2014 Summer Beach Book Bitch

"No, not that Moon again!"

Sock Puppet's Annual Summer Beach Book Bitch is Back on the Rack!

At no. 1: "Sh*t H*pp*ns" by D*gl*ss T*rd. When the sleepy seaside resort of Bogton-under-the-Mere is plagued by an invasion of the old killer crapweed, Inspector Ernestina Gobshight is called in to investigate. Incapacitated by a severe case of the galloping runs, Ms. Gobshight turns her stinking en-suite at Ye Olde Fisherman's Hole into a Major Incident Room. Includes the welcome return of dastardly Professor Nosegay Von Pfart, plus dirty sox scenes interpolated by guest writer Yoni McEwans.

New at no. 2: "Foreign Matters" by Señor Coconut Macarooni. Entirely set during a single episode of downtown Llanfwllpyllgwyllediddion's all night fish'n'chip saga, "Cae-yr-Gerg", Macarooni's latest native alienation in South Wales is a tour-de-France of South Wales Native Alienation. Undistinguished by its weak links, this multi-lingual hipper text is typeset in no less than twelve hundred and thirty-four fonts. Comes complete with free pair of X-rated Spics and a packet of Mabinogion shorts (lubricated with 100% Welsh margarine).

Dropping to no. 3: In "The Swimming Cap" by Nylons De Spinster, Wroittenmouth Parish Council's decision to introduce a swimming cap at the local duck pond is greeted with flatulent berries, cries of outrage and an alliance between postal voters and Euro benefit touts. When the mean two-circuit pond limit is hiked by a Changing Booth Tax and increase in Locker Key Charge, the action moves to an election campaign in which voter turnout turns out against shades of wrotten again ent it missus?

No. 4: is a disqualified entry which is "Not on the coupon", no refund will be given and all deposits are forfeit. Passengers found reading this alleged book will be bound over to keep the peace for a period exceeding twenty shillings hardback. For copyright reasons, "Not on the coupon" is nfs in the USA or Canada.

Still at no. 5: "Six on the Beach" by Henrietta Clitorice is a thriller set in Times New Roman and bundled with Chelsea Clinton's 3 vol saga, "My Father", "Your Husband" & "Her Mouth". Recommended as easy reading for panty-hose supporters and accumulators of fake orgasm.

New entry at no. 6: "You Take The Highlands" by Citizen O'Cain. When Malcolm O'Busstop inherits Northern Scotland from his Uncle Ebenezer O'Sidcup, at first he is only dismayed by the odious responsibilities of Laird Provost that ownership of man & beast entails. However a couple of wee drams plus a smile or two from crumbly old Janet O'Craddock warms Malcolm O to his fate. Contains spoilers, traces of nut and artificial sweetners.

Achtung, diss banana iss loaded!

At no. 7 for its twenty-seventh year: "Jeanette Winterbum Is Not The Only Fruit" by vivisection expert, Gaye Wales. This collection of Northern English bush meat recipies is a must for all badge cullers and hunters of Tweety-Pie. Contains instructions for strangling and eating live stoat, hot-potting squirrel, half-baking weasel cake and - everyone's favourite - the ultimate buyer's guide to home made toad with wild pony sausage.

* All titles published by Shikser & Goy except "You Take The Highlands" published by Little Brown Jug.

Wondrous ten-bob Slap-Up with Toast

Crowned with Homburg

(from the album: Memories of The Lad)

And a right royal occasion it was, all and sundry being gathered in the Dog & Duck where a television set had been installed for regular customers to view the coronation of the old Queen In Person. Present in the boozer on that august afternoon was The Lad Himself, a ten-bob note itching in his pocket and a spark of joy in his heart. Licensing hours had been extended to an all-day drink-in, and the only thing missing was some poor blighter ready with the loot to play footsie with the bill.

How it then transpired that The Lad Himself was able to stand treat to a smoking parlour fairly chock-a-block with clientèle who can say - except that the Hand of Divine Interference had shown its... hand?

The Sock Puppet spoke with Sid, who was there in person at the event,

TSP: So how come The Lad Himself put his hand in his pocket? Was he known for such munificence?

