757 - Northern Rock, stocks and $200 barrels of oil

It's like 'Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels'
But more exciting - sorry, Guy Ritchie -
Watching as each hard-bitten broker falls
Each bank drowns in negative equity
A vaultful of dollars held uselessly
The cowboys of Wall Street all bite the dust
Another one, and another. Freddie,
You sang about it then, warned of it first
Poor Gordon! - now his credit bubble's burst
He's not only unpopular, but fails
To convince when he claims his pedigree
In financial prudence. Labour's stocks just
Keep dropping. Today, David Cameron sells
His share offer to voters. Buy Tory?

756 - Quick resume

My sitcom entry’s posted off, special
Delivery, should arrive tomorrow
(The deadline, of course). Now I know they’ll
At least read my ideas and get to know
My sense of humour. And, as well, also,
I’ve entered the Manchester Blog Awards
Well who could have a better one? There’s no
Doubt that this is the best, and the rewards
Should soon flow into my coffers. I soared
To the heights of Parnassus, near Rochdale
Last night at a reading. I thought I’d go
And premiere my latest feast of words
But just as I approached climax, final
Resolution, my time ran out! Hum ho.

755 - Skins and bones

I’m pulling at the skin on my thumb’s side
It’s nice to destroy things and self-abuse
Much easier than building up my pride
Much easier than winning. Why not lose?
Distractions, reveries are what we choose
Life’s painless if you aim less high, a slow
And pleasant suicide, room with no views
Except grey sky, on tenth floor; needles go
Straight to the point (Lou Reed’ll tell you so)
Cover your face with veil again, sad bride
For shame that you can’t be a genius
Your name unknown even at home, and no
Direction to roll in but stone. We tried
Now we’re sliding into time’s tightening noose

Class war

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for
Top Marx for kicking off Engels’ class war
Hectors aplenty burn the towers of Hattersley
Roy of the Rovers Return, Blackburn, Burnley

Here are my credentials
I don’t talk properly
I talk proper
I love soccer and rugby
But I hate people from Oxford and Rugby
I love United
But I hate City
It’s a disunited city
Is Manchester, so much to answer for

If you’re not from here, you can fuck off
That’s what’s been said to me over many a long year, here
Stockport’s the same
Macc, even Wilmslow
Farmer’s Arms
White van man’s place to go
The Carter’s Arms on the other hand
Is the Tory pub
At least they know
A few things, and can read
And don’t have heads sheared because they need
To fit in with their fascist pals
Hey pal, are you gay?

I understand the inferiority complex
I understand the reflex to being bullied
Safety in numbers
But why do you bully me
One person, alone
You deserve what you get

Oh the wonderful North West my arse

She's gotta have it, he's gotta have it, I've gotta stop it

She’s gotta have it, she’s gotta have it
She’s gotta lotta gotta gotta whole lotta lust
There she goes, there she blows, she’s just lost control again
Her flowing river drowns my flowering mind
Her deflowering, her floundering
The pounding and resounding
The shaking of her walls, my walls
Her bed, my head
Breaking into my ivory tower of silence
Destroying my Troy
Emphatically ecstatically
Not just on Saturday
Every night they’re at it
Two hours after midnight
My ivory tower invaded and brought down to earth
I’m jaded by showers of boiling oil, jets of fire
My bricked-in prison pricked by mortars made of jism
By those two down below doing it later than they oughta

But wait!
This isn’t two a.m.
It’s two in the afternoon
I’ve wandered into my bedroom
To look at a book in this quiet little nook
There ain’t nothing to stop me so I flop
Upon my creaky bed with no restraint
Then, while sneaking a look through a poetry book
I hear short female cries, at first faint
And then I’m sure - she’s having yet another fuck
Calling to no-one, calling to everyone
Voice rising to a dangerous unsustainable high
Then falling, almost plunging
Like Wall Street, now quiet, now slow
Just one floor below

And then I consider
Why did my room not shudder
The way it should have
The way it has done all too often
How did she soften the sudden deep impact
Of his rough and tumble
Of his tough and not-so-humble stuffing
And of the rumbling and the huffing and the puffing
Of his cruel to be kind kind of loving
I’m blind but not deaf to his not so deft shoving
How did she disguise the rising and the falling of his thighs?

