BackwardsmaX

Trick or treats? A poem about Halloween (and sweets)

2011-10-28T05:07:00.000-07:00

Have you seen on Halloween the monsters roam the streets?
When they ring your bell do you know well if you’ll take a risk upon a trick or rather give them treats?

If you want a night of peace and quiet then heed the words I say:
Stock up on snacks to prevent attacks. For here’s the truth: feed their sweet tooth and you’ll keep the ghouls away.

Ogres glum like sticks of gum and vampires chew on chomps.
Grisly ghosts like nuts the most, while for gums of wine Frankenstein upon your street he stomps.

A lolly-ice makes Medusa nice when once she would have hated.
Bigfoot trudges for assorted fudges, so if presented you'll be prevented from being eviscerated.

Swampy beasts want chocolate feasts to eat back home in shallows.
While goblins mean like jelly beans and you'll get stitches from warty witches unless they get marshmallows.

Gobstoppers are Blob stoppers and cake will kill the craving
Of reapers grim from coming in with eyes of hate through your front gate along the crazy paving.

Poltergeists are fearful frights unless they get a humbug.
While impish fairies and werewolves hairy want lots and lots of jelly tots or they'll destroy your rug.

Fiery demons like sherbet lemons - you can't get them down in hell.
Give sneaky sprites Turkish delights to put a stopper from coming a cropper and prevent them casting spells.

Keep gremlins busy with pop all fizzy –or they will get all snappy.
I’m pretty sure you won’t like what’s in store when they break down your door and so therefore it’s wise to keep them happy!

Coffee creams work like a dream to stop trolls chewing faces.
Egyptian mummies like items yummy – and every curse can be reversed with just some strawberry laces.

Zombies smelly are fans of jelly – the texture’s just like brains.
Visitors from mars like toffee bars - there’s more to savour in their sweet flavour than in your warm remains.

So this time of year, for fear of fear and to still your beating heart:
Stock up on treats - evil loves sweets and you'll be fine ‘til Valentine’s when the proper scares will start!

Coming to Terms (Search Engine Poetry)

2011-08-26T01:18:00.000-07:00

Why...
Why is the sky blue?
Why is my poop green?
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Why do men cheat?
Why do dogs eat grass?
Why am I so tired?
Why do cats purr?
Why does my eye twitch?
Why did I get married?

Because of you
Because I said so
because of Winn Dixie
Because you loved me
Because I got high
Because you loved me lyrics
Because the night
Because
...Just because.

Note: The poem above was written entirely using the search term suggestions supplied by my iPhone. I have added the very first and last lines and decided on the length. Creepy how coherent it seems!

I have since tried the same thing on a desktop and get a load of different results. So this is a snapshot in time, personalised to me...why don't you try it too and we can see how it changes?

An organic, living poem that reflects the writer. (Or a load of monkeys in a room with Google rather than a typewriter...take your pick).

Walking to a wedding in Scotland

2011-04-09T01:20:00.000-07:00

I wish that this kilt were better built,
Oh why did I not take a taxi?
As on under there I've no underwear
And Scottish wind's ripping right up me jacksie.

Beneath all the tartan the dress code is spartan
But I should have just put on some smalls
As the hotel is miles and it's hell on my piles
Not to mention my frostbitten...sporran.

Baby's first Mother's Day poem

2011-04-03T03:20:00.000-07:00

We're celebrating our first Mother's day in our household so my 5 month old helped me to write this poem for his mum:

Here's a short poem to thank you and say
How much I love you on your first mother's day.
I know that I've not been around very long
But so far I don't think you've put a foot wrong:
You look after me and you take care of Dad
And you're the best mother that I've ever had.

You're fun to play with, or just have a chat
Whether I'm bouncing around or on my changing mat.
And when I am sad or just had a fright
You make me feel safe and hold me real tight.
You keep me all cosy and put food in my tummy
And I think you're the world's finest mummy.

I just cannot wait for the fun times to come...
And I love you and thank you for being my mum!

OK Commuter - a short poem about getting to work

2011-03-23T02:44:00.000-07:00

I try to refrain from going insane when I get on the train that takes me to work.

I start off quite calm with no malice or harm...'til someone pulls the alarm on the train that takes me to work.

From then it's a battle to maintain my mood at-all while we stand crushed like cattle not moo-ving on the train that takes me to work.

Then the phone babble of berks, the bad breath and the jerks all send me beserk before I get off the train that takes me to work.

Once at my destination I sit at my work-station with defenestration on my mind as I sit down to work.

But by the end of my shift my mood always lifts just in time for the equally swift train going back home from work.

And by the time I arrive I thank god I'm alive. Tomorrow I'll drive and never again get on the train that addles my brain and eventually takes me to work.

Love poetry of sorts

2011-02-25T07:38:00.000-08:00

For some reason I found myself writing 3 love poems this month ...I suppose it is Valentines' month and Spring is coming etc.

Anyway, 2 of the love poems are below so feel free to stick them in your Valentine's cards in, oooh, 354 days or so. The third love poem is personal and you can't see it. So nerr.

Share the love people.

(If you do use them you'd better make sure you tell your loved ones that it was me who wrote them or I'll sue you for intellectual property infringement from here to Timbuktu (unless you live in Timbuktu already in which case I sue you from Timbuktu to Woolloomooloo instead.)

Love poem no 1.

We're bound together you and I

Like cobalt sea to azure sky

At sun's first rise with warming rays

Of growing heat - just like the day

Our blue eyes met and both saw red.

From phosphor flicker to flaming head

A boundless bond, a spark that grew

A striking match - that's me and you.

Love poem no 2.

My feet feel their finest when firm on the ground

And my arms are at home with you wrapped around.

My legs keep me balanced and help me to stand

But my hands hold their own when they're holding your hand.

My eyes are good looking at you when you're here

A vision of beauty so fair and so near.

Your hair it speaks volumes in waves just above you

But my lips say it best when they tell you I love you.

My Albums of 2010 - a different type of list

2010-12-08T05:02:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again when the end of year best of album lists carnage starts...and it got me to thinking about my own as usual, but also about the way in which magazines and websites compile their lists.

I know they're great for getting forums chattering and getting hearty exchanges going - always a good way to warm up at this time of year - but I can't help but feel the approach of a "top 20" or "top whatever" is flawed for 2 main reasons:

1.
Who's to say there have been as many or as few as 20 or 100 (or whatever arbitrary figure you choose) standout albums in a year?

It just so happens that 2010 has been probably the best year for music to my mind since 1997 (OK computer, Ladies and Gentlemen we're floating in space coming out on the same day!) So why should anyone limit themselves to 20 top albums in this vintage year? Or perhaps otherwise pad out their lists to make sure they reach 100 records? If it's good enough it's good enough, and if it's not - let's not just place it at 97 in the list shall we?

2.
This placing of albums in order of greatness - who does that? I can't that's for sure.

Revolver vs Pet Sounds? No idea. I like them both plenty thanks. Each for slightly different reasons at slightly different times of day. And that's just comparing like for like. How on earth can you say definitively that Joanna Newsom's freaky folk is better or worse than Caribou's underwater beats? Where is the value in distinguising their worth if they're aiming to achieve utterly different outcomes? Yes they're both music, but I wouldn't compare a roast chicken to a chocolate brownie (or even chicken tikka) without thinking the comparison absurd.

Besides...in the best music of 2010, genre seems to be steadily disintegrating. Whether it's LCDs knowing take on Low-era Bowie channelled through decades of dance music, Janelle Monae's everything but the kitchen sink psychedlic pop or Gorillaz, Kanye West or Big Boi's cross-genre-guest-lists-longer-than-the-actual-track-list - contemporary music has become a joyous soup of styles and creativity (just ask Girl Talk). And it is, quite frankly, brilliant.

On top of all that, I like to think I'm slightly complicated. Complicated enough to have more than 3 moods, in fact complicated enough for my moods to have their own sets of moods.

Sometimes I'm nostalgic (Deerhunter, Steve Mason), sometimes angry (Titus Andronicus). I can be moody (Besnard lakes, Quest for fire), or happy (Surfer Blood, Jonsi). Sometimes I just want to relax (Hammock, Sun Kil moon), sometimes I want to dance (girl talk, holy fuck).

...And sometimes I want to jump around like a loon(Los Campesinos, Sleigh Bells) or listen to someone acting that way (Kanye I'm looking at you).

In other words, please don't make me choose between which of my moods is better than the other. I like them all the same.

So, now the extended preamble is over with, I decided to put my own list together this year of my favourite albums of the year.

There are no "Top 50's" or "Top 10s", in fact I don't even know how many records are actually in the list.

There is no number 1 album, nor is there a number anything album. However, I have split the list into 3 "Tiers" of goodness. Within each of the tiers albums are like for like in my mind.

Tier 3: Recommended
- Solid albums with about 60% standout in my opinion. (That's standout not merely 'good')
- I will return to the standout tracks but probably not the album as a whole.
- Possibly some clunkers on there, and possibly appeal faded over time.

Tier 2: Excellent
- Very, very good albums - 70-80% standout
- Will return to album as a whole (as well as tracks), but less frequently as time goes by
- No more than 1-2 average / bad tracks

Tier 1: Best of year
- Close to flawless to my ears
- either genre defining and/or redefining what genre is - pushing boundaries
- Not a bad track and I couldn't possibly tell you wich track I would pick as my favourite on these albums...
- Bears...no...demands repeated listens.
- Have returned to the album as a whole regularly throughout the year and will return to it frequently over the years to come.

A couple of points of order before I launch into it.

This list, broadly speaking, chooses release dates between January 1st to December 31st 2010 as cut-off points and is based on the music I have been listening to during that time (yeah, I know it's December 8th, but I have no plans - or money - to buy any more music this year).

Because I order music from the US a lot I often end up with albums earlier than they make it to the UK so many of them were on my list for last year (eg. Built to Spill, Dark night of the soul etc.), but I never wrote that list down so you'll have to take my word for it.