Sid: Oh he had previous, but not on the same scale. And this was, after all, tantamount to a miracle.

TSP: In your own words, could you describe what occurred?

Sid: Well, there was no flash of lightning as such. More like a wobble in the mains supply, which caused the screen to flicker just as the actual crown was being placed on Her Royal Majesty's barnet by that geezer in a long cloak. The Lad took this as a sign, “See that?” he says. “There's a proper ripple in the Time-Space Consortium for you! Now, if we were ancient Romans, we would all be whistling three times and tossing salt & sesame seeds over our left shoulders. Talking of which, I could murder a chish and fips. Anyone care to join me?” Very stream-of-consciousness was The Lad after he'd sank a jar or two. Well, he must have spoken up a bit voluminous as next thing the whole parlour had taken him up on his offer. And before he could qualify what he actually meant, a young lad who had been hanging around at the off-sales door trying to scrounge a few coppers for some empties was packed off to the corner chippie with an order for over a hundred cod, chips mushy peas & a scallop each.”

TSP: Blimey!

Sid: Exactly what he said.

TSP: How much would all that grub come to?

Sid: In the old money? You wouldn't have got much change out of a pony. Chips had just gone up to a tanner, a nice piece of fish was half a dollar plus your peas and scallop would be thrown in for a groat. No 'family specials' in them days

TSP: Phew! But how did he of slender pockets manage to pay for that lot with only a brownie in his trousers?

Sid: Search me! A bloody miracle if ever there was. The best thing about it, as soon as the packets of fish and chips started to arrive, he blurted out, “I suppose you'll all be wanting a pint or two to wash that lot down?” “Too right we will, Squire!” came the answer and the next thing everyone in the house was ordering themselves doubles on his tab.

TSP: Strewth, doubles?

Sid: Oh yes, they was blatant: two pints of this, two of that, Aussie Whites in schooners not docks, port and lemon by the lady's glass and bottles of Mackesons in fist-fulls. Pretty soon they were panicking behind the bar lest the place was drunk dry before the crowning was over and Her Royal Majesty was tearing back to The Palace in her coach and six.

TSP: Now that would have been a crying shame. Did they run out of sauce?

Sid: Did they wax! The Landlord was a crafy old so-and-so, putting rumours like that about. "Steady on," he shouts, "there'll be nothing left to toast Her with when She appears on the balcony."

TSP: What do you mean by crafty?

Sid: He said it while tipping a wink at The Lad Himself, who being caught off his guard, says, "A Toast?" in a questioning-like voice. Of course, all the savvy punters in there took it to mean he was offering another, so they'll all piped in with more orders.

TSP: You don't say!

Sid: I do!

TSP: This is a pack of lies, innit?

Sid: Suit yourself, mate!

TSP: I will, thank you very much. A black & tan with a packet of pork scratchings, there, please.

Sid: Put a sock in it!

Pull the other one!

Old Queen Meets New Popeye

wiv apologies to, erm... David Bailey

A Sock Puppet Exclusive

Reports that Her Majesty The Queen had “been in to see the new Popeye” had been circulating within the Circle Line since the end of Lent. The Sock Puppet, speaking on a party line, managed to track down Ms Windsor and here is a transcript of the royal convo...

HMQ: Good mawning, Buckingham Palace, how can one help you?

TSP: G'day, Yer Royal Madge, it's the old Sock Puppet here...

HMQ: Sooo naice of you to cawl...

TSP: Etcetera, etcetera... flipping heck... the clocks running at five hundred quid a minute... Nah wot's all this about you going in to to see the new man in the white sailor-suit?

HMQ: Mr Popeye? Simply charming fellow! Weed been meaning to drorp in on him for yaarz.

TSP: So where did this historic investiture take place?

HMQ: Wee believe it was in the home of his long term companion, a Ms Olive Oyl. They share a charming cottage, just this side of the tracks, one believes the saying goes.

TSP: Gosh, that musta been an adventure for yuz. Was yer old fellah to hand?

HMQ: Philip Duke of Edinburgh? He did put in an appearance, yaas.

TSP: Drove you there in the old Coach & Six?

HMQ: We really don't recall.

