Sonnet 665 - What I did today, hey

A sunny day hey hey a sunny day
A mummy day hey hey a mummy day
A sunny day a mummy day hey hey
Hey it was sunny saw my mummy hey

A funny day hey hey a funny day
A yummy day hey hey a yummy day
A funny day a yummy day hey hey
Hey it was funny and was yummy hey

The sun shone and I went to see mum, hey
We had some laughs and had a big lunch, hey
The sun always shines on motorways, hey
Can’t open window then, get damn hot, hey

A sunny mummy funny yummy day
Banoffee, coffee, sticky toffee, hey

Slam the slam

Slam the slam
Slam the slam
If you can, well slam the slam

Can you…shout yourself hoarse for a smattering of applause
Can you shout yourself hoarse for the smallest of causes
Can you shout yourself hoarse over chatting and orders
When they order a whisky, complaining is risky
When they order a vodka, they think you’re a plonker
When they start telling jokes, you start wanting a smoke
Even though you gave it up, here’s something else you should
Give it up for the poet, even though it’s shit
Give it up for the fool who will never be cool
Give it up for this guy you’d never look in the eye
Give it up for God’s sake, don’t give up yer day job

Slam the slam
Slam the slam
If you can, well slam the slam

Some of ‘em are listening, some are getting drinks in
Some of ‘em are whistling, some wetting their whistle
Some of ‘em are pissing over in the lavatory
Some are sitting in committees playing judge and jury
Sitting with a bitter, thought judges should be sober
No wonder I’m bitter, got a chip on my shoulder
Thrown by a chap who is one or two over
The limit for lyrical appreciation
Be patient with these dimwits, grim situation
Be patient with these poets and their oration
Give lukewarm applause, not a standing ovation

Slam the slam
Slam the slam
If you can, well slam the slam

He’s done that one before, that’s all he’s got
He’s never won before, but he still carries on
She always takes the mike, but they always take the mick
And that one likes double entendres about dicks
And fancy her, yes I do, I’ll give her a good … mark
And he’s very loud and proud and confident
And he’s learned his lines well, obviously spent
Many a long night in front of the mirror
Practising each word, voice tone, posture
I’ve lost yer, it cost me a lot to get here
So let me win, the prize money will pay half my bus fare
It’s not fair!

Slam the slam
Slam the slam
If you can, well slam the slam

You gotta keep it simple and you gotta make ‘em laugh
He’s had a skinful, higher than a giraffe
Acquiring their attention’s a skill and a craft
Acquiring their attention’s a skill and a craft
I need to repeat myself, or I’ll be defeated
I need to repeat myself, audience depleted
I need to repeat myself, how long have I bleated
Time for the gong mate, time you were gone mate
It’s poetry in motion, flushed down to the ocean
I’d love to say ‘SHIT’ but I bottled it
I got the bottle, got the bird, what a happy ending
With the bottle I’ll get pissed
With the bird I’ll get a kiss
So thanks a lot, you lot, and suck on this

Slam the slam
Slam the slam
If you can, well slam the slam

Identities (one, two and three)

1. Me

identity is ‘me’
why am I ‘me’
what is ‘me’
why does it feel like this ‘me’
is trapped in this body given to me
when this body is me

2. Body

identity is this body
identity is this skin you can see
identity is whatever you think you see
whatever your mind does with this ‘me’
that only you see
which is ‘me’ to you
but not necessarily ‘me’ to me

3. Society

identity is society
a beat that makes beauty its priority
so sorry if you’re not pretty
you’re unfit to be with me
at least, when I’ve got company
you see, I must fit in
with what society wants ‘me’ to be

Sonnet 664 - Rain in the arse

My clothes on radiators, window mist
The rain we hate but need spoils selfish fun
The floor a magnet for dirt, hair, food, dust
No wonder the flat sale’s gone flat; no-one
Wants that. Plates placed for lunch at half-past one
By her below. It’s not just me then, in
A gloomy box. This room of socks all hung
In to dry, before I get wet walking
To work in them next week. My poor leaking
Umbrella, I miss you. Since you were lost
Last week on that pub floor, I’ve been pissed on
Persistently, tubfuls poured, kitchen sinks
Cats, dogs keep falling on my head. Hood fixed
On my new black anorak - bring it on!

Sonnet 663 - Alone

Alone in the house, all quiet except
The washing machine ending its cycle
And passing traffic. There’s only me left
They’ll be back soon. Till then what I write will
Pull unknown treasures from my deep psyche
Exposing exploring exploiting. Foes
Put to the mental sword - Blake meets Viking
Poetry that’s clever but more like prose
All rhyming and timing; how to oppose
This plague of indifference, how to reflect
Not what they want but my own wants, striking
A pose to make them all rise up in rows
A show of confidence people accept
Though swept off course by force from where they liked
Saturday 28 June

Sonnet 662 - See Nelson Mandela

Nelson Mandela’s ninetieth birthday
Frank Lampard’s going to AC Milan
The pollen count is high, watch out for hay
Seeds falling down and out at Wimbledon
The school barbecue, burger-eating fun
A glass of wine or two, the rain eased off
And afterwards. at home, some dancing done
Watched the Mandela concert - he looked rough
He shuffled on and off stage, aged, gruff
But everybody cheered him anyway
Perhaps they naively assume one man
Can really change the world, though not enough
In fact, apartheid had just had its day
But well done Nelson, applause for the man
Friday 27 June

