most devoutly,
so I’ll remain unfed, to lie quietly,
as my wife lambastes, half-heartedly,
my ask of Maggie? They both laugh at me.

[Poem #863]


Our summer holidays
were always ‘at’ Easter,
‘cos that time of year
it’s so much cheaper,

even after a pay rise
for the-men-with-truncheons,
still that week,
but upgraded to Butlin’s:

We went self-catering
at Bognor Regis,
where Dad smuggled in
my eldest brother

through the camp’s
padlocked gates,
Chris was concealed
under oil-soaked sheets.

I sketched seagulls,
the only visible detail
in that thin view
of endless shingle.

Forty years later
and another vacation,
off to Devon,
a last-minute stay-cation,

a holiday to engender
family joy,
the gulls now snap-chatted
by our youngest boy.


From above a radio drones
whilst the clippers whine
across the reddened neck
of the gentleman’s haircut.
Lined cars rumble outside
as gusts cross the threshold
and push the trimmings,
snips, hairy tumble weed,
from beneath the two-step
of the rug-cutting barber,
who never seems to struggle
with small talk on the floor.
Done, he attends to, brushes,
the now-vacated chair,
and gentlemen look sideways,
who is next on the dance card?

The Liars

She was an ugly capture ,
and was smelling quite ‘off’ –
‘landed in nets near Batavia,
and worth five thousand dollars’
– traded for the last time
in the city of London.
But that wasn’t her real story,
rather the laughed result
of a fishmonger’s joke
down in Billingsgate:
Charlie stitched half a salmon
to the rotting monkey
which had been found
on Lower Thames Street,
George Cruickshank etched,
and embellished, the lie
committing the mermaid
to a much longer life.

the liars

Two-shot Tories

A table of old Tories
in the Kemptown cafe
plotting the downfall
of your future today:

Grumbling ’bout democracy,
and ‘leftie threats’,
whilst wanking their pensions
on skinny lattes:

The last generation
to enjoy a grand old age,
they’ll spoon all the sugar
and ensure nothing remains.

New Town Clock

The clock’s being replaced
on Uckfield High Street,
under Emergency Orders
it’ll now strike thirteen,
and then in line
with the ‘Bill of No Rights’
you’ll get a timely vote,
but only if you’re white.
The people of Uckfield
will sleep easier this week,
clocks will chime thirteen,
they’ll dream in doublespeak.

New story HERE

Trumpf Coverage

Covfefe gets coverage
and Trumpf is berated,
tweeted from his iPhone
which had been confiscated:

He had rang up Melania
from his POTUS bed,
‘How do you spell ‘coverage’?’
Her reply he mis-heard..

POTUS sounded the letters,
quite carefully,

but pressed ‘Tweet’ too quick
(with his very small fingers) –
covfefe hung there,
like a bad fart it lingers.


Reduce the Brits – take away their tea –
and Jaguar – Mini – and Wedgwood pottery –
All sold off – the last of British treasures –
what’s now left to make Britain special?

The Great British dinner – battered fish and chips?
Actually a recipe from Jewish immigrants –
The gold we hold in the Bank of England?
No – it’s ‘ta’ to Huguenots for banking millions –

Ah – nothing more Albion than our ancient royals?
Nein – migrant blue blood now long-despoiled –
But Punch ‘n’ Judy – that traditional beach farce?
Alas Italian – their commedia dell’arte –

OK – Saint George – a true Sainted Brit?
No – a Syrian son – with a dragon – illlegit –
Right – polo – how English – on the lawns of Windsor?
Sadly for you from the dusty kingdom of Persia –

That mothers’ ruin poured from gin distilleries?
Been shipped in barrels from overseas –
Pigeon racing – ’tis Northern – an ‘Oop-North’ fancy?
Nay lad – flown in by Belgian bird-loving royalty –

The Womens’ Institute – cake and Englishness?
Sorry – Canada made it and Wales repossessed –
That well-mannered bear – who as kids we well knew?
Ah – even Paddington Bear is a foreigner too –

This country of confusions – imports and invention –
is at its British best when admitting immigration


How do you mute a problem like Katie?