TSP: Did Ms Oyl offer yuz owt in the way of a bevvy? I don't suppose there was any scones, wot? How about the hot apple pie with the old melted cheese?

HMQ: Delicious! We hev always been partial to American delicacies.

TSP: I take it there woz the traditional exchange of graft?

HMQ: If you are referring to the pyramid of tinned spinach in the place yard, yaas there was a spot of gifting in the air.

TSP: Wot did you give in return?

HMQ: We believe a solid gold briar was involved.

TSP: Quite the practical momento. But it's generally thought your royal madge was strictly Walt Disney?

HMQ: Hmm, these days one has to have catholic tastes in one's job. One meets so many different characters.

TSP: So one would say one was amused, would one?

HMQ: Upon our word we would!

TSP: Any what if old Johnny Newshound should get hold of the story?

HMQ: We should have him sent over to the Tower dog house!

TSP: So who's next for the Royal vulture-swoop? Alf Garnett? Andy Capp?

HMQ: We shall tell you whom we hev always longed to visit...

TSP: Not Steptoe & Son's is it? The blooming Royale family?

HMQ: What ghastly thoughts! No, it would be to Christopher Robin's haice. We would SO like to be introduced to his friend Mr Bear.

TSP: To young Christopher Robin's place? Well, that would make a change for the guards. I suppose Alice would have to be in on it?

HMG: One dares say she would.

TSP, Thank you Ma'am for your kind condescension in speaking to one as lowly as I.

HMQ: Oh don't mention it, you old footster. Just be a good fellow and let us hang up first...

[brrr.....]

TSP: She's gone, bless 'er 'art. Spose it'll be orf wiv me big toe if I publish this?

Ed: Nah, go on! Love it, doan they? Probaly a new set of garters in it for yuh.

never dorf!

usquebaugh

I

so you wanna log off eh
leave us to them bastards
well here's to taking the shortcake
just wait till you're shy of a bobbie
never mind all the oil that's gone anyway
you'll be back bark my words Walter
MacDoughnut or whatever you caber-tossing
call yourself in scrutable Glaswegian
double Dutch with a single Maltese
clear as a crock of black and tans

now Braveheart that film done by the distinguished
racist what does freedom mean anyroad
using terms like Mick and Scouse not kyke or spic
no offence officer just broadcasting
how language divergence gives a rise
to cowardly ranters & chancers of hate
while putting down common folk as clowns & fools
wasn't it Yeats himself said cocks to moorcocks
call as the stream divides at rascal rock
whatever the kicked beauty of liberty's ball
all we hear are the racy sirens
droning from the terraces of either side
okay you win take your mascots with you'll
see if we care when your new friends have moved in

and there you have it independence night
what a riot that'll be kilts hung out
on Princess Street underpass bared to the moon
the bridewells too will be full let's be honest
as many jocks banged up for the duration
as takes to sort a hunter from the herdsmen
from god's speed to mainline heroine
those without eyes fixed on Waverley
will curse the perfidious Sassanach
one last time for letting the cattle out

II

where would we be now hadn't Scott Watt
Janet Cameron young Finlay & all come down
from high & low to England's rushy glens

serious moment when James the sixth hit town
one fell scotch and the whole craft
of English poetry stroke religion was sorted

aye the Stuarts were scarcely as alien
as those jacobiting Hanoverians always waving
their darned arms about like spoilt children

who but Edinburgh lads had clipped Latin ears
slapped Oxbridge saddles on Greek donkeys and cursed
it was the boilers of the ship needed stroking
stuck full square to the guns while the rest of Europe
sank into its own black hole of Midlothian


aye we've had our moments have we not
from the heights of Abraham to the Khyber pass
covering each other's backsides but all that's past

nowadays the world's no bed of oysters
no mess of pottage to trade in gimcrack
for blood unlike treasure cannot be repaid