Sonnet 661 - Giggin' in Wigan

Been giggin’ in Wigan, where to begin
A friggin’ long way but with cig in hand
Been diggin’ out some old and new writin’
Deliverin’ at the microphone stand
My memorisin’ went roughly as planned
But while some lines loomed big in memory
Some piggin’ slipped from view, they weren’t so grand
So swiggin’ on a beer and on coffee
I took my notes on stage, triggerin’ me
For me it was a big ’un, in Wigan
Began my set, though wet from rainfall, and
Got a big hand considerin’… My plea
Is guilty, I’m not big in this giggin’
Thing, but thanks Wigan, poetry and pie land

Fun Fun Fun (by Andy N)

A Short Play By (Margaret) Beckett

Sonnet 660 - A simpleton's guide to Wimbledon

Been thinking of betting on Wimbledon
Made a few quid when I did this last year
Less shocks than in soccer’s European
Championship; dead sure with Federer
Nadal and co, not at all risky there
The Serbian ladies serve and hit volleys
Their title prospects are beyond compare
A little picture confirmed this to me
No Henman to cheer on, only Murray
And I’m sorry but he’s so very glum
Some will have won sets before sunset’s here
But the symbol of Wimbledon for me?
Gals and fellas hold umbrellas, while on
The Centre Court covers are brought. Nightmare

Sonnet 659 - No kidding

An update on my kids’ progress so far
My eldest daughter’s an Oxford student
Tonight we meet and eat down at Pizza
Express to chat before her summer’s spent
Au pairing in France; it seems she’s long meant
To live in Paris when she graduates
My son leaves school this month, and he’s intent
On studying film-making. He can’t wait
To move to London. He anticipates
Working in LA one day; screenwriter
His chosen trade. My youngest, she first went
To school last September; she’s doing great
So many parties; she's so popular
Her arts and language skills are excellent

Sonnet 658 - God Save Mugabe (by the Pistols)

Mugabe mug shots fill the TV news
Mugabe thugs shoot to kill in village
Or beat them up with metal bars because
Inflation eats up money in rampage
And nation can’t afford bullets. Damage
Must be done on cheap. Gored gullets, hacked off
Limbs, acts of lust by sons out on forage
For things for their mums and siblings, real soft
Hearted Zimbabweans, family and stuff
The rest of them. Mugabe men abuse
Mugabe men eat well and they manage
MDC men go hungry, it is tough
But their fault for their angry nasty views
Mugabe mighty warrior, pay homage

The word birds

A word is a bird that opens its mouth to sing and then keeps ringing through the night
It’s heard when you’re lying in bed, all uptight, as her once-kissed mouth keeps stinging you
You’ve swallowed books by the truckload, and you’re wanting to follow on where egos dare
But one swallow doesn’t make a stunner, just a punner, come on, won’t someone please look

At words you heard when climbing trees, or when unheard-of diseases spotted you
When feather-light you flew, leaving the grieving branches of parental arms
Floating through air, down there’s your body, see the stares, anxious looks from the doc
Who leaves but like dock leaves takes away death’s sting, bringing you back down again

Attention must be paid to centuries of wordsong marching in straight lines
Like Roman roads now papered over, start on the left and head to the right
Left right left right singing centurions, their homesick writing’s on the Wall
Of Hadrian, on each page the ages sent us, lent us, until the final flight

From British shores to darker worlds, each verse foretells migration in reverse
And songs to which we sang along and still do though mildew spills on each clause
The keen eyes and sharp claws, the talons and the tearing beak sharing, each week
The squirming worms of normality, those germs now forming talented word food

The precious proteins of each vicious voting in favour of the status quo
The obscene feathered beds of the birds who flock together, whether right or might
They might seem to mock, they fly first class, suck you into their turning engine blades
This vulturous brood is your sulphurous food for thought over who you’ve fought to be heard

The word bird’s a flying chameleon, a helium-filled balloon, a steely jet
That Stelios won’t find easy, not always orange, not always cheap or popular
It takes you there directly, it delays, goes all ways, feelings may be upset
If you sit and wait you’ll get served at Waterstones or airport shops before you’ve flown

You must be patient at these terminals, where Naomi Campbells are unwelcome
Interminable sermons burden minds, but flying words lift and broaden
Soaring with sheer abandon, seeing all without fear of falling, calling so
They hear in the fields below and then they know, as they sow their meal, that you feel

As they feel, as they read into your wordsong that they belong to a time and to a place
And to all time and space, stretched out on a page, each section reflecting their thought
Connections are made between living and dead, between those who wrote and between those who read
And even with those who rose and fell long before their wordy wings evolved at all

The furry feather falls, the birdmeat eaten by worms in terminal revenge
Ironic that each supersonic superstar must stoop so far, but we learn
And burn before some group of hunters shoots us down to put down for the chicks
To come some semblance of our song, stay strong for long enough to fix a nest

On sun-kissed treetops, blue mountains in view, and friends who flock this way and that
The thunder threatens some days, come under wordy wings where you’ll be safe and sound
Echoes of songs rebounding and confounding the short brutalities of life
And so, recovering what was let go, let’s go and smother the world with flows