[Apologies to Oscar Hammerstein II, none to Katie Hopkins]

How do you mute a problem like Katie?
How do you catch a cow and pin it down?
How do you find a word that means Katie?
A fascist-in-favour, a will-o’-the wisp! A clown!

Many a-thing you know she’d like to tell you,
many a-thing she so mis-understands,
but how do you make her mute,
to listen to what you say,
being sacked is part of her bigger plan:

Oh, how do you solve a problem like Katie?
How do you get Hopkins forever banned?
When I hear her I’m confused,
ears bleeding and bemused,
And I know that she doesn’t give a f*cking damn.

Not Northern Enough

I am not northern enough
to be a radio poet,
not a McGough, a McMillan,
or a Normal kinda bloke.

I am not street enough
to holler as a slam artist,
not a Sia, Poppa E.,
or even Kate Tempest.

I am not black enough
to rhyme with the best,
not MC Drake,
nor a Kanye West.

I am not angry, outraged,
able to bark,
like Attila the Stockbroker
or John Cooper Clarke.

I am (Attila said)
‘the other poetry.’
In which case I’ll exult
with my southern dignity.

Miracle on Downing Street

Saint Theresa knows what is good for us now –
she sings ‘Hallelujahs’ and takes a low bow

as she cleans the feet of the blessed rich
whilst loosening her grip on their privatised bits

She’s touched The Trump – held the hand of God
and now she is saying Come and buy the lot!

And on Election Day – perhaps in 2022
when they’ve won again – against the too few

you might turn round and look back on this time
and regret the miracles you left behind –

the medicine – the doctors – the freedom to move –
the care for the elderly – state schools improved –

the future for kids – ours without privilege –
the rights we had – to stand up ‘n still rage

When the state that blessed us is sold for our good,
you’ll have no one to trust, except Theresa’s rich gods



Remaindered on Amazon, an unread tome,
that Tory horror story: ‘The Manifesto’.

Launched in Yorkshire (for Gothic effect),
a fiction, or future? You The Reader elects:

The monster, the creature, a clown called ‘May’,
rises from the drains to suck young lives away.

From the wrong side of the tracks our hero steps –
Jeremy shouts about the clowning threats.

Deaf to his warnings (of hospitals sucked dry,
of schools destroyed, of the old left to die),

the constituency of Hereabouts sees only May’s grin,
but you, The Reader, are not taken in:

They flock to the clown’s carnival show
(“the last clown lady was very good you know”).

But Reader, you too, will be dragged on your back,
as this horror story becomes a fact.

The Tory Manifesto, a cliffhanger for the kids?
Is this the future? Will they have to live with ‘It’.


As featured in ‘The Dangerous Globe’ HERE

Acyclist Now

I love the smell of Lycra
in the morning.
You know, one time
they had a hill climbed,
for 12 hours.
When it was all over,
I drove up.
We didn’t find one of ’em,
not one stinkin’ bikin’ body.
The smell,
you know that Lycra smell,
the whole hill.
Smelled like [sniffing, pondering]

[Apologies to John Milius, FF Coppola, & Joseph Conrad.]

The Common Book

These short-swiped days of instant history,
of unsavoury times, of such effrontery;
a meme we fed before the hour had passed,
then called upon as eye witnesses:

‘How could you renounce, so easily betray?’
‘How many times did you turn your gaze?’
Under cross-examination you may fall apart,
prepare your statement, commit it to heart.

This way we now live, screening all calls,
beholding our phones is the new protocol:
a covenant with our electric prayer book,
nailed in our palm, is the first place we look.

The Planting

Lancelot Capability Brown, sunburnt,
drives his yellow digger into your grove

and there, on the almost level ground,
he finds another hole for another root ball,

the third of his flatbed-dropped trees,
which ends up towering alongside

the horizontal swimming pool lines.
The new cipressos are aligned

by those two baseball-capped men,
who guide the next strapped trunk,

with bark rough hands, into the spoil,
planting, for you a marvellous reflection.

The Mower

He has cut the grass around Stonehenge
for twenty summers, end-to-end,
ever concentric, from outer to inner,
he pulls out blades with the retreat of winter.

He knows each slab, the Welsh-ness within,
those dragged-erect stones and the truths they contain.
As the mulch and spewed grass build high in his bin,
the circling grass-cutter is again sucked in:

His subconscious cuts to a dream-fixed rout,
knots him in whispers, which the stones still shout,
and so he is sliced, chipped, and re-worked,
to be the defender against the road works.