I'm only a sucker like everyone else. I'm not a magazine and I have a limited amount of time and money to actually hear these things so I've probably missed things that I simply haven't heard. I only got last year's excellent Fever Ray album in January for example. I have put another list at the foot of the main lists called "Right Place Wrong time" of albums that i missed out on last year or in years previous, or albums I never really gave a chance to in the first place and have been listening to again. Each of these albums would have made their respective year end lists but I was too poor, ignorant or foolish to have put them there before. Needless to say I'm digging them now!

Finally, this is my list and my taste so while any suggestions for inclusion are welcome (and I will listen to them and possibly re-visit), they're more than likely wrong so: nerr.

Here we go...

Tier 3 Close but no cigar (no order):
Flying lotus - Cryptogramma
Shearwater – The golden archipelago
Janelle Monae – The Archandroid
Joanna Newsom – Have one on me
Steve Mason – Boys outside
Girl talk – All Day
Besnard lakes – Are the roaring night
Black keys – Brothers
Tame impala – Innerspeaker
Quest for fire – Lights from Paradise
Holy f*ck – Latin
Working for a Nuclear Free City – Jojo burger tempest
Surfer blood – Astro Coast
Owen pallett - Heartland
Vampire weekend - Contra
Sun kil moon – Admiral Fell Promises
Frightened rabbit – Winter of mixed drinks
Crystal castles – Crystal Castles
Perfume genius – Learning
I am kloot – Sky at Night

Tier 2 Closer…a cigarillo in Amarillo? (no order):
Hammock – Chasing after shadows…living with ghosts
Deerhunter – Halycon Days
Kanye West – My beautiful dark twisted fantasy
Radio dept – Clinging to a scheme
Menomena – Mines
These new puritans – Hidden
Arcade fire – The Suburbs
Jonsi – Go
Gorillaz – Plastic Beach
Walkmen – Lisbon
Sufjan Stevens – The age of Adz
Caribou – Swim
Four Tet – There is love in you
Gold panda – Lucky shiner
Broken Social Scene – Forgiveness Rock Record
LCD Soundsystem – This is happening
Los Campesinos – Romance is boring
Forest Swords – Dagger Paths

Tier 1 – Havana blinder! The very best of the year
(Alphabetical order only):
Beach house – Teen Dream

Big Boi – Sir Luscious Left Foot

The National – High Violet

Phantom band – The Wants

Sleigh bells – Treats

Titus Andronicus – The Monitor

Right place wrong time - albums I missed before or have rediscoverd for one reason or another
PJ Harvey - Stories from the city, stories from the sea
Future Sound of London - dead cities
Fever ray
El guincho - Allegranza
Gaslight Anthem - 59 Sound
Mew - And the glass handed kites
Lamchop - Oh Ohio
Plush - Fed
Shallow grave ost
Black affair - Pleasure Pressure Point
Cymbals eat Guitars
Memory tapes - Seek Magic
Here we go magic
Spoon - ga ga ga ga

Poem for my Gran on the event of her 90th Birthday

2010-06-01T06:08:00.000-07:00

I'm going to pick just a few aspects of Angela
She has many facets - a woman most angular
And whether they be obtuse observations or much more acute
There's one thing that is far from dispute
That ninety years ago this very day
In 1920, 25th of May
A brand new bonnie babe arrived
To Bryan and Lulu and changed their lives
And ever since that glorious day
She's changed our lives too, in every way.
This verse is written for all of you
To tell her story clear and true,
From 1920 way back then
To here and now in 2010.
So if you want to know the how's and when's
The why’s and where’s then here's the gen.
And listen on if you want the goods
On the baby girl born Angela Woods!

First of all I'd like to field
Angela's love for all things wheeled.
Her glee for swift driving had begun
Right from the off during year one.
In those days it was absurd
For noisome children to speak a word
They should be seen, but never heard,
So as a baby she far preferred
To give expert demonstration
Of elegant perambulation,
A pastime full of grace and poise
And thankfully remiss of noise!
Sadly I'm told her Milsom pram
Was stolen in a ruthless scam
Once aboard a west bound train
And life was never quite the same

Then came the cavalcade of cars
Owned by Bryan her dear papa.
He had Vauxhalls and other cars from Britain
And it wasn't long before she was smitten
And since that day, like a bee in a hive,
Our Angela never lacked drive.
Whichever way life's road has twisted
She's been at the wheel, her screen all de-misted,
Pressing ahead, regardless of signs,
And heedless of traffic or speeding fines!

The next aspect of Angela that warrants attention
Is her skill in performance, which by extension
Includes acting and dancing and full throated song
(though in some of these suits she's rather less strong).
I'm told back at Benenden oft was her choice
To roam round the hallways full fettered of voice
Regaling her classmates in full serenade.
I imagine that she became quite dismayed
When a mistress's voice broke through the ringing
With: "would Angela Woods PLEASE stop that singing!"
But even this critic's hurtful tirade
Could not from her calling Angela persuade.
So she started performing from quite a young age
Before RADA training and taking the stage.
She was an intrepid young actress who took parts and starred
In RSC productions of the works of the bard.
When she wasn't acting or singing, Angela danced.
Her foxtrot and tango left men quite entranced,
So much that it was really quite cruel
To pirouette out of their lives and go back to school.
And now she's ninety, well heaven knows,
She still maintains those ten twinkle toes!
So gentlemen you'd better look out
When angular Angela's dancing about!

The third of her angles I want to report
Is Angela’s love of all types of sport.
She's a great swimmer - like Neptune's own daughter
Angela is quite at home in the water.
She'll dive off the pool side with a splish and a splash
And swim massive distances quick as a flash
And whether it's front crawl or breast stroke or fly,
You'll have to rise early to see her swim by.
From going to great lengths to scaling great heights,
Angela's array of sporting delights
Includes in her eighties reaching the peak
Of Machu Pichu with nary a tweak
In her muscles or even a sprain,
And I'm sure there's a chance that she'll do it again!

But racket and ball are really the fashion
For tennis is Angela’s true sporting passion.
At junior Wimbledon, with courts green and grassy,
Her service was ace and her ground strokes were classy
And it was only a few matches later
That Angela met a challenge much greater.
A stranger, tall, Dutch and dark
Challenged our Ange to a thrash round the park
But the sport of love beat her love of sport
And courtship took place upon the grass court.
His serve was fast her return was snappy,
It was a good match with the Dutchman Cappy.
And though the winner history cannot recall
By the end of the match the score was love all.
And so sport unlocked the door in her life
Between Angela maiden and Angela wife.

But it's not just sports of which she is fond,
There are games aplenty which she has a bond.
She plays cards with the heft of a heavy weight's muscle,
With poker faced bluff and plenty of hustle
And never confined by the boundaries of rules.
During the war she went to cypher school
Where she learned to crack codes over and over
In the depths of the grey walled castle at Dover.
And after the war she continued to train
Her magnificent and lateral brain
By writing short poems and lines of verse,
So really she must think this one quite perverse!

Travel and family is the last of the sections
And though that sounds strange there are some connections.
Angela’s tendency is to globe trot.
Given the chance she's off like a shot -
From Cooden to Holland by way of the Swiss -
Seeing new cultures is Angela's bliss.
In Holland with Cappy she fit in as much
As to learn the lingo and start teaching Dutch
After being there for just a few weeks.
If it wasn't amazing that would be quite a cheek.
After Holland Cappy and Angela went off to roam
To the lower Antilles and make it their home.
And so Angela’s travels went into cessation
While they focussed instead on the next generation.
She gave birth to some children, in fact she had four.
First came two daughters. Then came two more!
And the children all grew up sun kissed and happy
On Curacao island with her and her Cappy.
(And lest we forget the countless poor strays
Whose numbers were legion and grew day by day,
And whose numbers still continue to grow
With another dog rescue not long ago!)
And when the children had children she continued to trot
Across the globe and tend to the cots
Of her brand new grandchildren and help out their mums
By showing them each just how it is done!
And now her children's children have children (there's currently three)
It's become quite a large family tree,
And with a fourth great grandchild soon on the way
It seems to be growing almost every day.

But wait just a moment, there really does seem
To be some small method behind this mad scheme
Of growing your family and placing relations
In different countries and disparate nations.
Angela dear, your plan doth unravel -
You've scattered your family just so you can travel!

There are so many more things about her I could mention,
But to go on for pages is not the intention.
And frankly there really just isn't the time
To cover off all that she's done in a rhyme.
For how can mere words describe well the life
Of a wonderful woman, a mum, gran and wife;
Of an actress, beachcomber, a card sharp, a wren,
An ace on the courts, a code breaker or friend?
She's been each of these things and played a part
In taking a place in all of our hearts.
To love Angela is simply to know her
And for that and much more we each of us owe her.

So lift up your glasses and give a hooray!
For Angela Lenderink is 90 today!

My Wedding Speech

2009-10-08T06:13:00.000-07:00

A few people have asked me for copies of my groom's speech as performed at my wedding on 12th September. Hurrah!

So here it is:

First off, thanks to Jeremy for those very kind words, and the rather enlightening details about the new Mrs Moir!

And thanks to you all for being here. It’s a great honour for George and I to have you all come from far and wide to share in our special day.

Among the congregation of Northerners and Southerners we’ve also got a New Yorker, a Dutch dame, a lady from Hong Kong, a couple of Frenchmen and a family of Welsh. Which all sounds like the beginning of a particularly fruity joke, the punchline of which I couldn’t begin to imagine. Mind you, the night is still young, so you never know…

Sadly we also have a couple of notable absences. My Granny couldn’t make it unfortunately due to illness and my Aunts are stateside as well. So I’d just like to raise a quick glass to them to say Get Well Soon and Wish You Were Here!