With torrents of clean beauty whatever weather, whether you see meaning or not
The streaming of your songs, the dreaming of the flute, pursuit in feathered ranks
Formed into phalanxes, flying to future feeding grounds, we’re bound to be
Stronger together, word birds, you heard it first, as one we burst into the setting sun

Sonnet 657 - Euro KO

Is anyone betting on the Euro’s?
(OK, I know there’s no apostrophe)
If you have been, you’ve got a bloody nose
What with surprise wins by Russia, Turkey
And tonight either Spain or Italy
Will join them in the quarters. Now don’t bet
Against Italy’s what would normally
Be said (or against Germany), but let’s
See if Spain can remain. The eastern set
Are so strong now, in Eurovision shows
At tennis, now football too. Putin, he’s
Been puttin’ something in their tea. Nyet, nyet
It’s just that they compete better, I s’pose
Our sport history’s short on victories

Sonnet 656 - Estate agent blues in A flat

I can’t sell my flat, you can’t sell your house
Still stuck in Salford. That might sound like hell
To some maybe, but not me, coz I’m close
To my workplace. No, can’t afford petrol
These days, can we? So I did very well
To buy that flat, the one that I can’t sell
But the plan’s still to sell, and yours as well
And buy together a detached house. All
Well and good as a plan except the hell
Of driving into Manchester with those
Unfortunate others, all nose to tail
All paying the congestion charge as well
No, I can’t sell my flat but I suppose
I’ll save money each month that I don’t sell

Sonnet 655 - Roast Croatia

I’m winding down at the end of the week
When what do I see? Turkey / Croatia
The English players should watch this and weep
They couldn’t have equalised or won a
Penalty shoot-out under that pressure
Rustu the goalkeeper is a hero
He saved two out of three though his howler
Had only shortly before seemed to sow
The seeds of defeat, but in their last go
Turkey drew level. Feelings hit their peak
With fans of both sides in hysteria
The lottery of spot-kicks always so
Dramatic, heroes turning villain. Bleak
Evening for Croats. But for Turks… Hurrah!

Sonnet 654 - No fun

Another night when I stood up to speak
Though slightly pissed on Budvar and Theakstons
And now it’s Thursday night, another week
Of Question Time, and thank God the questions
Are questioning the Aghan war, where sons
And daughters are dying to protect what?
What is it that they’re blown up for by bombs
Planted at the roadside where they are not
Welcome, and where their blood will never clot
Ask Blair, ask Bush, ask God; don’t ask the weak
The poor, uneducated, trusting ones
Putting necks on the front line. Now I’ve got
To stop, because Germany really seek
To knock Portugal out. This isn’t fun.

Sonnet 653 - Slammed

The slam went badly, oh, maybe I am
Not very good, not as good as those guys
Who have perfected their persona, bam!
It’s all an act, their persons in disguise
An act with funny voices and the eyes
Connecting with the drunk folk here and there
And if you’re northern, then it seems the prize
Is easier. What if you’re from nowhere
Then you don’t fit in. When you’re in the glare
And if you’ve not rehearsed, then you’ll be slammed
Never mind, it’s experience. I’m wise
After the event, the wit of the stair-
Case. Anyway, tomorrow night I am
Performing again, dodging custard pies.

Sonnet 652 - Au revoir, mes amis

Oh dear. Poor old France. It’s all going wrong
Ever since Zinedine Zidane’s head-butt
They’ve been dans la merde, suddenly off-song
And now the Champs Elysee’s gates are shut
Sarkozy’s feeling dozy, in a rut
And Platini’s plateaued quite patently
The European Championship’s not got
The French in it much longer. C’est la vie.
Unless in the second half, like Turkey
The French find va va voom, and before long
The golden generation is kaput
La belle epoque is indeed history
But when the tolls of Notre Dame are rung
Les bleus will no longer have made the cut

Northern Slam Suite

1. The Ballad of Jeremy Kyle

I’ll get up in a while
And watch Jeremy Kyle
But till ’e comes on I’ll

Tie ya to the bed
And beat ya round the ’ead
Then I’ll do it to our kid
The one who’s never fed

The one that we don’t like
The one without a bike
I wish she’d take a hike
Fall on a rusty spike

Jezza Kyle is a god
His show’s so fuckin’ good
Ee’s ’ad on all the odd
Fuckers in the neighbour’ood

I ’eard ya get free drinks
En suite ’otel room stinks
When you piss in the sinks
That’s what me mate thinks

Poor ole Jeremy
’Is mates call ’im Kylie
Let’s light up while ’ee
Gives us smiley

Faces at breakfast
Comedy at its best
But then the rest
Of daytime TV’s SHITE!!!