Cast up by the ‘Henge, as its final guard,
he has been armed with the last sharp sword:
the defender of Arthur, protector of Albion,
in the dream he fills UK Highways’ tunnel.

Under cries of crows, and missives of sheep,
the lawn mower man is then roused from his sleep,
that disturbed warrior wakes at his wheel,
to return to his mowing, because dreams are not real.

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam.

I delete another email
‘from Michael J. Fox’,
and his evangelist cry
that ‘PD rocks!’

And other such homilies,
of which my eyes do tire,
these in-boxed meaty missives
sent down the thinning wire.

And then I’m mailed an offer
to re-double my shit pension,
but the fuckers forget
this luxury that they mention

is only afforded now
by the lucky few,
the politicians, the unionised,
but not for me and you.

We’ll earn less in our dotage,
but will still eat the same,
forever supplied in old age
with those five spams a day.

Flag Stoned

The bunting had fallen
and strung in its place
long blown metres
of roadwork tape:

Our town had spent
all the developers’ tax
on wider footpaths,
which will now crack

under the weight
of various vans,
part-parked on kerbs
by the delivery man,

who will still take up
one of those lanes,
blocking the street
back to the library (again).

Ask the shop-keepers
if it was worth the chaos,
screwing the high street
for a developer’s pay-off.

Radio for?

Oh My God, ’tis Thought for the Day:
Radio Four pauses to pray:
Humphrys kneels on the soundproof floor,
wishing for news which he can endure.
Melvyn Bragg berates a humble guest,
mumbling mantras as he doth protest!
Archerettes praise the God of scripts
for an endless drama of juicy bits.
Friday’s Now Show, the satirical melee,
not Now The Final Judgement Day,
with Hugh (not Grant) and the other one,
casting those stones of comedy puns.
The Reverend Coles, as Saturday arrives,
says his prayer: ‘Please not Five Live’.

Alan Bennett, Sheep & Me

“The electrical things have their lives too, paltry as those lives are”.
Deckard. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

I am buff on the sofa,
with Alan Bennett (a weight),
I have turned him over –
he bears a wretched face.

I must make it clear
I’m not holding that man,
no, I grip his fat tome,
held tight in my hands.

By ‘tome’ I mean book,
no, not anything rude –
Mr B’s not my type,
he is a bit of a prude.

Yes, a real book,
no Amazon e-kind,
but the weighty covers
with printed lines.

Now my eyes are aching,
as are my bits,
and Mr B’s recall
are a dull diarist’s.

Once more to my bed,
to count ‘leccy sheep,
because late night reading
makes my eyes weep.

Claudio, No! by Gary W. Lineker

You came to Leicester,
a silver fox to our pack,
the grey Tinker Man,
whom we’ve now sacked:

Claudio! Claudio!
You got me to strip
down to my shorts
– my crispiest bits.

To get me there
you proved me wrong,
you took my team,
at five thousand to one,

up to the top
of the Premiership,
but then you got dumped
for tinkering with it.

Alas you are gone,
no more punditry pokes,
I’ll live with the title,
and ignore Shearer’s jokes.

My pants are pressed,
my abs are tight,
I am now ready for
the relegation fight.

Parents’ Bays, Waitrose, Uckfield.

4th February 2017

To she who mouthed an obscenity
(because I parked in a Family Bay):
I hope we get to meet up again,
as I didn’t get to fully explain:
There is no excuse for what I did,
especially as I didn’t drive my kids;
instead it was me picking up paint,
these days a much heavier weight:
the problem is my hands always hurt,
my feet are crippled, my strength is burnt:
Concession is king in my brain disease:
Hey, I’ll soon forget your obscenities!

Naked Killer Dolls

One could stand by herself,
being a Pedigree model,
but her voice had gone,
her real hair discoddled,

knots of locks trimmed
by nibbling vermin.
Two dolls from the loft
in one box, both hiding:

I brought them down,
as found, unbidden,
with rolled back eyes:
old toys, MADE IN BRITAIN.

From the same place
a thin negro doll,
but more limbs missing,
no hands to hold.