So, onto other pressing matters…My WIFE and I have a long list of people to whom we owe huge gratitude. I thought I’d put them all down in a poem to try and make sure I remember everyone. I hope it’s ok and doesn’t come across like the Cadbury’s Roses advert or something…So here goes:

Thank you very much for the lovely wedding, thank you very much thank you very very much…

The moon was out, my knees were wet
It was a night I’ll not forget
Water was spilt and cloths collected
And marriage proposals were accepted
And that is how in January
Georgina Moir said yes to me…

But how did we get from there to here
From soggy pants to wedding cheer?
Well if I’m honest, clear and true
I’d have to say I’ve not a clue
I’m not even sure how my pants got drier
Was it the washing line or by the fire?

Everything today was pulled together
Not through much of my endeavour
But through hard work of many others
From George herself to... George’s mother
(And other people as well of course
But they really are the driving force…)

So this is our list of to whom we’re grateful
For making this day so truly fateful:

The biggest thanks of all is for
The family Ackroyd – my new in-laws.
Right from day one with warmth and charm
They’ve welcomed me here with open arms
(And I’ve been welcomed too by Jeremy
With a warming dram or three!)
And if that were not enough each visit
Olivia’s food is quite exquisite
Spring lamb, or cottage pie to boot
It’s quite a wonder I can fit this suit!

And all the time I’ve spent up here
Has passed with fun and such good cheer
That whether sunshine (hurrah!) or mizzen rain (ahem)
As soon as I’m on the London train
My mind repeats the same refrain
Of just when can we return again.

Thank you too for your restraint
By behaving most like saints
And forgiving me the use of my intuition
In proposing to George without permission.

And since that day they’ve worked without break
(Except for the holidays they had to take).
Jeremy’s been out here installing new drains
So the tent won't get washed away by rain
And Olivia’s been the whole event’s CEO
Managing things with the deftness of a pro.
In fact any wedding planners had better take note
For if a party needs sorting then the Ackroyds get my vote!
They’ve been calm in a crisis and brushed off any strife
So Jeremy, Olivia, Thank you so much for everything…I owe you my wife!

Thanks to Rupert too, my brand new older brother
Who at my stag-do out-partied all the others.
And has also since been outstanding in his field
Literally, right here just standing in this field
With a torch and beer beside him upon this very lawn
Protecting all the food and drink until the break of dawn.

On top of making our stunning engagement ring
Becky has also helped out with other things.
She’s been at Brownrigg lending her hand
To everybody’s big demands
So thank you Roo and Becky for doing all of that
And thanks in advance for feeding our poor cat.

Massive thanks as well go to my mum and dad
I may be over 30, but they’re still the best I’ve had.
My mum made my gorgeous waistcoat and yesterday spent hours
With my brand new WIFE and I arranging all the flowers
And though my eyes are untrained and I’ve never done a course
To me they look amazing, a total fleurs-de-force!

Thanks to my dad too for helping with the booze
Which he and George’s parents took a long long time to choose!
Over lots of taster bottles, much talk and…ahem…deep thinking
They finally found between them all the wine that we’ll be drinking
He also supplied our cheese cake, though if you please
More than a cheese cake it’s a cake made out of cheese.

So thanks mummy and daddy, to spell it out more clearly
For your unwavering support I love you both most dearly.
And thank you too Johnny and Mary – their partners in turn
From your support of both my folks I have a lot to learn.

Thank you to Nick for among other such things
Keeping (some of) your hair on and not losing the rings
And for being my best man and best mate to boot
It’s not long now til you follow suit

Now, You could search the world from New Zealand to Russia
And still never find some finer ushers
All cracking gentlemen, 6 of the best
Thank you for looking after the hosts and all the guests

Thanks to Rev Helen Mary for making our blessing
So beautiful and fun and not a bit distressing

For her spine-tingling singing, thank you to Claire
And to Diana and Carol for such wonderful prayers
Thanks to Al and Hannah for their loud and clear reading
You can tell they’re both the product of fantastic breeding.
Thanks to Kirk for the loan of the car
A Bentley no less, made us feel like film stars!

To Andrew and Sarah at Bakerwood
Thanks for all the delectable food
That we’ve sampled already, and are soon to eat.
(I can tell you right now that it will be a treat).
They’ve weathered the storm with lateral thinking
About the best ways to stop this tent sinking.
So thank you too for the beautiful marquee
Without which above us we’d all be quite parky!

Thanks to Jill and Martin for the loan of the fields
So that all of you lot could park all of your wheels.

Thanks to my new nephew Charlie for timing it right
And arriving here on earth in the middle of night
On September 2nd, thus paving the way
For my brother and Sarah to be here today.
And not forgetting my niece Isabel
I’ve never seen someone performing so well
The duties of such a beautiful flower girl
Iz – if you are out there please give us a twirl!

And how about our Bridesmaids Clementine and Cordie?
Such elegance and grace that George has twice implored me
To stop from mistaking them for a-list Hollywood stars
But I’m telling you as bridesmaids they’ve totally raised the bar!

Thanks finally to Clarence, our fluffy little cat
Who’s always around to have a short chat
With a quick miaow here and often a purr
He’s the best stress-reliever that ever there were.

Apologies to anyone that I may have missed
In our rather lengthy thank you list
It is most remiss and the fault is mine
But it’s probably cos your name is hard to rhyme.
But to everyone we owe debts either great and small
A massive thank you!, to you all!

And that brings me to my poems close,
But I’ve one more thank you to give in prose

Now, what was I going to talk about?...Ah yes. George! My beautiful wife.

I must say that for about a week her wedding dress was hanging in our room tantalisingly swaying in the breeze. Every time I was left alone with it an overwhelming urge to look under its wrapping would wash over me.

But I’m very glad, standing here right now, that I never succumbed to the temptations of having a quick peek as George you look absolutely stunning today! I don’t think you’ve looked better since the day I first fell in love with you.

From the moment you walked into the church my jaw dropped to the floor and I don’t think that I’ve quite recovered yet. If I start doing fish impressions during our first dance, please forgive me I'll just be starting to get over it.

Now, they say that behind every great man is a great woman. Obviously I’m no great man, but with George by my side I’m already more than half way there and I feel like I can achieve anything.

I want to explain to you all a little bit about what I mean by that, and just why I fell in love with my gorgeous wife.

Having been in the study of George of nigh on 4 years now, I consider myself somewhat of an expert Georgeophile…or a Georgrapher if you will. In those 4 years of study I’ve discovered a great deal about her and I’d like to share just a small amount with you now.

A few things hit me almost immediately when I first started stepping out with George. I was struck full on by how vivacious and beautiful she is instantaneously, but I also remember feeling an incredible warmth for her from the moment we met.

It’s impossible to describe (and the amount of pieces of screwed up paper I created when writing this speech is a testament to that), but I’ve a strong suspicion that many of you in the audience know what I’m talking about. Because if you’ve ever spent 5minutes in George’s company you’ll know exactly what I mean.

I’ve never spoken to someone who talks like George (and I don’t mean that she can’t say “specific” properly – it comes out as pacific).

When George talks to you, she really talks, but she talks about the right things…and more importantly she really listens to people. Far more than anyone else I know. And if you ever watch her in conversation you’ll see that people positively glow in her company.

As a result of this and her infectious bubbly personality, when George walks into a room there is a noticeable atmosphere change. People’s faces brighten and the whole place genuinely lights up.

There is an expression “force of nature”, well George, I believe, is a force of weather who brings sunshine into mine, and everyone’s lives. And it’s appropriate that after weeks of rain up here that today is so sunny.

At first I found this all rather unnerving, until I (rather selfishly) realised how well it reflected on me. Which got me to thinking, Georgologist that I am, of whether there is a word that describes this quality – this George factor - of looking and feeling better through your association with someone else.

I spent some time on the internet, possibly looking at the wrong sites, and asked a few learned colleagues, but nobody could help me. So spotting a gap in the market I decided to create a new word which I hope to pass into modern parlance with your help.

It's a word you can use to describe yourself whenever you’re feeling more confident or attractive or generally on top of the world just through being around someone like George. And it's a word that describes the way I feel right now in George's enhancing presence.

Therefore, I think you will all agree that due in very great part to my beautiful wife, that I am looking absolutely Georgeous today.

I’d just like to finish by reading a couple of lines from a poem I wrote to George earlier in the year which I think sum up the way that I feel right now perfectly:

The thing about love is that once you’ve submitted
You end up married or mental, either way you’re committed
Well, committed I am, and crazy for you I may be
But I am so glad that you are my baby
And now that you have become my wife
I know that we’ll build a wonderful life.

I love you George. Thank you for bringing so much sunshine into my life.

To my beautiful, wonderful wife!

Before I pass you over to my Best Man Nick (bless him), I’d also like you all to do me a favour. It’s George’s birthday on the 16th. I’m pretty sure she chose this date for the wedding so that I would buy her extra big presents forever from now on, but please can you all remain upstanding and sing happy birthday to the beautiful bride:

Happy Birthday to you…

Now I’m going to pass you over to my best man Nick who also celebrates his birthday very soon…It’s his 30th birthday, so please be kind to him.

Plinth Poem

2009-07-14T01:48:00.000-07:00

Here is my poem which I read out on the plinth as part of Antony Gormley's One and Other art work in trafalgar square (11/7/9, 6-7am was my slot)

You can see me perform it here: http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/Max though the video seems to freeze at about 45 minutes for some reason. Pah!

Thanks to everyone who got up at some ungodly hour and turned up to see me...you're all amazing, wonderful people!

Plinth Poem

There once was an artist called Anthony Gormerly
A world famous sculptor whose works had all formerly
Taken the form of figurative sculptures
And won him great plaudits from the critics of culture.
He's done huge bronze cast figures suspended from strings
And negative images in toast and such things.

He's asked children in lessons to make figures from clay
And arranged the small people of brown and grey
And placed them all, a hundred or more
Upon the gleaming gallery floor
From where these fields stare upwards unblinking
An army of clay both small, yet unshrinking,
Meeting your gaze and holding it fast
Like terracotta armies evolved from the past.