2. Don’t fuckin’ swear at me

Well I don’t really see why I should be polite
You sit there swearin’ all through the night
In front of the kids who should be in bed
When they’re in the ’ouse, when they’re not off their ’ead

Who gives ’em money for the booze and cigs
They’ve stolen more stuff than Ronnie Biggs
You swear at me an’ you swear at the police
You even ’it the ’eadmaster on the knees

Wiv a baseball bat for sayin’ our Arron
Was excluded - you’re not a good parent
You should be a role model to our boys
Instead of showin’ ’em all yer sex toys

Don’t fuckin’ swear at me? Just do one
Fuck off to rehab, or to the zoo on
Lion-feedin’ duty, and jump in the cage
Go topless dancin’ on a reinforced stage

Don’t fuckin’ swear at me? Pot kettle black
You’re one to talk, you deserve a smack
Not your kind of smack, no lines of coke
If I ’ad me way, you wouldn’t even smoke

Don’t fuckin’ swear at me? Why the fuck not
Your ’eart’s not on your sleeve, it’s too full of snot
You’re so fat you broke the chair, and the bed too
I’m spendin’ all me time down at B & Q

Don’t fuckin’ swear at me? You can fuck off
The only cocktail you need is a Molotov
You’re beyond ’elp, an’ so’s your brood
So don’t fuckin’ tell me not to be rude



3. In the mood

I’m in the mood
To be rude
So let’s get nude

If music be the food of love
Play
Bohemian Rhapsody
Stairway to Heaven
Beethoven’s symphonies
One to eleven
All Dylan’s output
And the Rolling Stones
Let’s not go out much
Let’s stay at home
Like Glenn Miller
I’m in the mood
I’ve a stocking filler
So don’t be a prude

And when we’ve got ourselves a lovely big brood
I’ll say
SEE YA!

The not so gay Gordons

Go in the name
Of Gord
Remember Culloden and the Lothian Question
Devolution my arse
Oil prices are a fuckin’ farce
Not to mention

Bush’s visit, and inviting Maggie
Round for tea, hoping for reflected glory
Oh my Gord
Why don’t you just do 1 from 10 and let Miliband in
New blood, without your fishy breathing in

Sonnet 651 - Scary library

Be wary in your local library
You never know who you might see in there
Some read the papers, and some seem to be
Sheltering from the rain, while some just stare
Don’t come too close, or come close if you dare
Their eyes summarising their lonely fear
Surprising you as you look everywhere
Around each corner, down each aisle. Ah, here
Are those ten year old videos. To clear,
Some dog-eared hardbacks and some scratched CDs
By Britney Spears and the soundtrack from ‘Hair’
DVDs on how to reduce your rear
Travel and war books, not much poetry
Make sure you book time on the computer

Let's look through ... the suburban window

Blurred vision refocused
angelic harps silenced
by rattling vans on uneven tarmac
hurtling buses between stops
chattering birds with their young studs
red-faced dears, grandmotherhood
grazing in the corner shop, not much left
one-armed man, newspaper under stump
ex-dog-walker without his dog
large girl never smiles, always walks by
leather jacket bloke, so does he
all have issues, common ground

Iron age man found on the common
barbarism began close to home
in the peat, in the loam
twittering birds, shitting dogs
old couples chatting time away
sitting on obituary benches
as kids laugh at the clucking ducks

Clenched fists, noisy fucking kids
pissing in the street, and me off
racists, must be from other places
some money round here, you know
ex-Posh and Becks, Alex and Kerry
and others who could write
their own autobiographies
lawyers, accountants
even me
now how did I get here
oh yes, by taxi

Just do it, or Five aspects of indecision

1. Don’t think
at least I think not

sloughs of despond
and quagmires clog
the mind of
the thinker

therefore I am

responding to instinct
avoiding stagnant ponds


2. Don’t blink
- get in the right spot

here it comes
all rise
I rise highest
eyes on the prize, and
in it flies

no
a rebound

head it
no kick it
right or left foot

oh no
too slow
the thicker man
was quicker
to the ball

and I've let the chance go


3. Pen and ink
Writer’s block
clocking ticks
and tocks
and the time that never stops
and too many other tasks

tea at two for one

out at eight
so too late
to get this writing done

is it
or is it not

turn on the TV
turn off time's
toxic
ticks
and tocks
watch the box

till tomorrow
till it's time to turn it on again
and off and on and off


4. Don't sink
Keep on

sweat in eyes
hot

trench ahead

occupied
or not

get bayonet at the ready
fears aside

JUMP IN

stench
rats and flies
thank God
they’re dead

no they're not

one on this side
and one on that side
me in between
am I ready


5. Don't wink

She likes me

but I couldn’t
I wouldn’t
I shouldn’t

or
should I
would I
could I

just do it

Sonnet 650 - Father's Day

It's Father's Day and farther from when they
First fought their way through watery tunnel
Finally caught head first feet last to say
Cough cough wah wah when slapped and wrapped in towel
Off to be weighed then the new made bundle
Is offered right away to dad to hold
That awful fright to think I might fumble
Or stumble then humble and glad. Arms fold
Under this wonder our two forms foretold
When they formed into one and thunder lay
With forked lightning electric storm cuddle
Connecting sudden showers of pure gold
This resurrecting power is today
Respected re-erected tearful

Sonnet 649 - Scattered pictures

Old photos of me when I had more hair
Old photos of me when there were no lines
Old photos of me when I was thinner
Old photos of me and old cars old times
Time won't hold still when we are told sometimes
To keep still or to smile and then say cheese
Instead it's rushed blurred a pink finger shines
In a corner object obscured unease
Instead of pleasure is procured. Daddy's
Bald head was funny. I had hair to spare
While he despaired. One day sticks in our minds
The time he walked in with a wig on. He's
Got a wig on we whispered to Mother
A big black one. But no photo survives