I dread their hotbed of solid, reliable rhythm givin’ me the blues
Shakin’ me all night long
Waking me to the same old song
Wanking along? No, thanks, I’m too anxious
But I might just grab what lies to hand and bang my slipper on the floor
Stripping them of their passion at its height
Like an asset-stripper when Wall Street’s crashing
From the floor above, from my ivory tower
I decree with great power: No more love!

It’s become a bad trip since he’s been gripping her
Me slipping back into consciousness
While he’s slipping it in under her nightdress
Chipping away thunderously at my nightly rest
Like a woodpecker peck-pecking wood from a tree
His wooden pecker’s getting me quite distressed
Sipping my water though not drunk
Thinking maybe I should have sunk a few
Then I’d have lain still, dead to the world of these two
But I’m straining to escape the pull of gravity
That urge to splurge my cash on a stash of booze and smokes
Remaining unsoaked, to stay awake and make something better
Write a letter to eternity
But what’s concerning me
Is when I’m dry as desert dirt I find my mind is too alert
An earthquake is always going to wake me
If you’re blind drunk, if you’re pissed
You won’t even listen to a blasted bomb blast
But sober, lying on what seems like the top bunk
Over a spunkfest
The rest of your dreams will have to be junked
Tomorrow’s schemes fester, already defunct
My history debunked by some Turkish Henry Ford
On a production line of delight, every fuckin’ night

But wait!
This isn’t two a.m.
It’s two in the afternoon
And there’s no little earthquakes
There’s nothing in here moving
The joint isn’t rocking and rolling
Like it is when the bells are tolling 2 a.m.
Could it be there’s only one of them
Could it be it’s just her down below
Doing her own DIY for once?
Or is he there, the quiet man
His knob up, but the volume knob turned down
The Iain Duncan Smith of sex
But then when do men debunk the myth
That women do all the talking
Maybe he’s still sticking his stalk in
But they’ve decamped to the floor with a rug on
To dampen the noise when they get it on, as snug as two bugs?

I’m impatient to know just who is the insatiable one
I’m nosy, I know, but the noise suggests it could be her
Especially if he’s out in Manchester, working
Cooking, or waiting on tables in the Café Istanbul
Not lurking down below, working up a head of steam
Not cooking on gas, not fucking her as fast as he’s able
Not licking her lips instead of his own
Not baring her jugs instead of bearing the water jugs
But waiting and lurking on tables in the Turkish Café

Or, have they found a way to get down to business
Keeping it private, keeping their bed stable
Is this the last post for privates on parade
If so, then an armistice can be made!

Or is the story that she’s on her own
The bed’s not rocking in its usual way
It’s the middle of the day, he must be away
Maybe she’s on the bed, but still; still loving anyway
With a toy, not a toyboy, to fill her with joy
She can’t wait for her waiter to put down his plates
And come home to her, 11.30 or later
When it’s her turn to lay the plates for him, fill him up
Then lay herself on a plate for him to fill her up
After so many long long hours of waiting

Look, in these flats, girl, you really ought to
Be taught to resort to cavorting a bit quieter
When I bought my flat I didn’t pay to
Listen to some hysterical masturbator
Who then falls asleep again, bored with waiting
Conserving her energy till eight or nine hours later
Back home comes her oh-so-hungry waiter
Lustful, fresh from serving plate after plate to
Some real dishes with curves, perving at girls on dates who
Curl their blonde hair or keep it straighter
And it’s not just all the fuckin’ boyfriends
Tucking in, looking up and down at him, who’ll be in luck later
There’s someone lying in wait for him, someone to whom he’ll cater
His hot-blooded Turkish woman, always unsated
Keeping herself pure in their second floor flat
By day, untainted. Only he makes her elated
He’ll be thinking of tonight’s blonde dishes while he’s mating
With his girl who rarely leaves the flat, who’s so sick of waiting
So starved in the daytime that she turns to self-catering