He's done a huge angel with wings spread out wide
Which from miles around can clearly be spied
A gargantuan figure that stands tall and hard
In the lands of the north over which it keeps guard.
And in Winchester cathedral Gormley has slipped
Another small statue below in the crypt
This contemplative figure is called Sound number two
And it seems to reflect thoughts both clear and true.
When the crypt's flooded the scene is perfected
With the man's contemplation clearly reflected.
In the water beneath him, like glass at his feet
Reflection reflected both pure and complete.

He's also done sculptures much nearer to home
Like his piece Quantum Cloud, right by the dome
(Or O2 Arena as it is now known)
In which broken images are somehow shown
In negative spaces which through his endeavour
Show figures and faces all blended together.

But the project for which our own Mr Gormley
Attained much acclaim and was received the most warmly
By the public as well as the world of high culture
Was "Event Horizon" - a collection of sculptures
Arranged across rooftops both sides of the river
Spread out in the distance almost forever.
Or certainly as far as your eyes
Could see from the street looking up at the sky.

The project uses artistic invention
To stage a remarkable intervention
Into the environment built all around us
That aimed not only to fully astound us
But also intended to make us all question
Our life in the city, our place, our direction
And help to connect the down low to the high
With silhouettes placed up in the blue sky.

This project that offered these questions to ponder
Took place at the South Bank just over yonder.
And could be viewed crystal clearly from here to right there
Which brings us quite nicely back to the square
And the work that A. Gormley is doing here
For the next full 3 months of this year.

One and Other, for that's what it's named,
Is Gormley's new piece and has been explained
By using a randomly chosen selection
As an exploration into the connection
Between what we are like, and how we appear,
What we find funny, or thrilling, or fear.
To find out a little bit 'bout this fine nation
Through the means of self-representation.

I'm sorry if that rhyme seemed somewhat frayed
And if these ideas confuse you be not dismayed,
I'll try to rephrase it another way
What Gormley is trying, i reckon, to say
Is that by raising the public up high
Through all types of weather, the wet and the dry
Continually for a hundred odd days
That we'll paint a clear picture, colour the greys
About just what it means to be from the UK
Our beliefs, our cultures, our different ways
From the sensible through to the truly bizarre
We'll discover both how and just who we are
A project about one great monument in time
To explore the unique and reveal the sublime
Well, that's the plan at least anyway
And that's what Antony Gormely says
But it's also a cracking excuse to see
People performing as high as a tree
(By high I mean up vertically
not influenced pharmaceutically)

So the stage has been set and the plinth is the stage
And menfolk and women of every age
Are stepping up to do their long hour
In this public venue, on this small square tower.

But what of the plinth? Just why is it empty?
Thinking about it there must just be plenty
of other statues that could stand up there
Churchill, Frank Bruno or the late Fred Astaire
Or how about Shakespeare, or Lord Conan Doyle
David Beckham, or Dickens, or Miss Susan Boyle?
Or even a statue of young Stephen Fry?
There's plenty of Britons you could raise up high.
It really shouldn't be too hard a task
just depends on the opinions of the people you ask
As to who they think would be best to put there
Next to Lord Nelson, north-west of the square.

But the history of the plinth is an interesting thing
For decades they've argued about who to bring
Up on this platform for the public to see
But still it seems that no-one can agree.

In 1841 the plinth was erected
As designer Charles Barry had clearly directed.
An equestrian statue it was meant to show
(That’s a figure on horseback in case you don't know.)
They had lots of funds, but it isn't funny
For when you run out of funds then you run out of money!
And with no money left they just had to stop it
And leave the plinth empty with nothing atop it.

For many a year, it seemed the plinth's fate
Was to remain empty, stay in this state
But then something happened back in '98
That changed this strange story and ended the wait.
The RSA launched a new competition
Which would result in the final commission
of various pieces of sculptural work
(Some since have driven the public berserk!)
But now at least the plinth has a purpose
And provides the public with a valuable service
By displaying exciting contemporary art
Which from the other plinths sets it apart.

So now it's Antony Gormely's turn
To present us with ideas and lessons to learn
Two thousand four hundred hours of fun
And this is my story about only one
Of the plinthers who is taking part
Just a tiny fraction of this work of art
So gather round closer if you want to hear it
It's a plinth, it won't eat you, there's no need to fear it!

But hang on a minute, just checking the time,
It seems I've a while left to finish my rhyme
So instead I beseech you please give your permission
For me to set up a brief intermission
In which I will give you a vocal rendition
Of a poem which I have previously written.

It moves from the subject of the plinth and the square
But it's still about art, set in the Tate over there.
So the subject remains significantly arty.
The poem's about a gigantic party
Set in that gallery upon Christmas Eve
With rejoicing revellers you wouldn't believe
Now the scansion is different, and so is the rhyme scheme
But I do hope you all will enjoy the theme
And I hope you don't mind, or think it unreasonable
As it probably is somewhat unseasonal.
So if you don't mind, and have some more time
Please settle down and I’ll start the rhyme.

[Ahem]

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the Tate,
The art was left hanging from the small to the great.
The guards and the guests had all left for the day
Said goodnight to Monet and gone on their way.

The galleries were stillness, a clock struck 12 chimes,
When a voice in the darkness said: "It's party time!"
And if you had been there, what a sight you'd behold -
All the artwork was stirring, the new and the old.

Up came the lights and some music then started.
Amazing the sight, not for the faint hearted,
Of a manless guitar both shiny and clean,
Made out of the parts of a washing machine.

The guitar worked a solo around Jingle Bells
And other strange instruments joined in as well,
Cubist constructions were dead set on their goal
Of creating new genres they called Braque and Roll!

A fiddler by Chagall then joined in the throng
And a chorus of portraits all broke into song -
Covering carols and pop songs in fine throaty voice
The night before Christmas was a popular choice.

They sang Wizzard, of blizzards, sleigh bells and Slade,
And though some of the sculptures became quite dismayed
When Freud's Francis Bacon started his rapping,
By the time he had finished, they couldn't help clapping.

Hearing the music coming in from the hall,
The Snail by Matisse unpeeled from the wall.
When he set off a-searching, the party to find,
He left a bright trail of confetti behind.

Three figures by Bacon then hopped on his shell,
Each seeking a ride to the party as well.
They whooped and they cheered though their progress was slow
And threw rainbow streamers at those down below.

Next came 3 dancers by Picasso's own hand
Jiving and grooving along with the band,
And if you had seen those 3 boogying there
You'd never believe that all cubists are square.

And over the scene of this rocking and ravin'
Were collections of lights made by Daniel Flavin,
Brilliantly blinking in time with the beat,
With Carl Andre's Forge dancing under their feet.

You may find this dance floor somewhat surreal,
Though Surrealists were elsewhere ordering a meal.
But phoning for pizza is often quite tricky
With a lobster receiver - pink and all prickly!

Round a dim lit corner, further from the dancing
Figures sat by candles eagerly romancing.
Under Christmas mistletoe it was hard to miss
The slow and tender smooching of Rodin's "The Kiss."

Further from the music and the cheery banter
Some of the pieces were writing lists for Santa.
Each asked for different presents shiny and brand new,
But all Yves Klein dreams of is a Christmas blue!

Down the same hallway were Marylyn Monroes,
Hanging up their stockings and striking a pose.
They left cookies and milk out down by the lifts
Singing "Oh Santa baby, please bring me a gift!"

Slowly and steadily, under the dim light,
The whole Seagram series then sparked into life.
A sight so peculiar, to imagine it's hard,
Those abstract expressions were playing charades!

Meanwhile a girl, dressed in a cloak and a bonnet,
Found herself a chair and sat down upon it.
Constable's girl giggled, as she watched with glee
The statue led procession of the Christmas tree.

And, Oh! What a tree! Twelve metres high or more
Was put up by artworks right by the front door.
As soon as it was up and the swaying stopped,
Gormley's big bronze angel flew up to the top.

Then far, far below, with that cold marble floor
Joyful lines of Summertime found a place once more.
Pollock's threads unravelled, so happy to be free
And twined themselves like tinsel around the Christmas tree.

Up on the branches warm light began to glow
While Degas' young dancer span around below,
And the massive bronze angel looked down from above
Upon the festive scene of laughter and of love.

Giacometti's figure stood pointing the way
To a massive table where the food all lay.
Roast turkey and stuffing, spuds, gravy and greens -
A banquet of quality, full fit for a queen.

Which was quite lucky for behind all those things
There was in fact sitting a queen with her king [Henry Moore]
At the head of the table where on plates they piled
Hot food for Dame Hepworth's Mother and Child.

All the -isms and the -ists most animated
Together found common ground, and celebrated.
Pop artworks pulled crackers, Dadaists ate jam,
The whole Christmas party went off with a "Whaaam!"

Forward looking Futurists can't wait for New Year -
They were toasting technology with glasses of beer.
And the loudest of all them found in that place
Was a large walking bronze - a unique form in space.

The great figure of Newton as painted by Blake
Was using his compass to divvy up cake.
He cut equal slices and then they were plated
For all who towards him had gravitated.

Landscapes by Turner of hillsides and mountains
Ate figgy pudding with Duchamp's white Fountain.
Styles from different places, found both far and wide,
All broke bread together and sat each side by side.

It's the same every Christmas, all that is arty
Gathers together to throw a massive party.
When each of the artworks has the time of their lives
From Tates Liverpool, Britain, Modern and St Ives.

I wish we'd time to stay with all of our new friends,
But I'm afraid our rhyme is now reaching the end.
So from the Tate collection, at every different site:
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!

So that marks the end of my Christmas tale
And if you are thinking that it makes a frail
Connection to the art you are seeing
Then I must say that I would be agreeing
With your opinion, but wait just a minute!
There's a little bit more of a connection within it.

It is after all, all about art
coming to life and playing a part
And surely, perhaps, what all of that means
Has plenty in common with these very scenes!
Bringing to life, and making ecstatic
Traditional statues both still and too static.