Sonnet 648 - Friday the thirteenth

Like every other blogger in the world
Okay, not you, him or her, but the rest
The subject of this poem is foretold
By today’s date. Let’s put it to the test
Have bad things happened? No, it’s been the best
Day possible in the circumstances
Although for some nights now I’ve had no rest
And even not eaten (had no chances
Except for twelve scotch eggs for lunch), munches
Or lack of notwithstanding, I’m not sold
On the bad luck thing, and I’ll now attest
That Friday the thirteenths have no glitches
Or hitches hatching, and I’ll be so bold
As to declare them safe, touch wood, God bless

Sonnet 647 - Frying tonight

Our Gordon’s deeper in the Brown than Pete
Doherty; he’s no druggie, no. His high
Is being in Number Ten, but his feat
Of ‘being there’ (like Pete Sellers) is by
Secret agreement, nod and wink of eye
Not by consent of you or I. U-turn
On ten per cent tax rate, fatal. Oh My
Not So Fair Lady, Maggie, wouldn’t burn
Cos she wouldn’t turn left or right. He’ll learn
That green Dave Cameron, still sucking teat
Still untainted by power, will deny
Gordon more on election day. Concern?
Not really. Spot the difference. The elite
Appeal only to big fish that they fry.

Short Play by Beckett (Margaret Beckett)

Short Play by Beckett (Margaret Beckett)

Tony - Hey there Andy, how’re you doin’?

Andy - Not so bad, Tony, not so bad

Tony - Good, Andy, I’m glad, but it’d be better if things were good

Andy - Yes it would, Tony, I know it would, but not all things are good, and furthermore they never will be

Tony - But they can still be not so bad, Andy

Andy - Maybe one day, Tony, maybe once, there’ll be more good than bad. That’s what we all hope for as our lives go on.

Tony - Even though things go on and on getting worse

Andy - Like this verse

Tony - Like when you’re in a hearse

Andy - Or when, like now, you’re feeling hoarse

Tony - Of course, Andy, you cross from up to down to up again

Andy - I don’t do crosswords, Tony

Tony - What about when the boss wants a word?

Andy - He gives me plenty of cross words, even though he hasn’t a clue

Tony - And then there’s our partners

Andy - Don’t even go there

Tony - No, cos some of ’em might be here

Andy - That’s what I fear, and Tony, you’ve got to be fair

Tony - To be fair, Andy, when did being fair get you anywhere?

Andy - We’re here, though, aren’t we, breathing in the air

Tony (glumly) - Yeah….

Andy - Hey, look over there

[Gary appears in the distance]

Tony - Oh yeah.

Tony and Andy - Hey, Gary! Why don’t you come over here and join in the fun?

Gary - No thanks, I’d prefer not to, I mean I’d love to, I mean I’m not really sure, I mean I’m not sure what I mean. I mean well, but, well, sometimes I can be mean, you know what I mean, and so I’m not too keen. Take my advice and don’t be so nice, it’s inviting to be slighting. When you’re fighting, or even when you’re writing, put in frightening words and scare the SHIT out of all those little fucking hypocrites, it’s the time when you can be it, the bastard you always wanted to be, that everyone else can see, you can set yourself free, and I don’t want to be part of you or your crew, so FUCK YOU!

Andy to Tony - Was that a no, d’you think?

Tony - No, Andy, I think it was a yes, hidden behind a protective blind in his mind, a protective screen of low self-esteem, a means of avoiding scenes of rejection, a mental erection for his self-protection, a…

Andy - Yes, okay, I think we get the picture, Tony. So you’re saying he really wants to join the fun but can’t let himself?

Tony - Yes, just look at him. Is he happy after telling us to, to… [whispers ‘fuck off’ in Andy’s ear]

Andy - You what, I didn’t catch that, say it a bit louder, mate

Tony - Who are ya, Vincent Van Goff? I said ‘Fuck off!’

Andy - Well that’s not very nice. I will then…

Tony - Noooo, it wasn’t me who said it, it was him over there. It’s him you shouldn’t spare. But let’s both try to repair the damage. Let’s be fair and square, yeah?

Andy - I don’t like it when people end a sentence with ‘Yeah,’ to be fair

Tony - Well I don’t care, yeah?

Andy (whispering) - I think you ought to change that line, mate

Tony - Fine, mate, I will. But for now, it’s too late

Andy - It’s never too late, mate

Tony - But it is, Andy, it is. We’re nearly done and we’ve had no fun

Andy - Perhaps we could follow Gary. Where’s he off to? It’s very late.

Tony - To a party, an arty-farty one with lots of latte and Erik Satie and sitting on a settee or should I say sofa with tarty Sophie and naughty repartee… That sort of party. You wouldn’t get you and me there

Andy - Now that’s not fair, to be fair, mate

Tony - Well mate, life ain’t fair, yeah?

Andy - Life ain’t fair. NO!

Tony - Perhaps we should swear a bit more, yeah?

Andy - No we fuckin’ shouldn’t. NO!

Tony - Okay, I agree, we’ll get Gary to do the swearing.

Tony and Andy - See you Gary. ‘Enjoy the party’!

