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Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Armchair Killjoys

The constant wasp-drone of the Vuvuzela horn
Is greeted round Britain with sneers and with scorn.
But you can't just march in and ban what you hate,
You're not the British army, it's not 1898.
So instead stick to your chants and your out of tune singing.
Ah, of course, I forgot you only sing when you're winning.
When you do it's obscenities masquerading as "fun",
Cos who cares if Posh Spice takes it up the bum?

Monday, 31 May 2010

The Egregious Egret

I met an egregious egret.
He said 'There's nothing I regret.
But the time I had sex
After eight pints of Beck's
With a hoopoe I met in Tibet.'

Table For One

This steak is a good shade past medium.  It's tough!  Tough as the boots on my feet.  These potatoes are very nice, but why praise the upholstery and the sound system when the engine and gearbox are rusted?  This wine is cold, he should have stood the bottle somewhere warmer.  That's it....

'Waiter!  Hey, waiter!'

People say I don't complain enough; at least that I lack assertion.  I remain boxed and horizontal on the career ladder - this rung is sturdy, if horribly familiar, while the one above is by no means untenable, but is smeared with butter.  The drop to the ground would do me no physical damage, but would hurt my pride much more than I'd ever give credit.  Even so, all I see lined up here are identical ladders, creaking, top-heavy and apparently leading nowhere.

I occupy a table for one in life - near the back, yet facing into the room at least.  I rarely invite a dinner guest and, when I do, it's usually of no concern to me that, by the time we reach the point of coffee and liqueurs, we've decided to split the bill and take separate cabs home.  I don't complain, it's not in the nation's nature, is it? But when did we British begin to bitch and bellyache, at least raising our protestations to something more than a breathy murmur?  When exactly did we start to believe we had earned the 'right to complain'?  The right to tell another honest, hard-working human being to their face that their service, their steak and their unwarmed bottle of wine fail to reach our  artificial and uneducatedly high standards?  Those who do so may gain a material reward in juicier mouthfuls and an ersatz sense of justice, but they take a subliminal and spiritual beating through the travail of those their petty grievance directly affects.  

'I'm sorry Sir, I was attending to the other Gentleman.  What can I help you with?'

Sometimes you have to give thanks that you're sat at the table.  You're neither the overworked waiter, the deluded maître d', the invisible kitchen hand nor the cold, hungry beggar peering in.  While some of us are dining alone, we are dining. 

'Nothing.  That's fine.  That's really quite fine....'

Friday, 28 May 2010

Fish in for Compliments

The scent of fish is both persistent and foul; scrub your hands all you want there it stays.
Spare a thought then for the common salmon in social situations.
Spare another for the legions of customers queuing ten deep behind fish buying:
Hai Karate
Chanel pour homme
Paco Rabanne and
Chanel pour poisson.
Then smile in the knowledge that these paranoid creatures have forgotten that female fish love natural fishy whiff.

Wednesday, 26 May 2010

The Dublin Meerkat's Story

'You wouldn't believe the day that I've had!'
Puffed Gerry the meerkat with rage.
'I'll tell you about it if you pour me a pint,
I've a thirst that I need to assuage.'

'Right you are Gerry' said Mick with concern,
As he poured him a large glass of stout.
His tail was limp, he was missing three teeth
And clumps of his fur were ripped out.

'Now, what in God's name has happened to you?'
'Ach, I got in a fight with a lemur.
'He'll know better than trespass my garden again
As I cracked my rake over his femur.'

Monday, 24 May 2010

The Dublin Lemur's Story

'A pint of the black stuff please!' squeaked a voice,
And left the poor bartender rattled.
'Oi! I'm down here!  Now be quick if you will!'
Quoth the voice of a lemur embattled

'It's yourself there Leonard, I'm sorry I missed
Your face as you walked in the door.
Get yer erse on a stool and I'll pour you your drink
You look like you're sweeping the floor!'

'You'll have to help out Mick, I've been in the wars.
I think my leg's broke and I ache.'
'Feckin' hell, who'd do such a ting to you now?'
'A meerkat armed with a rake.'

Wednesday, 19 May 2010

'Parallelism' : A Serial : Part Two

The reflection of Marcus Jones smiled back at its identical caster. It looked good, it felt good, it was good. Marcus always thought he looked better, more attractive, when viewed in this mirror than any other. Perhaps it was the way the light from his bathroom lamps caught it or perhaps it was the fact he tended to check himself immediately after passing waste and this cast a natural radiance – or relief – upon his pale façade.
      'Scared of mirrors' laughed Marcus. 'That old quack is in no position to advise me of my state of mental well-being.'
      He realised he was talking out loud to himself again and embarrassedly began to hum a nondescript tune as some sort of post hoc cover for his indiscretion. This too he stopped after a second. He was alone in his flat, who would have heard him? Did his neighbours hear him? He knew they'd heard him singing along to an old tape of pop hits last week. They'd knocked politely at first, then with incensed purpose. This progressed to a rapid temerity and, when Marcus finally opened the door, there was little to suggest the usual calm manner of 'wee Fergus from next door' in the face of the seething, bile-spitting demon that stood before him.
      'Will you keep that fucking noise down?' he gasped. 'And keep your fucking singing down too. If it is singing...if that noise you're making is singing and not just, just...a fucking weird racket.'
      'I'm sorry, I didn't realise.' apologised Marcus. It was true, he had barely been conscious of the sounds he had been making for the last thirty minutes. He had filled half an hour with high-pitched yelps, wheezes and squeaks and all to familiar tunes by Billy Ocean, Peter Gabriel, Level 42 and, most embarrassingly of all, Bucks Fizz. He was left out of breath, uncomfortably hot, lightly sweating and his mouth felt tight and sore.  Marcus coughed – a well-placed cough always made him feel better – and straightened his glasses in his mirror, the one which always brought out his best features.