Anyway, that's the end of the break I had planned
It's time to get back to matters at hand.
I promised you all a particular tale
Of a certain plinther who happened to scale
This platform one morning and take on his part
Upon this small stage right here in this art.
A plinther supremo both brave and true
Who stood on this spot all caked in poo.
(It was the plinth that had poo on it, not our brave gent
I'm sorry if it wasn't clear what I meant).
So gather round closely and prick up your ears
For this is a story that might move you to tears.
Tears of joy hopefully, or maybe of laughter
Not tears of boredom, but we'll find out soon after
I've read you the poem, though I must confess
How you'll react is anyone's guess!

But please do stick with it, it starts kind of slow,
Right, throat cleared, deep breath, ok here we go...

[Ahem]

It was six in the morning, 11th July
The sun was up rising in blue sapphire sky
Casting shadows across Trafalgar square
Upon pigeons and people all gathered there.
Each person upon which that shadow fell
Had a past to proclaim and a story to tell
A hundred men and women [ahem], and a thousand birds
Lives each described by sqwawks, coos and words
Only when put together could explain the mystery
Of why on this day of all days in history
And all of the years in the future forever
They had gathered here in this square together
Star crossed spectators quietly waited
For the plinthy performer to become updated
Seen from above like a night sky perverse
Stars gathered and grounded, constellation reversed.

Why they were there then on that chosen day
In that exact arrangement, no-one can say.
But there they were of that much I'm certain
And they weren't showing any signs of desertin'
For they had come from places far and wide
Flown over mountains, sailed cross the tides.
Or possibly it hadn't been such a strain
They'd just jumped on the tube or taken the train
I'm probably getting somewhat carried away
In describing how they got there that day!
But nonetheless no matter how far
They’d travelled to get there (by scooter or car)
The fact is between them they had all got there
On that morning in London at the north of the square.

[Applaud the crowd?]

Some came from Bristol and some came from Slough
And some came from the city Glas-gow
(Though I'm told that in Scotland they say
THe name of that city a different way)
From Newcastle, Norfolk, Paris, Bombay!
(Oh dear, I'm again getting carried away).

Some came from as far as South Bromley
To see the new work by Anthony Gromley
(From what I hear by word of mouth
That's how they think it's spelt down south
The local gazette is mostly to blame
For a printed typo in the artist's name)

Anyway, enough of the people let's talk of the person
Who I'm meant to be reading this long windy verse on.

So out of the crowd up rose the crane
To replace the plinther all over again
And upon that crane there could be found
Our hero, our plinther, rising up from the ground.
Then platform met platform the plinthers replaced
And the crowd and our hero came face to face.

The man as he stood there gave a little wave
He was dressed for a wedding and cleanly shaved.
He'd clearly dressed himself up formally
To impress the crowd (And Mr Gormally).
Aside from that, and please don't be appalled,
The man on the plinth was going quite bald
I don't wish to sound awfully un-PC
But it would be Autumn if he were a tree!

Anyway, if I want to continue progressing
I must try to stop this silly digressing
And this frankly unhealthy obsession
With follicle strength and hair recession.
Where was I before being side-tracked by hair?
Oh, yes, that's right, the plinth and the square.

So onto the plinth up climbed the man
He'd no juggling balls or guitar in his hand
Just a man on his own standing up on a plinth
With no bongos Kazoo or Casio synth
Nor did he have a bassoon
or hundreds of green helium balloons.
All there was up there was him and him only
Static and still, silent and lonely
And there stood the man with receding hair
Up in his place on the plinth in the square
Just doing nothing, just standing there
Greeting the world with a smile and a stare.

[Long Pause!]

Well! At the prospect of watching this man for an hour
The crowd started to stir, the mood became dour
A voice piped up from the back of the square
"Hey You! Yes you standing there!
Since you're not painting or dancing or dressed as a poo
Please tell us exactly what you plan to do?
I'm really quite busy and I just have to say
If you don't start up something I'll be on my way."
But the man he did nothing and simply just stood there
Not moving at all and looking out cross the square.
"Come on please just do something, be a good sport
I want to use these binoculars I bought,
So please just do something, one thing for me,
Cos if you do nothing there's nothing to see!"

But hearing the plight of the girl with the lenses
Didn't bring the man to his senses
In fact i would say he stood even stiller
He moved not a single scintilla!

"Now look here young man" spoke another young gent
"There are better ways, I tell you, for my time to be spent
Than craning my neck at a chap who ain't moving
Just tell me what you think it is you are proving?
I mean what good is a statue that is so restrained
I came here this morning to be entertained!"
But the man he stood there not speaking at all
"Gadzooks!" said the gent "He's like a brick wall
Made out of stone, not budging an inch
All cold and grey surfaced, he's just like the plinth."

By now the crowd had started to bustle
But our hero stood fast and moved not a muscle.

“Come on sir you've been given the chance
to do something different, to sing or to dance
By just doing nothing you only demean it,
(Plus don't you know that they're going to screen it?
It's on the TV and live on the net
Streaming online through sun snow or wet)"

But the man on the plinth he didn't care
Whether or not the crowd thought it fair
And now the crowd's shouting took a different tone
They moved from complaining and having a moan
To talking about what it is that they'd do
Given the platform and an hour to see through.

Ideas poured like water breaking a drought
Thoughts, dreams and feelings flowing out of their mouths:

"I'd tap dance", "I'd clean it!"
"I'd say things and mean it!"

"If I were up there I'd sit and eat lobster
Dressed head to toe like a 50's mobster!"

"Me I'd just stand there and call all my friends
Or brew up fresh coffee and try different blends"

"I'd definitely move, and probably dance
If i were to be given the chance
Not like this chap here, I mean he is just lame
Just standing there idly, what is his game?
Oh...hang on a minute I just saw him twitch"

But the plinther was merely scratching an itch

And on the crowd went discussing the matter
Urgently adding more voice to their chatter

"I think i'd paint the view that I see
And auction my painting for charity.
It's a view quite unique that I'll not see again
So a pictorial record I'd make there and then."

"I'd put a plinth on the plinth and then I would stand on it"

"I'd dress up and then do a full one man band on it"

"Personally I'd just read a good book
Complete a few chapters and then have a look
Across the square at the scene down below
Wondering how long there is left to go."

"I'd pad up and bat up to salute the Ashes"

"I'd wear a selection of novelty 'taches."

No we all know that it can be frustrating
To be stood around just watching and waiting
For something to happen, some action to start,
But when it just doesn't t can break your heart.
So finally it all got too much for the crowd
And they all piped together and shouted out loud:

[All]
"Hey Mr Plinther, an hour may go slow
But you haven't got much of your time left to go
Please just do something to keep us all happy
Only just one thing, come on make it snappy!"

And though the plinther still didn't fret
Or even seemingly break a cold sweat
If you looked at him closely and with some care
Past his thin and receding hair
Towards his still mouth, then I swear
You could see the slightest smile just there.

Right in the corners his mouth almost covered
On the edge of his trembling lips it just hovered.

But from there the smile spread and started to rise
Moving right from his mouth past his nose to his eyes
Till his whole face was covered and fully alight
With mischief and mirth wrapped up in delight.

He shook with a chuckle and tugged at his coat
Looked at the crowd beaming and cleared his throat
And finally, at long last he spoke
With just these few words the silence he broke:

"I thank you all for entertaining me today"
And with that he climbed down and went on his way.

And just like the plinther that's all I've got
My verse is most over, my nerves are all shot
And now that my poem has run its long course
I have to confess that I am slightly hoarse

But then Sir Charles Barry would be delighted
That upon the plinth there had alighted
A little hoarse statue! (Though this hoarse isn’t quite equine
I’m sure the plinth designer would like it just fine!

So that’s it from me, I’d just like to say
Thank you friends and strangers for coming all this way
To see me on Gormley’s plinth and performing
At this ridiculous hour in the morning.
Right that’s it I have nowt left to say
Except thanks once again, goodbye and good day.

(Oh, a little PS from high up above you
I’d like to tell you dear George just how much I love you
Now the problem with love is that once you’ve submitted
You end up married or mental, either way you’re committed
Well, committed I am, and crazy I may be
But I am so glad that you are my baby
And now you’ve agreed to become my wife
I know that we’ll build a wonderful life.

And finally, finally I’d just like to know
If I can come down yet, I’ve got vertigo!)

FIN

Poems I have written about people you have never met before (unless you have met them before) leaving the nameless company that I worked for. (no 6)

2008-08-27T02:20:00.000-07:00

Poem for Jayne who used to manage me...and went on to pastures new.

It seems that spring is here again,
But this year’s forecast is for rain
And tears of grief and awful sorrow,
For when we all arrive tomorrow
We’ll find our lady Simpson J
To pastures new has gone away.

Oh, J Simpson what have you done?
You’ll break the hearts of everyone,
You’ll tear the heavens up above
Just like large hands in tiny gloves.
But you did it and now you’re done
You’re off tomorrow, on the run.

Well consider this a trial of tears
Among a jury of your peers
We’ll present the evidence before you
(And try our hardest not to bore you)
Through many subtle structured rhymes
‘fore passing judgement on your crimes.

So let’s present Exhibit A
In the crimes of Simpson J.
First I’d like to bring to light
Production’s misery and plight.
Jayne, you see, is quite a worker,
She certainly is not a shirker.
She has an early bird’s work rate:
She comes in early, stays back late.
Jayne Simpson- she is a wizard
She’d get books to you in a blizzard
She’d divert books to journeys lunar
If she thought you’d get books sooner
She has been known to outrun trains
And leap tall buildings has our Jayne
All to make sure SIIs
Are complete before your eyes.

Let’s move on - Exhibit B!
And careful if you’re sipping tea -
For I wouldn’t want to spill or scold you
Nor you to think I haven’t told you.
Jayne is calmer in calamity
Than she has a right to be.
Take the example of Monsieur Max-
His approach to work was often lax.
Creative were his filing skills
He chewed on PRAFs and shredded bills.
When Jayne turned up to manage him
Her chances seemed at first quite grim.
It seemed as though she’d lose her bottle
Break her calm, give him a throttle
But soon she knocked him into shape
Like a winemaker with grape,
And now I’m sure you’d have to say
He has a rather fine bouquet.