Gary - Thanks, will do. I’m sorry you two can’t come, but it’s restricted to interesting people only - alcoholics, people with Tourettes, and Gordon Ramsay. You don’t behave at parties, or you don’t get invited. You don’t listen, you talk. You don’t love, you fuck. You don’t care, you plan. You don’t argue, you dismiss. You don’t accept, you reject. This is the mind of the ar-ist. That’s ar-ist, not artist. The ar-ist of today has to be a complete SHIT. Until they’ve made it. Then they can afford to be nice. So I’m not hangin’ around with you two. I don’t even want to be seen with you two. Not until we’re on the sofa on the Jonathan Woss Show, and then we’ll pretend we were friends all along. See ya. [Disappears]

Tony - Nice guy

Andy - Tells it straight

Tony - What you see is what you get

Andy - What you get is a complete git

Tony - Full of shit

Andy - Up his own arse

Tony - He’s a bars…tard

Andy - He’s a turd

Tony - That’s a good word

Gary [suddenly reappears and approaches] - Hey guys!

Tony and Andy - Hi Gary! What can we do for you?

Gary - Have either of you got a quid for the bus fare?

Tony and Andy - Oh, let’s have a look, mate? How’re you doin’?

Gary - Not so bad, guys, not so bad

Tony and Andy - Good, Alex, we’re glad, but it’d be better if things were good

Gary - Yes it would, guys, I know it would, but not all things are good, and furthermore they never will be.

[Tony and Andy give him some money]

Hey guys, have you got another fifty p?

[Tony and Andy empty their pockets and shake their heads]

Fucking useless losers, that’s all you’ll ever be

[Gary stalks off, leaving the other two]

Tony - That’s how an ar-ist has to be

Andy - He’s better than we’ll ever be

Tony (whispers) - Is this the end

Andy - Hopefully

Sonnet 646 - Hey Atlas

I’m home from poetry group, it’s half-past ten
And guess what? I’ve this damn sonnet to write
Each day of my life I’ll have this burden
Like Atlas but not Jude, who wasn’t quite
As keen to keep the world at the same height
Sure, my shoulders ache and my back is bent
From daily duty, sonnetary weight
But shift that globe from side to side, invent
New positions for holding, heaven-sent
Chances to view American, Asian,
African landscapes underneath a white
Cloud cover, close up, clandestinely rent
By borders, orders, sordid deeds of men
Describe in fourteen lines, then rest the night

School ski trip '78

Tripping repeatedly
in a non-euphoric
non-delusional way
the way you do on slippery slopes

Grimaces
as I see the faces of my would-be fellow racers
as they saw me fall from grace
as I fell flat

What a twat
couldn’t get the hang of that
thin trembling terrifying t-bar

Sat at the bar
chokin’ on a
Coke
in the cabin
Snow joke to be havin’
to pay so much
why couldn’t we go Dutch?

Two lips in Amsterdam
closing in on a slice of coffee shop cake
mmm nice
not this damn Swiss bankroll
Schweizer shysters

Greased white lips
Body black and blue
like the sweater mum knitted for you
boot camp
feet cramped
Mein Kampf
Touche!
Shh, don’t mention it, there’s too many of ’em here

Too shy
lying quietly
this guy
an older and wiser advisor
is telling us about girls
how to do it right
as we lie in our bunks
flunking our nightly exams

Words that fly downhill
twisting left and right
sprays of white
too far ahead of me to see

I'm snowblind, maybe

Margate '73

The best holiday ever
Was Margate ’73
It was fuckin’ sunny
The hippie sun about to set
I didn’t know that yet
Long hair
thinness
and
………energy

Brown skin
Yellow sand
Mixed with red because there was broken glass hidden in it
and Robin trod on it
But not me, woo hoo
Blue sea

Mungo Jerry, Gary Glitter, Barry Blue, Suzi Q
First Choice first, and Limmie cookin’ in second
The songs remain the same
Quo had status

Jimmy Savile, Frank Spencer
Pot Black on colour TV
Derby still had Cloughie

T-shirts with our names on
T-shirts with our stains on
In the tomato soup, third cheapest guest house
Mid-August shadows, after eight garden grasses
Freckle-faced freak facing harsh bright morning mirror
Glass seen through ever-thickening glasses

Shook it off with milkshakes from Pelosi’s
Or was it Pelosis, like Hypnosis?
Did you notice
Did you know, sis?

A tall tower block
Taller than any in lil ole Lichfield
Margate’s victory sealed
Even saw their team
Blue and white on green

But towering over all lay
The hovercraft to Calais
Qu’est-ce que je peux dire?

Holy sand and spotted pebbles
Preserved on bedroom windowsill altar
As nights grew dark they shone like candles
At ten I learned that time is loss
Mourning my youth
At ten
The anti-climactic truth

Pilgrimages

I followed the well-worn path to Plath
Gave me a boost by the grave of Proust
Can show my mates I’ve posed with Yeats
The horizontal Brontes saw us
I gave thanks up where Dylan Thomas got tanked up

I cared about Marcel
The rest could go to hell
I might change my mind, but He doesn’t
Like the big bad ref after blowing for a penalty
Leave it, son
The Simon Cowell in the sky
Has said his last goodbye

Now we all love ’em
When they write about ovens
But Sylvia Schmylvia
You got too close didn’t ya?
Good heavens
Delia Schmelia
Why didn’t you tell her?