They sit mute and watchful,
reading us, the shocked,
with unabashed stares
and glass-eye looks.

We play tricks on the kids,
which becomes quite droll,
the unexpected placing of
those naked killer dolls.


The Doppelgänger

St Theresa sat
on Trump’s stiff knee,
to him she was
a limey Queen,
but in her head she’s
Thatcher’s clone:
‘This dame’s my idea
of a woman I’d bone!’
Perhaps the future’s
perfect couple,
they both agree
to cause less trouble.
off they go,
but he’ll dump her soon
in Guantanamo.

The Vicar of Newick

I drank with God’s labourer
in Newick, last night,
him without dog collar,
instead with a pint;
he regaled the fire-sided,
with joyous laughter,
as he heated over coals –
a forestaste of life after?
There stripped of his woolly,
sweated in the snug,
if Heaven were on earth,
his Heaven’d be a pub.
The last time in The Crown
we met up with Christ,
bearded, skinny,
a nice Jesuit type;
but that wasn’t God’s Son
who stood by the Vicar,
but a Nazarene-alike,
a slim, bearded hipster.
The Spirit was stronger
later on in the bar,
a quart of Jack Daniels,
over pints of Dark Star.

Last Minute

‘Twas the last Saturday
before Christmas,
and a panic ensued,
a present for his mother,
even though she’s so rude;

you dive into Smiths,
lacking Xmas inspiration,
you come out carrying
others’ foul perspiration.

Instead buy a scarf,
from the crap-gift store,
but such selfless endeavour
doesn’t bring you rewards.

You’re home, empty-handed,
so knock back the red wine,
after all it’s Christmas,
you’re meant to unwind.

Open Ebay, hit ‘Search’,
and find her an online gift,
Christmas has been sorted,
now forget the old bitch.



Mr. Philip Davies,
Shipley’s own MP,
always votes to deny
womens’ equality:
There are many concerns
on his To Do List
(his Ladbrokes punts
are a bit hit-and-miss*).
Now sat on a committee,
one which he detests,
I’ll wager he’ll reduce
its odds of success:
He won’t help Parliament
smash any glass,
instead he’ll get
the ceilings reinforced.

Rogue One: Review One

A sideshow, a bit part of the story,
in a galaxy far, far away;
never closer to any ending,
and Troopers’ aim, as ever, astray:
Rough Rebels yell loudly for glory,
with occasional laughs at their knobs –
lit buttons pressed too randomly,
but, still they do the job.
A gathering of weird alien species,
stood around their circular table,
future knights, again myth-making,
think the Force is more than capable.
With a cameo from a long-dead actor,
heavy breaths from the ever-buffed Darth,
Rogue One sits nicely in the box set,
big returns on a brand we all love.


Retirement Plans for Nigel

Oh @Nigel_Farage
you are such an elf,
a giver of presence,
but only yourself;
a true little helper
to Euro-wide gifts,
what will you do
when no grants exist?
Off to blow Trump
-with other white men?
KKK calls,
a new outfit then?
When you’ve got a medal
off Donald-the-Trump,
(for services to freedom,
and great sucking up),
will you retire
from your very public life,
with your chain-smoked-fags
and warm British pints?
Hang the Barbour up,
next to a migrant,
make your German wife
re-do your ironing:
sharp creases down
your best baggy cords,
and a lovely trip to Spain
with your Tesco Rewards?


Angry Santa of Tunbridge

Today I met Santa Claus,
queued up for the 29,
off to Tunbridge Wells,
he was stood quietly in line.
I just had to stop and ask
how work is for him now,
he replied quite sternly:
They’ve removed the sense of wow..’s a mad, mad world we live in,
child abuse… kids left to die:
I’ve stopped all home deliveries, 
in case I’m banged-up Christmas night.
I’ve now outsourced to Hermes, 
it’s as efficient as the sleigh:
And what’s it bloomin’ all about? 
More credit cards to repay!
I left him, stood there fuming,
grumbling, quite profane,
I’m glad I didn’t ask him
if I’d be getting socks again.