If there’s good rockin’ tonight
If they make my bed shake, rattle and roll like his café pots and pans
I’ll take my slipper in my hand and give him his just desserts
I’ll slap it down like a Federer service
Like Roger’s racquet, I’ll whack it. Then they’ll stop that racket
Not love-all but fuck all
He’ll have to take his balls and find a new home
Where he and she can have it, have it, have it, have it, have it
And I can have the peace I’ve never known
To write
And then to sleep

754 - Anthology

Reading successful poets’ self-pity -
But then they don’t make much - but if they did
As poets they’d still see skulls and debris -
It spurs me to emulate, lift my lid
Revealing wasp-infested stuff that’s hid
But it’s no different, apart from the art
A vase is a vase, a verse a verse. Bid
For one versus another and then part
With cash, but not much. Say thanks and depart
For they aren’t interested either in me
They teach subservience at schools - extra quid -
Belief systems and false gods that the smart
Materialist must ingest outwardly
Now fashion your passion as instructed

753 - Banana on desk

On this autumnal blue-sky afternoon
Reclining languidly upon the wood
A yellow-skinned beauty freckled with brown
Is bending my mind far more than it should
From thoughts of work to thoughts of flesh and blood
Thick skin enclosing hidden soft centre
Ripe and inviting, ready for the hood
To be peeled away and revealed, later
Turning to mush at my biting, under
Tongue's turning and churning, all broken down
Liquefied and consumed and left for dead
All that's left is its hollow container
The magic gone, fit only to be thrown
Away with the rubbish, trod in the mud

752 - Rush hour colours

Sat here in my office room with a view
Approaching the end of the working day
A train pulls into Salford, purple, blue
On the green bridge above Trinity Way
Now here's another; rush hour's under way
Under the bridge. The cars line up at lights,
Then race off like athletes when red gives way
To green; grey cars, black cars, vans (usually whites)
A big white van with small square windows waits
On red, taking its captive from court to
The red bricks of Strangeways for one more day
Or year, or two: endless blue days and nights
Man in grey suit with umbrella tries to
Find his car in the car park, and it's grey

751 - Late night reflection

It’s been a long day’s journey into night
And now, back home again, all on my own
But that’s okay, no really, it’s all right
I’m not upset about being alone
A long time ago my few seeds were sown
And now they fall on stony ground, but then
What’s the alternative? What has life shown
But that I will end up alone again
The difference between then and now is plain
I know all there is to know, and it’s quite
All right to ally myself with that stone
To blend deeply with it like other men
Who’ve travelled through this darkness into light
And paid back whatever they bought on loan

750 - Fishmouth tries to escape the net

Fishmouth has given his big conference speech
As usual, it’s all about him, not us
A man with such big ears should listen. Preach
On, like your father, but it’s not Jesus
Who cares, it’s you, Gordon. Why all the fuss
About fairness? Blair harnessed Thatcher’s views
The market, or is it the jungle, must
Rule, brutal, efficient. Gordon has used
This anti-social creed to feed the queues
Of bleeding souls too visceral to teach
All victims of capital’s world success
Free trade guarantees low wages; pursues
Unstoppable across borders and beach
Caught in his own net, Fishmouth flops, hopeless

749 - Are you havin' a laugh?

I’m running out of time, started too late
Isn’t that just so typical of me?
And yet, apparently, this is a trait
Of successful writers of comedy
Which - this month - is what I would like to be…
With today’s Guardian there was a leaflet
On ‘How to write comedy.’ Quite clearly
A hard thing to teach. I tend to forget
All jokes and stories, and am slow to get
My own lines off by heart. Thought I’d be great
At stand-up!?! - it was big in the 90s -
But gave up. Looking back there’s no regret
I can’t perform but can write. On with skates!
Script must reach them by September 30