Britannia's colours a symbol of peace huh
scorned by the west pirated in the east
waved like handbags plastered on shorts
red rags to bullshit & anthems to a deaf horse

six Georges slayed no dragons just Franks in chains
their banner stripped of its Kojak
by Irish rebellion and Welsh exclusion
caught in the cross-hairs of star-crossed martyrs


and so we turn to the future for better
or worse to spread the costs of these blasted isles
four tribes crammed into a split level condominium

a pity the world don't get to choose who stays on
what goes down a reality show to tune in
vote out your rantings please on twitter

and what about the views of ex-pats
migrants turfed out of crofts and lofts
that never forgot who owes what and don't
neglect to mention Gloucester or Kent in the
division of the kingdom what's poetry
for if not to warn us of her story beware
of Trojan ponies and other Ponzi schemes
to get rich quick and be your neighbour's envy

III

right lads let's drink one last to the oldest lineup
of conspirators the modern world has had the pleasure
who may not be perfect certainly not saintly

here we come this formidable bunch of lags
marching left right & centre forward
in step out of step on your lady's chamber
asking respectfully Ma'am and in deference
to familiarity with supreme
permission to splice the mainbrace

a toast please raise your glasses ladies gents
boys & girls everyone in the audience
all stand piper strike up the pentatonic
should awld acquaintance be forgot we'll take one
cup of kindness still for the sake of old lang's ayne


as if we didn't now that England ain't done
yet it'll take more than Dad's Army to sort
out this porridge Pike Frazer you're in charge

for those not in on the joke I'll deconstruct
that last verse hell no postmodernism sucks
suffice to say the English will survive

like hell Scotland don't you realise
south of the border they're hooked on steroids
one word from Finlay and down comes Cameron's foot

that's it you're off the snake oil old man
cut to casebook thirty-nine Janet they're saying
you gave birth to Lulu in the village shop not
important Scottish women mark these words
it's time the world's worst secret was overheard


they've always left you nix and you'll get
even less when your party dress is pawned
to drown the baby out with stout
play the English lass florid nightingales
and sing them off their pretty Pomeranians

they were still ironing the curtain when
I was in Berlin before it all came down
no place to observe the fall of Ms Brodie
old Hadrian himself was haunting the battlements
you could hear the heathen cry when they stripped him
of his golden togs and tossed them over the wall

usquebaugh Janet yer man's still on the go stay
put and sup one more cup with Tom before you blow

Afore Ye Go!

Fishnet Dude

dude steals across field

fence down signs swing like barn doors

way out of site

no entry is free

coupla good old boys scratch heads and get to their feet

thumbs in waistcoat dude addresses them on the price of fish

proof enough for me brother

common ground around here

earlier dude has sight of deeds in private vault

the words big cheese corp copperlate on manila envelope

soon talking heads helluva crowd pack into that field

check out prices boys uptown downtown turnaroundtown

cod shrimp scampi red snappers fresh whitebait

seahorse porpoise jellyfish & lobster all squarely kettled

in genteel quadriles of debate

bring up mullet herring or whelk tho'

and comic tempers may be frayed to a whoop

yet sportmanlike no smacked wrists for sticklers or touts

this overhead thru din of revels

how come so few cats dig this line of jive while thems that do talk the back legs off an octopus

don’t know what they missing eh bub

these days balmy days old dude hat checks and bows

newcomers in with welcomes & grooms

waffles and root beer on sale right here ma’am

coconut shy to your left sir

tombola on center kids

everythink a dime a throw

O man does the coin sack up a treat

one time word comes in of fish stocks washed up on lake shore

somewheres over farraway hills

long uns bloaters cute little tiddlers all crack tails and croak

bayloads just beached for the asking

should it be bells ringing or hands a-wringing

nature or nurture not sure O fishnet dude do tell

whither should we proceed with bucket and spade

but no answer comes from dude of any fish hole outing

a sorry blow to long-winders and anti-pork talkers

though many ain’t moved past an oh & an ah

while the more vocal gainsters just plain stone-wall

it too far away they pipe

poisoned fish got no price tag these parts

and what else is there to say

get the heck outta here if you wanna talk that snit

objectionable stink arises and abates

fluctuates as the wind picks up

then veers south

sky gleams deep blue grey

very ground appears to shift

whence old dude does quick line of nosepicks & shovels hollering

dig in all those that are sticking it out

so loud even stray cats hear his voice trailing off

meantime good old boys go round

with placcards proclaiming ground rent is due

and what secret code shuffles in that ornery phrase

suddenly all fish talk turns to bubbles

dude has sold out to big cheese corp

why yes it’s as your honour gassed

this whole land’s worth a googleplex in fracking rights

pip pip hooray hooray hooray

six months on winter has set in

the stolen ground frozen underfoot

stampers grumble over tinned pilchards

sardines in tabasco sauce© & all you can net for cheap

Philip Lee, 2013

Where's the Catch?