So at last and finally
Is exhibit letter C.
This exhibit is a shocker
It seems that Jayne is quite a rocker
There’s times I’m told, if I’m not wrong
That she has broken into song
I swear to you it takes the (Hey!) Mickey
The notes she hits are deft and tricky,
And that’s not all, oh yes there’s more -
Just watch Jayne when she hits the floor.
She dances like it’s out of style,
She swings those hips, she cuts the pile.
With a pom-pom here and a pom-pom there,
Jayne has feet like Fred Astaire.

[To Jayne]:
And now at last our trial is through
I guess it’s time to sentence you.
I’m afraid the case is open shut
There’s no defence, no if nor but.
So we sentence you to be
Doomed to spend eternity
(Or perhaps a year or three)
Working with young Richard T!
I’m afraid you’ll find parole will not
Be made to free you from the Scot.

So in my formal summing up
I invite you all to lift a cup,
And raise a cheer for Jayne Simps-on
She worked here once, but now she’s gone.

Justin Credible Brings Down the House (WIP)

2008-08-15T08:38:00.000-07:00

There was a boy named Justin Credible
Who only ate items inedible
When offered a plate
of chips and fried fish
His mouth just went straight
for the porcelain dish.
the mess that he made was regrettable.

And Justin just didn't stop there
For pudding He didn't quite care
So he swallowed his spoon
And ate a balloon
That was filled full of helium air

At which point he must have been feeling
Quite odd as he rose to the ceiling
His Parents of course
Were filled with remorse
And deafened by Justin's high squealing.

They found themselves a strong Cable
And tossed it as high as were able
Justin ate his way down
All the way to the ground
He even went right through the table.

Once down on the floor it is certain
He headed to both of the curtains
His mother had fitted
(And hung them) and knitted
From wool she had purchased in Merton.

And then when he window was done
As his parents looked on both quite stunned
He hoovered the floor
Of carpet and more-
Justin's dinner had only begun.

When Justin had swallowed the telly
4 Channels came out of his belly
Now I've certainly heard
Of sublime and absurd
But this TV dinner's just silly.

He continued on into the extension
Where Justin 's amazing retention
held a hammer, some nails
Antique train track rails
And his father's ingenious inventions.

His father you see had invented
Items that might have prevented
all world pollution
(Dad had the solution)
The Nobel prize he once was presented.

He ate umbrellas and jackets and balls
His mother's most favourite Shawl
Then just in one sitting
He ate all of the fittings
And fixtures to be found in the hall.

The hallway was now quite deserted
So to his bedroom he reverted
And making much noise
He turned on his toys.
His folks were alarmed and alerted.

And no-one was really quite ready
When he started to chew on his teddy.
It's certainly true
That it came from Peru
And Justin had christened him Freddie

His Parents they thought this quite rude
Said They: " Justin Don't toy with your food
....Or food with your toy.
Now listen young boy
You've got us a trifle confused "

Once all of the toys had been doomed
To be gobbled and chewed and consumed
For the Kitchen he hankered-
It's pans, plates and tankards
And appliances rich and perfumed.

His parents thought help would be needed
When our Justin had gone and succeeded
In trying to squeeze the
Fridge and the freezer
Into his tum unimpeded

But Justin's amazing erosion
Could never be halted or frozen
when he swallowed the cooker
Mum reached out and took her
Matches to stop an explosion

The oven it caused some congestion
So Justin posed only this question:
"Oh mum alas,
It's given me gas
Have you something for this indigestion?"

With the house now looking diminished
His Father thought Justin had finished:
"If he eats more than that
Then I'll eat my hat"
He exclaimed with a smile wide and grinnish.

He ate cupboards and blankets and beds,
The hat from on his Dad's Head.
Oh haven't you heard
His Father has words
Now to eat in his hat's stead!

All the pictures he ate in a trice
Carved them up, popped them in slice by slice.
When he chewed at the walls
Mum's look was appalled
She said: "Please Justin heed this advice"

"Justin I think that you ought-ta
Have a quick drink of some water
It will help you to settle
The wood and the metal
Not to mention the bricks and that mortar"

But Justin would not be distracted
From the action that he had exacted
He ate and ate
'Til well past eight
And the contents had all been extracted.

It might seem quite long in the tooth
But he went up and gobbled the roof
And though you might question
Our Justin 's digestion
I promise you it is the truth.

And as he had made his way down
From second to first floor to ground
His parents just stared
As nothing was spared
His hunger- it still knew no bounds.

Once the house was finished he roamed
Outside and ate all the gnomes
"Now listen young Justin,
You must just be busting
For you've eaten us out of our home"

"Something just has to be done
For we love you so deeply my son
But I have a strong feeling
That without a ceiling
Or walls then our life won't be fun"

Justin, with one final slurp,
Let out an almighty BUUURRRRP!
"Wow what a winner,
Mum, thank you for dinner."
He said with a chuckling chirp.

(now what can I have for dessert?)
Though all his things had been eaten
His father refused to be beaten
So being quite canny
He thought of a plan he
Could apply to their lives and so sweeten

All of their familial relations.
So without once losing patience
In a steady old tone
He got on his phone
And made some reorganisations.

Once off the phone dad reported
that he'd managed to get it all sorted
In a tone that was soothing
He said: "we're all moving.
To our new home you will be escorted"

So they set off in their motor car
But they hadn't gone terribly far
Before Justin had eat all
the rust and the metal
And they drove in the light of the stars.

Through a dark forest they travelled
As the rest of the car it unravelled.
While they headed down south
Spare tyre in his mouth
Justin's appetite still was unrivalled.

So it was with quite some elation
That they arrived at their destination
The very next morning
When the sun was just dawning
At a wonderful manifestation

Before them stood a house made of sweets
Of innumerable edible treats.
Ah! The window sills
Were peppermint pills
'Twas truly an architect's feat.

And As they approached moving forwards
They saw Fudge was the choice for the floor-boards
And inside the beams
Were strawberry Creams
And chocolate was changed into cupboards.

Atop was a satellite dish
Made out of black Liquorice,
On the roof there were piles
Of toffee carved tiles
This cottage was every child's wish.

Though that is clearly not right
For whether at day or at night
Though the door was a wafer
No house could be safer
From our hero's huge appetite.

Just then and quite out of breath
Came a witch whose face looked like death
She muttered and mumbled
And grimaced and grumbled
"Oh, hello there my name is Beth"

"Here is the house that you're buying
A nightmare it's been, I'm not lying
Those two little brats
Keep teasing my cats
My Goodness! They're frightfully trying"

"I'm sick of them constantly bleating
Whenever it is that we're meeting
'We've lost our way
Please let us stay'
It's them not my house that needs eating"

Justin's dad was quite sympathetic
"Even though our house was synthetic"
Said he to the witch
"There's now not a stitch
Since our Justin got hungry and eat it"

"But he's our own flesh and blood and we love him
We don't mind what others think of him
For whatever he's done
He still is our son
And we must put a new roof above him"

The witch could now see quite clearly
How the Credible's loved him so dearly
The frown on her face
was quickly replaced
By a tear that was loving and pearly.

She suddenly was filled with regret
For the children that she had upset
So she jumped on her broom
And sooner than soon
Found work with poor kids in Tibet.

Now His Parents can start to forget all
Their worries now J Just eats metal
And their house is not swallowed
Unless they are followed
By those pesky kids Hansel and Gretel.

And though it's amusing this diet
I sincerely hope you don't try it
(Unless there's no sound
And no one's around
To look through your window and spy it)

My Own Poem for leaving the Company...Hurrah!

2006-11-17T04:12:00.000-08:00

I've written many lines before
For colleagues walking out the door
Of Walker books when they had left
So why is it that I'm bereft
Of finding any words to say
When it's my turn to go away?
Maybe it's 'cause I lack the rhymes
To fully sum up all the times
I've had of laughter and of folly
(you try dressing up as Wally
In woolly hat and nylon jumper
In the middle of the summer
It's not much fun when after dark
You get strange looks in Regents Park.)
Apologies for that digression
But it left quite an impression
On my mind I have to say…
Now where were we anyway?
I guess I'll start on my introduction
To the world of book production
My first day in two thousand 3
Finds me smoking nervously
standing under a leafless tree
On a rainy day in February
There I was all full of fears
All green and wet behind the ears
And after a run in with a hairy scot
I felt quite under collar hot
But Kerry took me under her wing
And showed me many useful things:
Packing film and postage strife,
That life of proofs is proof of life
How to order film for printers
How pass time in the winter
In the basement with all the books
With just the sound of Canteen cooks
Flutie and Suzanne upstairs
Clattering their kitchenware
(you guys have my heart felt gratitude
For the ever increasing latitude
Of my belt-size and my waist
And I only went down for a taste!)
Then one springy sunny day
Came the lovely Simpson, J
That was March 2 thousand 3
And since that day she's managed me
I guess the expression is more looked after
For though there was fun and often laughter
I cannot have been the easiest person
To get along with that's for certain
Especially first thing in the mornings
Having our run-throughs with coffee and yawnings!
So thank you so much for everything Jayne
I hope I was never too much of a pain!
And the same thanks too goes to the rest of the team
Working with production has been like a dream
And I guess I shall list them all to be sure:
Nicola Linda Jane and John Shaw
Michel our director and then there's Avril
Who sadly can't be here for she is unwell
I hope you get better as well as my thanks
And come back soon to their weakened ranks.
Those are they who've been here since I
But there are others to mention, least have a try:
There's Katrina and coral and Gavin Bradshaw
Sarah, Alyssa, Ros and then more
That have come and gone since I first started
And should not be left out just because they have parted.
Kirsti, Paula Julia and more latterly
Richard and Kerry and Amy and Natalie
Then there's Paul and young Anna Redway
All of who left to make brand new headway
To all of these people I owe heartfelt thanks
(Oops…I left a name off…it's Tristan hanks!)
This listing of names is becoming a bore...
So as I was saying it was not long before
I managed to work my way to promotion
To production controller and all it's commotion
And since that day not a moment I've rested
For the job's Like a Doctor's- Your Patients gets tested
By sales teams designers editors all
Writing you emails and giving you calls
The life of a controller can get quite frenetic
So apologies all if I was sometimes splenetic.
Since I've been here I have learned oh so much
From Elise and Caroline- cryptic crosswords and such
From the various members of the Social Committee
-Planning a do in this lively city
From Nicola, Gen, Lorraine and then Caz
-How to write copy that really kicks Azz
From young miss Angelina
-How to sing like a ballerina
Yes I am aware Ballerina's don't sing
But Neither I feel should she that's thing!
I'm joking I'm joking thank you so much
For this lovely party I'm really quite touched
And finally From Beautiful Georgina upstairs
I've learned to keep schtum about love affairs
I'm sorry if I've missed out some names
Truthfully My mem'ries would not be the same
Without each and every person here
To work with, chat with, and share a beer
So thank you too to all those unmentioned
To leave you out was most unintentioned.