748 - Bye bye blackbirds

The time of year is here when leaves turn brown
And well-fed birds point young beaks at the sky
The time of growth is over; they have found
Their feet; now they must flap their wings and fly
Over the sea and land to some new dry
Warm shelter which they’ll make their own and fill
With their own stolen sticks; where they’ll apply
Inherited instincts, do what they will
Tiptoeing on their own soil, dart and drill
For buried treasure moving underground
Sharp-eyed and wary by day, and, perched high
On distant branch, work done, ready to trill
Their thrilling songs, our simple tunes outgrown
Replaced by rare rapturous melody
This is about the departure of my two older children to their universities in Paris and London yesterday and today

747 - Sitting in a tin can

Hop on my 747 and come
Fly with me, not to Bombay or Peru
But to some new and far out places. Some
Are in your mind and some tasted in stew
Bought in a can in Sainsburys. A few
Are hiding like the crumbs in your keyboard
Maybe no longer tasting good to you
Old songs sing of these places; so do sword
Marks from our ancient skirmishes. Each word
Will take you back and forth through time; the sum
Total of a life’s travels. When it’s through
(The poem or the life) it’s on record
At each cloud station grab that harp and strum
No angel’s choir, no Frank. Just me and you

746 - I'll drink to that

A week’s a long time in sobriety
As Harold Wilson said (or else Dexy’s)
Last night I went out and drank just coffee
And later on, orange squash at O’Shea’s
Don’t get me wrong, I do like to drink these
But they don’t change reality from its
Annoying tendency to lose the keys
To happiness, or sound off-key, take bites
Out of your legs; but above all, it sits
There on your shoulder, nagging constantly
Like pirate’s parrot in the Caribbees
Like Pontius Pilate, the truth never fits
So let’s wash our mouths of it and be free
And then life will be a Bacardi Breeze
Friday 19 September

745 - The Democratic Republic of Poetry

You’re the big man, you act like you know it
You’re like the scary headmaster at school
You’re the big man, local hero poet
Respect is due, we must follow your rule
But what respect do you show, Mr Cool
What do you care for what we have to say
From your poetry kingdom it seems you’ll
Exile us if we don’t blindly obey
Your divine right’s as wrong as the long stay
In Number Ten of Mr Brown the twit
The sight and sound of you is slightly cruel
If you’d love to be loved in the same way
That others are, then lighten up a bit
But then a poet’s ego is his fuel

Money tree - 3 poems about money

Sound as a pound

The pound’s taken a pounding
And I’m sounding off again
The taxman’s hounding me
So I’ve found an offshore den, Dan
It’s called The Isle of Fuck Your Fellow Man


In the pink

May you live in Financial Times
May you underwrite some prudential rhymes



Tight

Right, that’s it, I’m off to the bar
No I’m not, I’m off to the bog
To knock back my smuggled-in supermarket grog
To have a slashed price, to neck my stash
And save that precious extra bit of cash

I’m already tight, and I’m gonna get tighter
So good night to you all from this bleary-eyed blighter

Not-so-dear prudence

Hello there mate, how are ya? Not seen ya for a while.
What? Do I fancy goin’ somewhere for lunch?
Do I hell! Haven’t you heard of the credit crunch?

I don’t like shelling out
I don’t care if they’re selling out of everything
In the so-called sales
I’d rather spend my summers in Wales
In a tent halfway up Cader Idris
Than help out some other guy’s business
Staying under his roof
Paying for his food
New clothes to look good
Nah, not me!
I’ll have a near-naked lunch
One that’s almost free
One I’ve made myself
Out of Marmite sandwiches and tea

What’s that, mate? Can I give you a lift?
Nah, sorry mate, that car was drivin’ me over a cliff

Who needs a jam-jar?
Get on your bike
You won’t need to pay for gyms
You can kick out the jams
I’m peddling pedals here
It’s the end of expenditure
Here’s the deal, I’ll send it ya

You can’t bank on banks no more
The interest’s higher
In stayin’ sober
You’ll be rollin’ in it
If you don’t get stoned