Since this Ariel trail-blazer
We’ve had Janis and maybe Amy
Die for us, die for themselves
Masturbation
Self-mutilation
For the nation

Yeats was great
And maybe even sane
No TB for WB
But his cool epitaph
Put death in the shade
Where he went I go
But first I went to Sligo
To see some daycent Oirish pubs

They lived for death
And their deaths live
We will remember them
We’ll even envy them
We’ll eventually emulate them
When it comes to the dismembering
But not the remembering

Sonnet 645 - Effervescent convalescent

With drug trials you get sleep deprivation
Uncomfortable strange bed, lights on early
As nurses pile in chatting, summation
Of what they did last night, or did you see
That programme? Yes, though I don't watch TV
As much these days. Awful what people do
If you point cameras at them. All agree
The price of everything's going up too
Quickly. The price of milk makes news, up two
Pence per litre. (So it's not just fuel then)
Writing this after lunch, I shall soon be
On a quest for a siesta. Need to
Recharge batteries if my intention
Of writing is to be reality

Sonnet 644 - Clinical sonnet

Surprisingly low pulse, she said. I'll tell
The doctor. He'll check that you can stay on
Of course, it doesn't mean that you're unwell
So don't worry. The doctor's been and gone
He quickly checked the charts, scanned up and down
Then wandered off seemingly quite content
I thought he'd look at me and with a frown
Tell me my time at the clinic was spent
And I'd have to go home. But being sent
Away with full pay from a drug trial
Is not so bad. In just two days, to earn
Six hundred quid and more's an efficient
Use of my time, reading poems as well
And writing... Waiting for inspiration...

Sonnet 643 - Wilkommen Euro 2008

Euro 2008 has begun
In Austria and Switzerland - cuckoo!
There is no English representation
Who to support, then? Here's options for you:
Check out the Czechs, guys and chicks. Could go through
The Portuguese are sporty geezers. He's
Ronaldo, roasting Turkey. Poland blew
Their chance for revenge against Germany's
Invasions of their box. Next, Europe sees
France and Romania. Italy won
The World Cup, but can they win this one too?
Don't rush to bet on Russia. Greece? Oh please!
The Alpine snows are melted; summer sun
Shines down on them all. Enjoy it, won't you?!

Sonnet 642 - It may not be true

It may not be true that late evening thought
Must be more negative, be more haunting
Often at work or shopping I get caught
In reveries about life’s more daunting
Insolubilities, answers wanting
Human debilities both mine and yours
Assuming guilt, consuming calm, ranting
Inaudibly, Don Quixote on horse
Or Ford Fiesta on motorway, course
Set for maximum upset, fuel bought
At high cost, the long strange trip exhausting
My patience with fools who expect applause
When all they do or say falls sadly short
Of nobility’s reach, the gap yawning

Sonnet 641 - Sky of blue and tea of green

I drink my green tea by day and red wine
Or beer by night, but in moderation
And if I avoid alcohol I find
The evenings bring me more inspiration
Today however I’m writing this down
At work, because it’s Friday, and then I
Can relax with a drink later, the sound
Of music replacing typing, the cry
Of guitar strings and not the anguished sigh
As I look at my inbox, write a line
Of poetry, then feel the frustration
As writer’s block hits and the clock ticks by
My tea’s all gone, the chocolate tasted fine
And I’ll walk home, now that this poem’s done

Sonnet 640 - Attack at dawn

The morning light, and the first light of birth
Are they the inviting arms of a friend
Or the invading arms of Big Bertha
Firing her shells straight at our eyes; the end
Of all resistance. Curtains can’t defend
Against their speed and distance. Like trumpets
That call us on the day of doom, portend
Hell’s darkness falling soon, each sunray hits
The nerves like cannonballs hit walls, and its
Curtains for Fort Utopia, murder
Of innocent and not-so-innocent
The screams ring out as dreams are smashed to bits
And now our plight’s revealed, is it still worth
Our fighting on, or must we surrender?

Sonnet 639 - Doing Bird

This thinking is a blessing and a curse
We imagine a lot that isn’t there
It’s okay when you’re writing, but it’s worse
At 3am, doing the ceiling stare
Revisiting, exaggerating their
Concerted coordinated campaign
To keep you on the ground, while in the air
Above you they float, laughing at your pain
They circle the lampshade, drive you insane
Angry, unable to sleep, you’re immersed
In negativity; meanwhile out there
The dawn chorus, the aubade, the refrain
Of unthinking bird brains begins its terse
Reminder there’s another day to bear

Sonnet 638 - One green bottle

I put down shopping bag to open door
And - quelle surprise! - the glass bottles topple
And crash against the unforgiving floor
Thank God there is no wine or beer puddle
Narrow escape again. It’s no riddle
Really, certainly no conspiracy
So why does my mind still grind and grapple
With forces that are imaginary
And all seem to be lined up against me?
Could the fault lie with consciousness? Though flawed
It’s all I have, and it makes me brittle?
The bottle is my soul, its expiry
Glimpsed as when lost at night-time on the moor
Or leaning over cliff edge, I stumble

Super Dooper Pooper Scooper

Whenever there’s a group
Of stray dogs leaving logs
Of canines raising legs
Turning dry grass to bogs
All you need do is stoop
But not so low as to beg
Shovel the shit, get rid of it
With our super dooper pooper scooper

When you feel in the soup
The meal ain't the dog’s bollocks
Too many pains in the neck
Too many stains on your togs
You can be freed from this loop
Climb out this flow of smeg
Shovel the shit, get rid of it
With our super dooper pooper scooper

Like a chicken in a coop
Like Chelsea without Drogs
Like licking just the dregs
Chelsea Clinton didn’t take drugs
Dale Winton’s supermarket swoop
Give it some stick Mystic Meg
Shovel the shit, get rid of it
With our super dooper pooper scooper


Super dooper
Pooper scooper
Get on down
Uh!