I’m a Celebrity

I dreamt Ant and Dec
were happily hosting
‘I’m a Celebrity..
Get Me Out of Syria’:

“It was tougher than
I thought it’d be,
drinking foul water,
eating what we found,
which tasted so sick,
but I am so proud;
my camp mates are great,
I want them all to win,
but I’m a free celebrity,
and their future is grim.”

She smiled in her moment,
prime-time TV,
whilst crossing back
to reality.

Advice for Jeremy, from Jeremy

Jeremy Clarkson
you are such a cock,
turn a new leaf,
read a self-help book:

The Thoughts of Jeremy‘,
writ by Corbyn,
‘Take the shit that’s
always coming’;

then no small foreigner
will screw your life,
if you see the world
through such alien eyes:

Next time you rage,
getting very irate,
heed Corbyn’s words,
and swallow back your hate.

Look It Up

Today some librarians
were summarily shot,
others had their licked-fingers

No fresh cash to buy,
no more books to improve –
libraries to re-define

Once places to search
where we pulled from the shelves
fat dictionaries,

but without re-filling
the reference sections,
truth will be left
to Google’s introjections.


Special Relative

Typesetters once did it
with wooden blocks,
but they used the wrong text,
now this confusion results:

They set out the erred-words:
‘Special Relationship’,
but should have laid out:
‘Small Useful Airstrip’:

Two countries separated
by a language neither speak,
and the marriage is damaged,
the special relationship creaks:

Trump puts us low,
dropped to ninth on the list,
when he ‘phones round the world,
to check who he can trust.

The Daily Mail will suck
on Donald’s presidential cock,
and Theresa May will kneel,
fumbling for his fat-dollar-knob.


Get A Second Life

Have all the Pokémons
gone to Second Life?
The streets are bereft
of kids mesmerized
by virtual monsters
stuck in their phones,
a poor excuse
to not stay at home:

Get out again,
you eye-phone youth,
get a real life,
it’s there to be used,
go catch a clown,
fools dressed to dread,
under those masks
the latest dick-heads.


Flying Rats

The flying rats circle over K.C. News,
roosting at night, dropping off their poos,

layering the slabs in a grey film of crap,
then off to the Post Office, to deliver more on that.

We need a Dad’s Army to defend our streets!
To patrol the pavements, with an eye out for shit:

Imagine the scenes, on Uckfield’s wide paths,
a platoon of pensioners blasting the pigeons apart!

Out of Office, an Extra

Last week I was
a film ‘body double’
for a big star –
us, both, irresistible.

For three days running,
sat quite still,
my ear were filmed –
this takes great skill:

I am his doppelgänger,
from the rear,
because I have these
film star ears.

I did sign up for
perhaps you’ll see
a bit more of me.


Allhallowtide & Halloween

With more martyrs to count
than days in the year,
they all got rolled up
into this ‘Christian’ schmear:

Another scam to buy
more shite from the shops,
(once just a mask
to hide your face from a corpse).

Wear neighbours’ patience
really thin,
your kids making doorbells
ring and ring –

those normally just rung
by Parcelforce,
and Jehovah’s Witnesses
(of course):

This excuse to eat treats,
and fatty gloop,
with the fasting for martyrs
lost in the loop.

So roll on Bonfire Day
with no pretence of faith,
except in the Gods
who’ll make sure it won’t rain.


Coffee and Cake

Sat down, Grandma,
Grandson, and Mum,
Grandma, huffily:
‘No point sat by ‘im!’
Grandson, grumpily:
‘I’ll be on me phone..’
Grandma grunts,
Mum checks her own,
and Mum reads out
a Facebook feed;
the tired waitress
tries to intercede,
placing before them
menu boards,
waiting for her voice
to now be heard
above that of Grandma’s
moan about stuff:
‘It wasn’t like this,
when we grew up!’
Mum, now bored:
‘The world’s moved on!’
Grandma, resigned:
‘When I’m gone…’
Grandson, buts in:
‘Can I bags your phone?’

A Clown Lives


A smiling clown
lives under my shed,
that beastly thing
your kids now dread:

His beery breath
is much more rank
than that stink
off your aged Gramp;

this clown’s teeth
are as equally rough
as those in a tramp’s
gap-filled mouth:

This prankster sleeps
in daylight’s peace,
he dreams of flesh,
to eat with chips.