Battlefield 5

Preview Only

bed time militias don't feel safe unless

in danger teeing off at breaking links

patriot missives from hollowood stars

for atmosphere it's past between the wars

of rich hobos much grumbling in the ranks

say yellow brick roads to they shall not pass

whoever saw the preacher ride his ass

through Babel gates held down by hover tanks

just watch as their best minds trip on the shores

while all they pack are fuel deficient cars

free transfat food and taste disposal sinks

that put no end to the godawful mess

behold the nation gave the humble sting

a new decade of life drove out the king

headphones on kids & family guys play

silence shake this floor of the building

drive little pony wagon circles

back to the furniture of the West

get thee face paint protection witness

back up the nursery bedknobs &

broomsticks for muskets sandbags pillows

c'mon you zombie hides we is ready

boy do those death jackets run us close

thrown out their god with the dishwasher

how many lives you had Bud got one

shucks they sure keep surging round for more

no Ma'am bedtime ain't due till we're through

Pa's turn to do the fort anyhow

yes sir game never starts till it's over

dead men on sticks don't fumble at the catch

aiming sightless becomes the blind rover

for he who dips his oar dares a re-match

point the way Methuselah won't delay

yr welcome any time you want take off

players the umpire called peace is gay

hand ball clean bowled or side-lined at the cuff

links and flog a laugh from the derrières

of horse's rights go diva saddle up

Pompey call off duty pillow fighters

dream on suicide storm in stirrup cup 

ain't those death flirts left you sleepy at all
sonny boy no girl throw that dicey ball

Jan '14

Never Play!

Masters of Sox

- or -

Sock Puppet's Christmas Thang

It being the season of good will, the crust on the yule logs as it were still deep & crisp & even, we decided to give old Sock Puppet the evening off. This was a sly move on our part, as we had the dirty old foot-fiend tailed to see where it would go and - more to the point - what it would do. In a cheap hotel behind Kings Cross Station, the randy object meets up with that notorious floozie, Xmas Stocking. They have a swiftie at the bar before retiring. There follows a transcript of their conjugation:

Xmas Stocking: Don't know about you, Squire, but I could murder a large Ugg!

Sock Puppet: Waiter! Large Ugg for the nice broad, and make mine a double DocMartens.

Waiter: Uggs and Docs, both in pairs. Will there be anything else?

XS: What's you got?

Waiter: Let me see now, there's pig's trotters, cheesy's sarnies and soles in batter on special. Or we could do you a nice mixed platter.

SP: I think the snifters will be enough for now. Can you bring us a platter up to our room later on?

Waiter: Why certainly!

XS: They is good in here, ain't they?

SP: You wouldn't think so if you had to foot the bill.

XS: So what you been up to since then?

SP: This and that.

XS: That's interesting. Come on, then, give my gusset a bit of a wring!

SP: There you are! Cor! You been hung out to dry or what?

XS: Well, business has been slack since Christmas.

SP: Cheer up, I've got a decent length of elastic tucked into my folds.

XS: I could certainly use a good twanging.

SP: Keeps the cold out. How's your father?

XS: Same as ever, the old fraudster. This is supposed to be his busy time of the year, of course. If you ask me, though, he's flogging a dead reindeer. There ain't much peace and love going these days. Bloody Yanks and Russians!

SP: I see you're careful not to mention any Arabs.

XS: Not by name, no. You gotta put your best punters first, even when you don't know who they is half of them.

SP: I blame the wise men and shepherds.

XS: Picked a wrong 'un, didn't they?

SP: How can you trust people who wash their socks round the fire at night? They're either thick as two shorts planks or too clever for their shirts.

XS: So you think they should do it all over again?