Super dooper
Pooper scooper
Uh!
And get on up again


'Ello everybody, I'm ’Enry Cooper
I’ve seen George Foreman play a blinder
I tell you what, I fink ee’s super
At first I fort it were a wind-up
At the barbecue, when the wind is up
Jus’ form a queue, get well lined up
Get sausages and bacon rind up
You’ve done some porridge, now make yer mind up
Do you wanna stay inside and wind up
Like the Bruvvers Kray, like Spandex Ballet
Turn into a Blur, a Mockney Rebel, eh?
Or become like ‘er - ‘I lav yer, Blake!’ - our Amy
Boy George Foreman, do you really wanna ’urt me?
Then listen to what Our Enery’s got to say
E knows wot’s best, e’ll ’ave ya signed up
You’ll soon be made up, like I was that day
I picked up a shiner - er no, a shiny pup
This dog was whinin’ - it was tryin’ ter crap
Worst fing of all, it was on me lap
I decided the time had come to drop
Like the day I fought Clay, I frew a strop
The dog went on the floor and then plop plop
Aht came the brown stuff, caught me on the ’op
Then like the geezer in the barftub, I fort ‘Eureka’
Better than Foreman, ’is idea wuz weaker
Better than Keegan’s perm, more uniquer
When your pooch decides to splash it all over
The kitchin floor-wa, like Buck’s Fizz make yer mind up
Make yer mind up time, like Brucie an’ Anfea
Do a li’ul twirl over to the cabbard door-wa
Makin’ doggone sure-wa it ain’t empty like before-wa
Like then Muvver ‘Abbard days of East End yore
When we never ‘ad nathin’, we wuz all so poor-wa
Well this time make sure yer know the score-wa…
Don’t be a bloody fool, don’t commit a blooper
Don’t join the army but be a trooper
Listen to yer Ancle ’Enry Cooper
‘Ee don’t need the NHS, ’ee can afford BUPA
‘Ee knows wot ’e’s on abaht, a bit of a snooper
For samthin’ longer larstin’ than an ’ula ’ooper
This beats anyfink by that drammer Gene Krupa
Open the cabbard, forget the tins of soup or
Anyfink, pull yerself outa that stupor
Float like a butterfly, don’t be a pupa
There’s one fing on what you need to lay your mitt
Shovel the shit, get rid of it
Wiv our supa doopa poopa scoopa
Awroit?


Super dooper
Pooper scooper
Uh!
Get on down

Super dooper
Pooper scooper
And get on up again


You can be like James Brown
Or even Chumbawamba
You just get up after you've got down
Like Pete Doherty, do a bit of the brown
Get up and get down
Get down and get with it
Down on your knees and shovel the shit


And now for something completely the same


Ya know, my life wasn’t worth shit until I found the super dooper pooper scooper
Ah was so grateful I bought the company
Have a nice shit-shovellin’ day now

Sonnet 637 - Womb with a view

The pain of life climbs upward in a line
At forty-five degrees from left to right
Before conception everything is fine
Millennia make up one long peaceful night
That’s bare of nightmares, reality’s bite
Then some dick thinks with his, the jizz meets egg
And all that jazz; addicted to the fight
The hybrid parasite kicks out with leg
But when womb’s closing time is reached will beg
To stay dependent, waited on full-time
Sirens of prison, syringe, lines of white
Pickled liver, retiring to a dreg
Of mankind, call out: come to us, rewind
Retreat, relax behind the lines, that’s right

Sonnet 636 - Dark June

Oh hell, now June is here so soon, it means
That soon it means to get darker again
Enjoy the last three weeks of increased beams
For then the orb we orbit turns just when
The light we worship seems a trusted friend
For its far distant frightening winter home
Growing shadows bestow their death kiss; end
Approaches in its dread red and white form
With frosty beard and funeral bells. Now comb
Your thinning hair and don’t forget sun cream
You mustn’t let your skin peel off. Back when
You were young you could burn and smoke and roam
But now stay safely home, avoiding scenes
Your oxygen, your lifeline, is your pen

Sonnet 635 - The cloud garden

The cloud garden forbodes a thunderstorm
A reckoning for afternoon of sun
The birdsong quiets, a sense of alarm
And disappointment marks an end to fun
Four blackbirds suddenly fly formation
While solo magpie spies from aerial
Signalling that there’s nothing to be done
As dandelion seeds float by, wish well
An unseen thorn deflates the paddling pool
As I trim overgrowth that must be shorn
Through sheer necessity cut back Eden
Even my leg is cut, see my blood spill
It’s cooled further now; inside where it’s warm
We’re hedgehogs hibernating, TV on