If feels there's so much more to tell
About my 3 year 8 month spell
And though I've given you all my thanks
Why does this page still seem so Blank?
Well, I hate to come off like a yob
And Start demeaning all your jobs
Since printing books is what we do-
We deal with words and writing too
But perhaps there just are not the words
To clearly make my feelings heard
Maybe there is no perfect rhyme
To adequately sum up the time
That I have spent and I've enjoyed
All the while I was employed
So I'll leave you all with words instead
That someone else this morning said
To me as a kind of farewell greeting:
"Leaving is the start of our next meeting"
So if his wisdom's right and Zen
[Then] I can't wait to leave...to meet you again.

Thanks very Much for everything!

Posts aplenty.

2006-08-01T07:40:00.000-07:00

I've just put a shed load of rubbish onto my blog. Mainly they're poems about Stationery and friends leaving work. Personal and not a little boring but you never know there may be something in there for everyone...suck it and see I guess.

Poems I have written about people you have never met before (unless you have met them before) leaving the nameless company that I work for. (number 5)

2006-08-01T07:37:00.000-07:00

Poem for Julia Roberts who left to have a baby. No, not the film star, this one is much better looking than her.

There's something going on with julia
A belly's turning quite peculiar
It's grown to an enormous size
I think she's eaten all the pies
And just when you start to figure
That it will stop, it then gets bigger.
And even though it still does swell
The fact remains she looks so well
Pardon me if you think it rude
I'll clarify- it's not the food
that's helping to expand her tummy
No, its a baby. She'll be a mummy
Pretty soon You mark my words.

(I always thought that stork like birds
Brought the rugrats to your door
and left them outside on the floor
But then I learned that the creation
of human kids needs incubation
for 9 months or so, or sometimes less
Or even more, I must confess
I've only had an introduction
To human forms of reproduction)

Poems I have written about people you have never met before (unless you have met them before) leaving the nameless company that I work for. (number 4)

2006-08-01T07:07:00.000-07:00

For Anna who is Irish and lovely.

Anna Baxter Irish lassie:
Open, friendly, always classy.
Often smiley, never formal
She can be, maybe, sometimes normal
Though I don’t intend to upset her
What I mean is she's much better
Than normal any other time
For further proof consult this rhyme.

Just what to say then 'bout our Anna?
She has a most endearing manner
A manner which leaves us all bereft
Once she's turned away and left.
I don't remember when she came-
For that my studies are to blame-
But when I got here and I saw her
I knew my life would be much poorer
If she decided to depart
And take along her massive heart.
But now that day has come our way
The day when Anna walks away
From her individual and sartorial
Take on all things editorial.
I can't believe it, force a smile
Swimming in Egypt- in denial.

Her hair is dark, the skirts much brighter,
This glamour driven copyrighter
Is the only girl who'll Accessorise
Her skirt and handbag with her eyes,
And brightly coloured knee length socks
You could even say she rocks,
Yet all the while this fashionista
Worked wonders with our humble Vista.
She's oft concerned with mates to boot
Telling all to eat more fruit.
Though to me this doesn't sit quite right
For I have seen her out at night
And when most would come a cropper
There seems no way that drink can stop her.
She's a machine for drinking wine
And come next morning always fine
(Actually that is a White lie
Sometimes she is not so sprightly).

Handbags and Gladrags quite aside
Her reputation far and wide
She's spread around this place called Walker
She is, you see, a superb talker.
Though Anna won't monopolise
She's far too friendly, far too wise.
Not full of ego and nor a flatterer
More a kind of 'What's the matter-er?'
Or a 'how are you?' and 'how's it going?'
'What you doing?', 'What you knowing?'
There always seems a kind of vacuum
When Anna's turned and left the room
To be sure she'll never be replaced
However much we fill the space
And when another is employed
Still there will remain a void
Of Anna-ness willy nilly,
We'll have to get the Picadilly
Line to Knightsbridge where she's embarking
On a career in Handbag Clerking.

One thought occurs to me before I finish
And that regards how to diminish
Anna's overwhelming passion
For anything to do with fashion.
She's a hard worker, rarely shirks
But how will Anna ever work
In Harrods with its many perks?
It'll drive old Al-Fayed berserk
For frankly there will be no stopping
Her dumping work and going shopping!

So a fond farewell, Hasta Manana!
Raise your glasses...Here's to Anna!

Poems I have written about people you have never met before (unless you have met them before) leaving the nameless company that I work for. (number 3)

2006-08-01T07:02:00.000-07:00

Poem for Jon Wedderburn who was a typesetter with a pony tail who liked the Libertines. (Some of which information might be helpful in understanding what I have written)

SO in our time what did we learn
From Jonathan of Wedderburn?
I know it seems quite hard to say-
He only joined like yesterday
Or least it seems that's how it feels.
Time you see, as well as wheels,
has feathered wings with which it flies
Something it likes, so say the wise
To do when one is having fun
As was the case once we met Jon.
First thing I noticed was the hair
Tail of pony (Probably mare)
Then the face, a ruddy red;
A smile and that completes the head.
And without wanting to really bore you
The rest of him you see before you.
I just realised that, when I re-read this,
It made him sound like he was headless
I think the passage seen above
Clearly shows the importance of
Jon's hard work on books we've created
Without which we'd end up decapitated

And though he left us apathetic
With talk of charlton Athletic
The rest of his pub conversation
filled us all with quiet elation-
I remember once more specifically
Talking with him quite politically
About: "One man's power one mans vote
How we should try to promote
A unified settled society
A happy Caring community
where we can live full free of fear...
Oh, you're at the bar? I'll have a beer".
Or how could we ever forget
His fondness for a cigarette
Frequently and through the gloom
You'd find him in the smoking room
I'm sure now that he is leaving
The smokers certain will be grieving
Though in their hearts they must be feeling
A little piece of them is healing.
(I've heard it said- it harms you massively
to inhale smoke, even just passively).
When it came time to host the quiz
There was little question the role was his
Deftly handled like a dancer
While Richard nosed around for answers.
No matter how he poked and jibed
Jon would not, could not be bribed
He was quite aware of the situation
And coupled with clear enunciation
and immunity to foul suggestion
He cruised the role of posing questions.
There he was then, our colleague Jon,
Now he's announced that he will be gone
And though we've barely met him
There's no chance that we'll forget him.
So To sum it up without confusion
All in all and in conclusion:
Thanks to you, our workmate Jon
Fare thee well, good luck, so long.
We hope one day we'll meet again
Just remember until then:
For this type of type you'll find no better
Type of guy to be typesetter.

Poems I have written about people you have never met before (unless you have met them before) leaving the nameless company that I work for. (number 2)

2006-08-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

For Kirsti who went off to study French, and film, and French Film.

On the 29th day of the 8th month, in the year of our Lord 2003
A sadness will befall us all from Alan and Paul to me.
When we were told there were floods of tears
We quite simply could not believe our ears
It was the sum of all our fears:
KIRSTI HAS DECIDED TO LEAVE!

So we begged and we pleaded for her to remain
To give us a reason, we said:'please Kirsti explain
Give us some kind of justification'
She said in response, as her explanation
'I needs must write my dissertation,
So I have decided to leave.'

We found it quite hard to take that she wants to go
And leave us for Frenchmen- Godard and Cocteau
If she's going to reject us
For a bunch of Directors
Surely she must (at the very least) expect us
To, without a fight, not let her leave.

So we planned and we hatched and we schemed and we plotted
On our notepads we scribbled, On our blueprints we jotted
'Til we came up with a scheme that was wicked and dirty
Meet downstairs for drinks, this Friday, 5.30.
If that's not enough, there's no need to get shirty,
As after for the Lav we will leave.

So we looked and we saw with some self-satisfaction
That what we had made was a great plan of action
So if you're feeling thirsty
Come say Goodbye to Kirsti!
(That's Friday, not on Thursday)
And perhaps she'll decide not to leave.

Poems I have written about people you have never met before (unless you have met them before) leaving the nameless company that I work for. (number 1)

2006-08-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

For Natalie who worked her ass off for no thanks at all. (thanks by the way)

There once was a girl who worked in Production
Who made the mistake 'pon her introduction
Of giving her name in all its entirety
To interested members of production society.
"Hullo!" she said as she strode through the door
"I'm here to help you, I'm Natalie - Moore."
And whether the pause, or through some tonal texture
Her colleagues thought "Moore" meant "Please give me extra!"
(It's a terrible thing we made such a glitch
We don't after all give Avril more "Litch"
Julian's not constantly having a Ball
And sometimes [not often] Fiona's just not Wright at all).