SP: Can't hurt to stage a rematch.

Waiter: Your order!

SP: What's the name, young fellah?

Waiter: Peter Gabriel.

XS: He's down on his luck, poor lamb!

Waiter: Enjoy!

SP: See where I'm getting to?

XS: What about turning the other cheek?

SP: Come here, let's be having you!

The remainder of this recording has been deemed unsuitable for viewers of a general disposition. However, in the interests of science, our photographer concealed himself in the wardrobe and we present his findings below:

Sleuthwitch Franchise - NO DEAL

$9m plus for the

Sleuthwitch franchise?

“Chicken feed!” says Lee.

Arnie Goy and The Sock Puppet at the Carlo Marx Bingo Club, Lune Press

After a three-cornered bidding war, the Sock Puppet has been informed, Lee turns down a book/TV serial deal worth $9m (six-of-large English). The sock puppet spoke to Arnold Goy (of Shiksa & Goy), who headed up the bidders' consortium.

Carlo Marx Bingo Club, London.

Waiter: What'll it be, then?


Goy: A large single malt, neat and without ice, please.


Waiter: And for the broad? I mean... for the snake?


The Sock Puppet: I'll have a DocMarten's.


Waiter: Boot or shoe?


TSP: A shoe, please.


Waiter: Black or ox-blood?


TSP: Ox-blood.


Waiter: What size?


TSP: A 9½.


Waiter: Laced or slip-on?


Goy: For pity's sake!


TSP: Laced, please.


Waiter: Left or right foot?


Goy: Just bring the bloody pair!


Waiter: With or without Odor-Eaters?


Goy: Will you clear off? Right, now I'm ready to answer your questions.


TSP: OK, you offered Lee $9m for a book he hasn't even finished? You're on the weed again, aren't you?


Goy: Clean as a whistle, Squire! 'Struth is, Lee hasn't had much free time of late, but his idea is a total smasher. A real blinder. A Bobby Dazzler. A Jammy Riddler!


TSP: Oh, aye? Who else was bidding?


Goy: Little Brown Jug was in there, as were Random Plot. On the TV side, we had interest from FocksTales and heXTV.


TSP: heXTV, the witchy porn channel?


Goy: Well, there exists some scope for kissing, cuddles and a bum smack or two in the book.


TSP: You were turning Lee's latest tome into a piece of Satan Smut?


Goy: Begging your honour's pardon, there was nothing smutty about the deal. Largely tasteful, it was, and suitable for persons of severable dispositions.


TSP: Severable, eh? I'm not surprised the author turned you down. How could he live up to himself?


Goy: Worse things have happened in space!


TSP: Lee's not a fizzled out comet, man! Not one of your flipping cheese graters, either; he'd rather leave his work on the back seat of a trolleybus than have it turned into someone's slush fund. What would he do with that kind of money anyway? Buy himself a tractor?


Goy: He could do with a new tractor, yes; and a decent pair of reading glasses.


TSP: You leave him alone. He's quite happy as he is.


Goy: Exactly how many copies of his first novel has he sold exactly?


TSP: Exactly? There's no need to be starkers!


Goy: Come on, how many is it, after eighteen months on sale?


TSP: I'd have to check the website.


Goy: I'll save you the trouble. In eighteen months he has sold a grand total of one book.


TSP: An achievement in itself! But sales have been slow with your world economic crisis. People don't like shelving out, see, rather spare their cutter for cheap sex and booze.


Goy: He's a flipping dreamer.


TSP: The man's a hartist.


Goy: You mean he's wasting the hair he breathes. He should pull over and leave some other schmuck ago.


TSP: Who's stopping them?


Goy: There should be a law against it.


Waiter: Here's your order, gentle... z.


Goy: Did I say I wanted ice?


Waiter: That's not ice, sir; those are shards of broken glass.


TSP: Well these shoes are a lovely fit, both of them! Just smell that leather! Cheers, Big Ears!



Goy: Up yours, Pussy Foot!

Never Sign!

poetry republic
8 members welcome readers/writers/critics

Books we've read

The Society Of The Poem
by Jonathan Raban

Literary Theory: An Introduction
by Terry Eagleton

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