If you wanna fall asleep prematurely
Do it for free and get yourself healthy
Boogie on down to the allotment
Save your salary, grow some celery
Don’t become a cabbage. Grow your own.
Don’t talk shit, just mix in some manure
Grow your own rhubarb
It’s not a scene for has-beens, so don’t do a runner
It’s where the future lies as you grow old and wise

Let’s not go to San Fran-Tesco’s
Less reasons to go to Morrisons’ Hotel
To hell with their out of town locations
Their car, bus and delivery-truck-friendly situations
Let’s not go to the Trafford Centre for the day
Let’s not blow what’s left of our pay
Let’s not fight our way through
The great tide of shit coming to meet us at it
Let’s not say ‘Get outta my way, or
I’ll hit you with my six carrier bags
Bag bag bag bag bag bag’

Okay, take care, mate
I know you’re gonna hate me
But things have changed a bit lately
Take care now
Take care

The greatness and perfection of money money money

The power, the absolute power
The power of seeing their faces filled with fear
Driving your sports car up their rear
Flashing lights in their rear-view mirror
No, it’s not the police
It’s someone they’d like to be
So they make way
They know their place
You’re the new lord on the block

The power, the absolute power
The power that attracts like a magnet
That attracts like bees to a flower
Salesmen fighting each other to get to you first
Me, please! Look at me!
Ladies fighting more discreetly
As befits their species
Me, please! Look at me!
The prize? A seat at your round table

The power, the absolute power
The power of serfs grovelling at your lordship’s feet
That’s your feat, that’s your reward
You can afford the whitest of teeth
The suits that say ‘Bow your head’
Suitably bedazzled, these curs
Are willing to be cursed
They’ll smile and bow and thank you for your bile
While, impotent, they long for your death
And that thought makes you smile
That’s what makes it all worthwhile

744 - Credit to the crunch

Give credit to the crunch: it’s natural
It’s Darwinian, red in tooth and claw
Yet more proof that as some rise, some must fall
Yes, I know economics is a bore
But this is more than that, yes, so much more
Like gravity, a basic building block
Things can’t only get better; that’s no law
That Newton knew. The circle of the clock
Encompasses repetition. The shock
Of the new is mere ignorance; it’s all
Happened somewhere before, someplace before
We’ve all been down, then up around the block
A clean slate, then, and start again on Wall
And less glamorous streets like mine and yours

743 - Turkish delight denied tonight

Two nights ago I thought, That's it! No More!
Again, just as my heavy eyelids closed
The bed below me obviously bore
The randy couple, with bodies opposed
But meeting in the middle as his rose
And fell upon his rose, fair Turkish maid
As my walls shook again, I then proposed
To myself, for the first time, to parade
About my room, stomp and bang doors. I made
My displeasure clear, let them hear. I swore
And furthermore, swore to bring to a close
This era of 2 a.m. shags that's played
Out every night. They heard me, and forbore
To carry on up the Bosporus. They froze!

742 - Views on the news

Collapsing banks, no thanks, keeping my dough
Under the mattress, that’s less risky now
In Zimbabwe, Mugabe’s feeling low
’Cause Morgan’s been talkin’ (now he’s allowed)
Here, Gordon’s orderin’ the Labour crowd
But those rotters, those plotters, don’t listen
Manchester City pity poor but proud
United, excited as sheikhs move in
Good night Rick Wright of the Floyd who’s passed on
To the Dark Side beside Syd; bid adieu
The Channel Tunnel fire has somewhat soured
The Eurostar trip; most are worryin’
But I’m smilin’ - no violin needed, no
With health, if not wealth, I’ll still sing out loud

741 - No escape

It’s mid-September; the year’s running out
Even the decade’s running out of steam
Or is it me I’m really on about?
Is it me who’s becoming a has-been?
Can’t be, because I haven’t really been
Anything yet, and that’s why I can’t rest
Can’t tend a garden, contentedly lean
On my front gate, sun sinking in the west
I can’t relax, only escape at best
In the late evening, and when lights go out
Consoling visions turn drought into streams
In dreams that drown out shouts and screams, unrest
Upstairs and down, outside and inside out
That within minutes pulls me from each dream