When he misheard this the canny John Shaw
Thought to himself surely I'll give Nat more
(Without writing it down then how could he know
That Natalie's surname had more than one 'O'?)
So he piled on the PRAFs with hundreds of orders
From Candlewick, Walker (and 7 from Borders)
And just as she thought he'd start to refrain
Four score or more would come through again.
So the orders came through and up grew the piles
Of film, books and paper, of proofs and new files
Until one Monday morning I just couldn't find her
Under the mountain of books and ring binders.
I said to Fiona: "Just where is our Natalie
I have to confess to not seeing her latterly.
I must say I fear, though I cannot be sure
That good natured Natalie must be no More"

But Natalie Moore was More and Moreover
It was not long before she began to recover.
Inside her cave of paper and stuff
She'd decided that frankly she'd had quite enough.
So from inside the mountain she started to work
'Til she reached such a pace as to go quite beserk.
The mountain it trembled and BLAM! it exploded
In showers of files date and colour coded.
I covered my head from this avalanche of paper
But she tamed it with the aid of some clips and a stapler
And as I trembled with fear and whined so pathetically
She weeded and filed them all alphabetically.
So even though we made such an error
Somehow Natalie coped with the terror

So Natalie apologies for being demanding
We hope you'll forgive us this misunderstanding
Personally I reckon old Shakespeare's to blame
What with his twaddle 'bout "What's in a name?"
A rose may remain always sweet smelling
But much more important is care with your spelling
And that's the Moore-al I suppose of this story
To do things correctly you shouldn't spell poory.

Now 6 months are covered and we have discovered
That though Nat's been covered she somehow recovered
In time to leave a clear desk behind her
She's done a good job...no...more like a blinder.
I think we should realise how much we owe her
What a privilege to work with and get to know her.
But later I guess she'll walk out that door
And our Sad department will be left with no Moore.
(That's Moore with 2 "O"s, not more with just one
As there's definitely more work for us now to be done).

On Losing a Friend

2006-08-01T06:53:00.000-07:00

Losing a friend is like losing an arm
You lack their grace and style and charm
Your mind becomes an altered vessel
and it gets much harder to have a wrestle.

Resolutions

2006-08-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

Here Is My List of Resolutions

Here's my list of resolutions:
To fight for peace, to stop pollution,
To lose two stone and give up on drinking,
When I see pretty girls- to hold back from winking,
To give up smoking- at last kick the habit,
To see opportunity and learn how to grab it.
Make sure I do a great deal more exercise
And still find the time to rest both my eyes
From the extra books that I will be reading
Whilst I'm out in the garden doing my weeding.
I'll paint my house from the top to the middle,
I'll learn the flute, the guitar and the fiddle.
I'll spread the word we should love one another
Remembering as well, to not wind-up my brother.
I'll split the dang atom, I'll walk on the moon,
I'll make a big effort to tidy my room.
I'll keep my lawn tidy with nothing but tweezers,
I'll fly up to Iceland and swim in hot geysers.
I'll eat soup with chopsticks, I'll write a bestseller-
A satirical thriller about David Mellor.
I'll be on TV before watershed
And not give two hoots ‘bout the swearwords I've said.
I'll feed all the needy, the sick will be healed.
I'll start making crop circles with rope in a field.
I'll learn four new languages including some French,
Play footy for England (well, I'll be on the bench).
I'll start making sculptures out of blue cheese,
I'll join demonstrations about top-up fees.
To eat lots more takeaways like Indian curry.
To once and for all learn how to say sorry.
To admit when I'm wrong- would it be such a crime?
Even though I'm obviously right all the time.
To break free of arrogance learn some humility
But to prove all those wrong who doubt my ability.
To strive to become the best person I can
And carry on learning just who I am.
All these decisions of which I have spoken
Will definitely happen, and never be broken

Oh hang on a second, what was I thinking?
Not a chance in the world that I'll give up on drinking.

Time (cor...isn't it profound...man)

2006-08-01T06:49:00.000-07:00

An abstract collection of seconds and minutes
that has no connection to life as we live it
but binds us and ties us and holds us within it
and blinds us from seeing there is no infinite.
Hours contain no rhyme and no reason
They cannot restrain the change of the season
Sunlight is daytime until the night falls
The watch on my wrist tells me nothing at all.
To prove how useless time is as conception
Take a step back and change your perception
And remember forever the lack of its worth:
For at anytime it's everytime all over the earth.

A Poem about my friend Spike (and his hair).

2006-08-01T06:48:00.000-07:00

Now the other day when my hair was shortened
I came to realise just how important
Hair dressers are in their pursuit
of maintaining always those hirsuite
unshaven, bobbed and hairy
members of our society.

Now I know you all mock me because i may harbour
Strong and sure feelings towards the good barber
I'll try to convince you, though it may be no use
to love and respect the man with the mousse
So here's a tale about a guy they called spike
Or A shaggy dog story, if thats what you'd like.

As you can guess Spikes name was his nature
And clearly his barnet was his best feature.
It rose from his head like some stalagtite
a beautious barnet, a hair raising sight
But then problems beset this poor spikey fella
that couldn't be solved with clairol or Wella.

One day when he woke and he looked in the mirror
he saw something frightful, his quiff gave a quiver
the quiver it slowly gave way to despair
Poor Spike he was losing all of his hair
He searched on the pillow, looked under his chair
But he couldn't find it anywhere
He pulled up his floorboards and looked out of the window
Oh where Oh where did all of his hair go?

After a while he gave up all hope
and for weeks and weeks later proceeded to mope
Until one day when just as he feared
All of his hair had gone; disappeared.
Then he thought, 'well why should I care
I can get by without all my hair
I was born without hair, and now I have none
Life it continues just as it begun'

But after a while it started to grate
When everyone mocked Spike's Shiny bald pate
And just like his hair, Spike's patience grew thin
So he sat down one day and had a good think.

Months went by, then perhaps years
unshaven spike grew 15 foot hairs
only this time from out of his chin did they bristle
Til at last Spike spoke 'Eureka!' and let out a whistle.
He Rang up his Barber and Made an appointment
Only this time he didn't need hair growing ointment.

The barber he chopped and he wove and he sculpted
One scary moment he even looked like he'd pulped it
But then at last when it was all ready
He placed the rug upon Spikes balden heady

Now Spike walks with his head held high
With great hairy locks pointed straight at the sky
Slaphead and spam he was once called
but that was then when he used to be bald
For now Spikes hair is larger than big
(except that of course he now wears a wig)

And the moral of this long and epic story
is if you're bald there's no need to worry
and if your hair it starts to get thin
then look no further than down on your chin.
A hair piece woven from your bristly beard
will cure all at once what once had been feared.

Do you like stationery? I do. Another poem about it.

2006-08-01T06:39:00.000-07:00

Bad Stationery Poem.

This is not a very good stationery poem
the lines change length
and it has no rythm
to speak of.
It only Rhymes
Some of the time.
At other times the rhymes just aren't very good,
but to keep you glued
to the poem i've decided to
surprise you
sometime before the end.
In the meantime
whilst there's still time
i must remind
you all that if there's anything you
want or need,
need or want
(change of font)
then let me know.
That's just about all I have to say
but i understand that since I was away
last week
Stocks are probably running pretty low
so let me know.
Time to...
BOO!
(did that surprise you?)

Another poem about a Heatwave

2006-08-01T06:36:00.000-07:00

We're in the middle of a wave of heat
When it all started it felt like a treat
But now we've had about a week without rain
everybody's starting to go quite insane.
Us Brits we can't handle the sunshine
if its out for too long you'll start to find
we start to complain and moan and whine
until there comes such a time
that it rains again
and releases us from the strain of the pain of having to complain about the
slow moving trains
tube like a sauna
dying flora and fauna
Ice cream stains
Wasp sting pains
the Bees and the Flies
the sun in my eyes
the sand in my wiches
mosquito bite itches
the posession of fans
sunburn and tans
overcrowded beaches
britain beseeches
you up there in control of the weather for the heatwave to end
(but please try and leave it nice for the weekend)
If we had wanted some sun and not lots of rain
We would not live in london, but move out to Spain.
(But long may it last anyhow...we've got to compain about something)

A Poem about Stationery

2006-08-01T06:34:00.001-07:00

I've been away but now i'm back
From Glastonbury in a plastic mac
To sicily with worn rucksack,
on highways and byways and less beaten tracks
But all the while one thing I lacked
Stationery.

I searched up high, and looked down low
From etna's peak all capped with snow
then In the sea, through currents flow
But to no avail, and now I know
that without these things life feels so
Stationary.

I looked up questioningly at the sky
I beat my chest and asked it WHY?
Though I might break down and Cry
but without tissues realised I
would have nothing with which to dry my eyes
what i needed ironic-ly
I came to realise with a sigh
was Stationery

And so at last I have returned
Into my head one thought was burned
And in my gut one feeling churned
Throughout my travels one thing I learned
(and this goes out to all concerned):
If you want to get by without being spurned
Or write up minutes of meetings adjourned
Or total up the cash you've earned
Or make a decision you have discerned
Or even get your Hair blue permed
You'll need stationery!

(The last was a lie if you hadn't guessed
But I promise i was truthful about the rest.)

Heatwave Poem

2006-08-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

Shall i compare thee to a summer's Day,
since that is what you are
You're at the beach? I'm on my way
I'll just pack up my car.
Picnic basket
thermos flask- it
holds the tea
for you and me.
sausage rolls and scotchy eggs
speedos shorts and hairy legs
tie a hankie- kiss me quick
forget the prafs from Candlewick.
Now we're packed its time to go
Start the engine so-and....So...
it's once more unto the beach dear friends
After all it's the weekend
There is a spot on brighton pier
I always visit this time of year
Ours is not to wonder why
the sun is bright in the light blue sky,
ours is but to burn and fry
like sardines on crowded beaches
the most contented of God's creatures
Forget the lessons that life teaches-
the Sartres, Platos, nagging Niezches
It's hard to think 'bout philosophies
when its nigh on 30 degrees
So forget about philosophising
After all the heat is rising
Just take one word of sage advice-
Don't forget to pack the ICE.