OK Google

“OK Google,”
please turn off,
you know too much
’bout my choices in life;
what I looked at,
for how long,
it’s a dead-end relationship,
your snooping is done.

If I need a map,
I’ll A to Z,
navigate my life
with no traces left;
I’ll use a brick phone,
and Duck Duck Go,
then avoid Facebook,
or just stay at home.

Rosetta Met Her End

I never saw her selfies,
just those last few camera shots,
on her lonesome way
to 67P’s hardened rocks:

I’m sure she had worked well,
that little spacey probe,
but always doomed to crash
on an indurate comet’s slope;

a mess she must’ve made
on the speeding icy mass,
hurrah for humanity,
we’ve littered more of space!



Desserts of shame!
Cover thine chunks!
Your sugary delights,
they offend Mr Hunt.
Reduce your fats,
you obese puddings,
return to austerity,
to simpler cooking,
to ancient ways,
when sweetness was short,
the poor pot-bellied,
the rich pissed on port:
He’ll ‘save’ the NHS
by cutting it back,
and lighter taxes
for his sweet fat cats.

The Times, 30-09-2016

Baked Off

Bloomin’ ‘Bake Off’,
what’s it all about?
The Beeb lose it to Four,
then post headline pouts.

But Mary Berry
isn’t a burnt-out tart.
she’s sticky as sugar,
and will get a new part:

Perhaps hosting Top Gear,
now filmed in a tent,
leaving Paul Hollywood
to rub his beard and lament,

he could’ve done ‘Strictly’,
or, at a pinch, ‘Crimewatch’,
but he’s stuck in a field,
rained on, and ‘Baked Off’.

The Loos are Lost – Part II

First poem here:

If this were Lewes they’d start a campaign,
to retain the town’s loos under their ‘rights to complain’:

At the top of their list – everyone’s freedom to p*ss,
in a designated place, not in some parking space.

The threatened Luxford loos would be declared a free state,
by a clique of DFLs*, whose lives are deplete

of any purpose on earth, ‘cept lattes, and revolution,
(still regretting their vote against the Liberal’s coalition,

that vote of disgust against tuition fees,
meant swapping their Liberal for a Conservative MP).

Back to the loos – for ‘Men’ and ‘Women’,
the cold seats under threat from the Council’s scheming:

If this were Lewes they’d buy up the plot,
get planning permission, and build a string shop,

in which they’d accept the new ‘Lewes Quid’,
that banknotes’ ink made from recycled p*ss.

DFLs* – ‘Down From London’ derogatory Lewesian
term for people moving into the Lewes: also applied
to people moving from Lewes to Uckfield:
‘Downsized From Lewes’

Pooh Bear Did Sh*t in the Woods


My last poem
about David Cameron:
Sadly, ‘Pooh’ will never
come back again:

Off to ponder,
To wander the forests,
with his wife – Piglet;

Along the sandy paths
of the Algarve,
To plan their future –
not too hard,

Because, thinking a lot
taxes Pooh,
Unlike the Revenue,
who will still tax you;

So wave ‘bye-‘bye
to the short-shirted bear,
he left us in sh*t
piled up to.. [Go to first line]

Speech Therapist

With my therapist,
a genial chap,
we sit and review
my quality of chat;

a bit of a struggle,
with my stinking cold,
an incurable disease,
which has now taken hold:

In the near distance,
two floors below,
a howl of laughter
is loudly let go,

then back to peace,
as my therapist stammers,
r-r-r-repeated advice,
and nice bedside manners.

The Queen is Spent

She ‘leased’ her son a Chopper,
first thought – the Raleigh-type?
Spending several millions,
it’s a helicopter, not a bike!

In these days of poverty,
don’t pay her any more,
no longer to be trusted,
with ‘Sovereign Grants’ for sure.

Students borrow cash (to learn),
debts, a travesty;
no grants for the masses,
but one for Mrs. Majesty.

Take our seated Monarch,
and her Hello-spread-out kids,
stick them in a council house,
there to live, to earn their keep:

But there’s no cheap re-housing
for the Saxe-Coburg clan;
“If they cannot find a B&B,
it’s back to their homeland!”

A chopper flight to Germany,
to queue up as immigrants:
They’ll claim that state’s foreign grants,
whilst we’ll set free our kids.