740 - Plymouth don't rock

We drove right down to Plymouth with its Hoe
Almost the toe of Britain, Mayflower port
The reason? Plymouth v Norwich, no-show
In skill terms, but a comedy of sorts
Poor old Sturrock, the Plymouth boss, was caught
Like a rabbit in headlights; his team booed
Off at half-time, unusually. He brought
On Emile Mpenza, perhaps a shrewd
Buy, but he missed his header, and the rude
Prospect of relegation looms. He’ll go,
Will their boss, unless he’s very soon thought
Up how to make The Greens pass better. Who’d
Have thought we could drive that far, and that slow
But still get there and back in time that short!

739 - Barking mad

The time is drawing near, it’s here again
American election time is nigh
When they must choose Obama or McCain
Some of the things they say just make you sigh
Barack’s attack’s been knocked back somewhat by
The Sarah Palin news phenomenon
‘Pit bull with lipstick’ her convention cry
That’s ‘pit bull,’ not ‘pig,’ Barack. Listen, man
Or else she’ll maul ya, for all your elan
They don’t care, those dogs, they’ll cause you such pain
As their teeth clamp tight on your neck. Goodbye!
Or will Obama be like Superman
Saving America from a villain?
We won’t be sure whether to laugh or cry

738 - Sea change

The Arctic's melting, and storms more frequent
So higher sea levels and heavier rain
Assault these precious islands nature lent
But seems to be taking away again
A nation of King Canutes stands in vain
Waving away the rising tides of doom
We can't all live on hills, desert the plain
We can't all build an ark, can't find the room
To park on Ararat, so I assume
The high ground is where the smart money's spent
The cock is crowing and the weather vane
Is spinning madly while the church's tune
Distorted by its hatred of the bent
Is joined by Neroic fiddle-playing

737 - Life without a car

I’m contemplating life without a car
My little runaround is almost dead
The engine’s worn out, been driven so far
That it needs replacing. Ain’t got the bread.
In any case, it seems you can instead
Join one of these car clubs for small payment
And then just use their shared cars, getting rid
Of your regular car costs: heaven sent
For those looking to save. It’s what I meant
To do when I bought my flat that’s so near
To my office that I can walk there, tread
The streets of Manchester and Salford, bent
On a good time without taxi, tramcar
Or train. More money’s spent on getting fed!

736 - Dream lover

If I stop drinking completely I find
The noisy neighbours deprive me of sleep
I become super-sensitive; they wind
Me up as I lie listening; they creep
Around, bang things and each other; they keep
Me from the point of drifting down the stream
Away from this dull, marshy plain to steep
And heady slopes where success is no dream
Gold nuggets just for me reflect the gleam
Of the still-rising sun, caressing wind
Undressing beauties, clothing in a heap
I lie at the top, position supreme
Then a bang in the night and I unwind
From out of that reel, rolling down through snow

735 - Bursting bubbles

My ma’s grandfather Alfred Dean had been
A school mate of this lad Billy Lever
Down Bolton way. Then Billy had a scheme:
To sell soap at the market. Alf was the
First one he asked to help him. Alf said, er,
No ta mate. Billy built the company
That made Sunlight and Pear’s Soap. Millionaire
And, with his wife Lizzie Hulme, thoroughly
Into works of art and philanthropy
From profits gleaned from keeping people clean
They even built Port Sunlight village, their
Pub-free paradise near the factory
If only Alfie Dean could have foreseen
That forever bubble-blowing future!
Inspired by a trip to Port Sunlight and its art gallery, and the story my mother told me about how its millionaire founder and industrialist was a childhood friend of my great-grandfather!

