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

Breaks

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.

Dancefloor

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

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..

‘Ka-Oh-va..
fff-ee-fff-eee..’
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.

What Makes Us Special?

Reduce the Brits, take away their tea,
Jaguar, Landrover, and Wedgwood pottery,
all now sold, the last of British treasures,
what is left ‘Great’ 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, its ‘ta’ to Huguenots for banking millions.
Ah, nothing more Albion than our ancient royals?
Nein, migrant blue blood, now long-despoiled.
But Punch and 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 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 ‘Up-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 embracing immigration.