734 - Downing Street pillow talk

Oh Alistair, Darling, said Mrs D
You really must buy more hair dye, you know
I know you’re partial to economy
But why does most of your head look like snow
While your eyebrows are black as they can go
It’s not a good look, Darling; can they trust
A man with hair that doesn’t match on show?
Oh Gord, said Mrs B, this is the worst
Case scenario. Labour’s bubble’s burst
And you’re like a fish out of water. See
How you gulp for air as the rivers flow
Over Tony’s banks? When you speak you must
Not gulp or gasp. Though you’re charisma-free
I love the way your glass eye twinkles so

733 - It was two years ago yesterday...

Yesterday’s second anniversary
Of this odd enterprise I’m engaged in
Was not marked in my sonnet diary
What an unforgivable omission
Truth is, I was too keen on completion
Of yesterday’s sonnet while it was quiet
My office colleagues all out in the rain
At a union meeting, their disquiet
Being about the low pay offer. Wet
And noisy they’d return soon, so I’d be
Best off writing about, well, anything
I wrote about jazz and all that. Forget
Two years of sonnets? How could I? Easy
I just did, but now I’m remembering

Horn of plenty

I saw those hooded eyes, that Buddha face
Of Charlie Parker; that's how Kerouac
Describes him as he blows his horn, in place
As usual next to Dizzy's brass attack
On TV in '52, with no crack
Of emotion or movement in his eyes
His hands somehow obeying brain on smack
Looking twice his age. And soon, when he dies
The coroner will estimate fifties
As his age, not merely 34. Space,
Too much space in his brain; needs to pour back
Some shit to fill some of it in; devise
Some braking mechanism, slow the pace
Of bird thought in his head, pull off the track

731 - An English driver foresees his fine

Oh Officer, I obviously forgot
To buy a new tax disc at August's end
You're right to be sarcastic - I'm a clot
I do have ready funds that I can spend
But when the reminder letter was sent
The glove compartment of my car is where
I unaccountably placed it, since when
I clean forgot that it was lying there
Under a pile of CDs. To repair
This damage to my image, please say what
I should do now to avoid a fine? Lend
Me your precious time and wisdom, please sir
Be nice to this poor citizen who's not
A lawbreaker, at least not in intent
This is an imagined roadside confrontation with a policeman who sees I do not have a valid tax disc in my car windscreen, written this afternoon. I have however now bought it online and am legal to drive!

730 - Summer's end

Well I can now officially declare
That was the worst summer I’ve ever known
Very few sunny days, no chance to wear
Your summer gear, unless, of course, you’ve flown
Abroad this year. The rain’s fallen, wind’s blown
Last night I got drenched while out buying beer
Today is too cold to walk into town
Tomorrow it seems like I’ll have to wear
An autumn jacket. But, though skies aren’t clear
Stiff upper lip, folks, and never despair
Bad weather keeps us in, keeps us alone
Stops us from spending (except on a beer)
Credit crunch cutbacks; we’ve got to take care
To reduce debts and not take out more loans

729 - Upstairs, downstairs

I woke last night thinking, ‘It’s an earthquake!’
But then I relaxed momentarily
Realising the reason. ‘Ah, my bed shakes
Because of nocturnal activity
In the bedroom below. Though quietly
They go about their business; no moaning
Or yelping; conscious that all sounds can be
Heard above or below, and complaining
Would occur if they were both exclaiming;
Nevertheless, this couple’s great mistake,’
I continued to muse, most shakenly,
‘Is in their absent-minded neglecting
To shift their bed away from the wall. Make
A gap, and we can all sleep peacefully!’

728 - See these DVDs, please

I borrowed DVDs from the library
Three nostalgic looks back at old music
The first was the Undertones in Derry
Views of the Bogside I saw in '06
The next was The Smiths, called 'The Complete Pic-
ture', mainly old clips from 'Top of the Pops'
Plus Derek Jarman's film, and fantastic
Shots of old Ordsall for 'Stop Me', with stops
For the cyclists, all with Mozza moptops
Strange ways they rode through Manchester city
And finally, three hours' worth of jazz flick
With footage of the Bird, the Duke, their flops
And triumphs: Jump for Joy, Ko-Ko, the free
Expression of genius and heretic