Meeting Herr Mann

Without Apologies

Diane, the very image of Punk Diva, stares into the eyes of Fanny Geezer,

Got no probs with kinky for inst. Hands on hips, white fingers bursting from black lace mitts, she pouts, You tie, I tie, all the same to me. A girl gone mental to be pierced in unusual ways, she wears a jewelled padlock on platinum necklace. Though the accent is half-borrowed, you can tell she half-believes all that way-out crap, You should see my regulars having their 'Specials'. She winks, Whereas you, my darling, will be on the house.

Manfred smiles, as the joke is pretty telling of her: staking a claim on his rent-boy arse, then fishing for a spot of the old barter. Very witty. Cast your eyes on her sluttish poise: Carnaby Street written all over it. Clearly this young femme means to GET THE LOT DONE before her last stab at fatale is carted from the building.

Picture me in a boy scout's outfit?

Manfred takes a sidelong glance. Her eyes, like a puppet's, slot away. She giggles,

Whatever.

He mirrors her far-gone look before answering. The long lip which follows really shows how much his feelings are meshed. Truth is, he's thinking, no pull should be this easy,

Aw, love-a-duck, not another bloody 'virgin'. How many ways there are to lose it these days? Still, I adore your taste in clothes, Sweetness. Certainly, you may come to the ball! Let me welcome you with this little peck. He kisses her primly on the cheek, But I'm afraid there is one itsy-bitsy issue. He takes two Gaulois from the crush pack, lights both and hands her the snout, I can't offer you the complete pleasure dome chez-moi.

Diane gulps down the smoke, bringing a dilation to her pupils. She almost twigs,

Oh my gosh, is someone waiting up for you?

And Manfred all but misses the beat, only to recover by tossing his quiff and speaking in rapid fire,

Er... No impediment on that socre, ducky. Even if I had some great hunk of a fella waiting on me - which I'm not saying I hain't - it would be no business of his anyroad, would it? So what about yours?

The answer catches in her throat,

My... what?

Manfred peers into her false-coloured eyes. She tries again,

My boyfriend? I ain't got one.

He tuts,

Silly darling. Couldn't face another threesome tonight, not with these nerves. What I meant to say was, can we stage this little tryst in your place rather than mine?

*

Di pretends to mull over the scenario, before committing to the inevitable. Which once settled, an empty bench-seat presents itself. They sit down like awkward sisters, sucking on their ciggies in silence.

To pull someone at a gig is great fun. Going round to theirs – especially a stranger's – even more so. Lately, she's seen enough of her own gaff in Victoria. To dive into any old hole would be preferable to kicking the stray unmentionables under her bed. But the last tube won't wait for a better catch. At least, now the deal has been brokered, she can relax and slip exploring fingers under that to-kill-for blue velvet jacket.

Brut mingles with patchouli, cool lips brush ticklish throat. The fine stubble of his cheek sends little shudders up and down her Lumbar vertebrae. Not that different really.

*

I told you it would work, Manfred. A dead cert every time. Des the Elder, provider of wisdom & snouts, proffers a No. 6 from his pack of ten, They're so curious they can't resist. You get loads of that sort down the old Drag Night. Didn't I tell the absolute?

It's only lunch-hour so our man, despite the fact he's having a drink, declines the cancer,

I feel a bloody fraud, and that's not the worst of it. This girl I got off with the week before last... She's called Diane... Well, we've taken to each other. I mean, she SAYS she's really into me. Meanwhile she happens to be the exact clever little sexpot I've been on the lookout for... forever...

So what's your problem?

Come on, Desmond. I'm serious and she thinks I'm a shirt-lifter. She hasn't even guessed I might be just another rag-and-bone merchant. So what if there's more to me than a quick mash-up of eel & pie? I am licked, mate. And it's all your fault.

For a few moments, Des seems to remain deep in thought, stroking his chin between deep puffs on the short cigarette. Actually, it's his round and probably the kitty is bare. He's spent the last ten minutes toying with an empty beer glass in hints that young Manfred – who's training to be something in the City - can finish the job. Surely, having scored on Des's sound advice, the winner should do the honours at least one more time? But this complication over the girl's assumption has queried the pitch. His frown seems to ask, what's her game, anyhow? Wait on, though, perhaps something is smouldering in there? Desmond smiles,

Easy-peasy! You GO STRAIGHT on her, my man. TURN HETERO. You say she's been a revelation. Tell her you're in love with a woman for the second time in your life. He drops his voice to a stage whisper, I take it she's worth the countdown?

Manfred's eyes go 5-4-3-2-1. Des winks,

That's sorted, then. Tell her you never thought tart could taste so sweet. Say she's cured you of the bug.

Manfred leans across the table and draws a cigarette out anyway,

Steady on, there, old fruit. Being gay is not an illness in the modern world. Besides... blimey, how shall I put this? I adapted certain mannerisms on that cabaret night which I just can't shake off without giving the game away.

Des shakes his head in disgust,

What d'you mean? Looking at men's bums and whistling? Sitting with your pins crossed?

Manfred stares down at his legs, which are thrust out in front of him. He draws up his knees,

I do that anyway. It's these little flicks of the head I've picked up, and the way I hold my torso... He sticks his chest out and rocks from side-to-side on the bones of his arse. Also I've been using camp phrases like, “Spectacular, Mrs Coward!” or “I'd give my left testicle for a pair like those!” I think she's even turned on by my Cliff Richard impression.

Stone the crows, sunshine, you are in a jar.

Manfred already knows Diane's hair is naturally light brown and red-wedged. In case the reader hasn't already sussed, we're in the late 1970s here, the very Zenit of original punk. Not that this archetypal dilemma isn't somehow outside of all time warps. But in those glorious days, the tyrannous era of women uprooting their privets is still some ways off. Diane's secret garden has been well explored: by touch in the dark recesses of The Lyceum and Camden Town's Electric Ballroom; and by sight, at her place in Victoria under the glare of lights on. So when he finally clocks her stepping off the District Line at Wimbledon tube, he is trebly gobbed. Firstly because she has dyed her top knots anything other than jet black. Secondish because she has somehow chosen that natural reddy brown of her own. Furthermore, the plank-in-the-eye truth is, she's wearing a green blazer, white skirt and tennis shoes without - and here's the clencher - socks. The pleated skirt is short and her long curvaceous pins are utterly bare. The whole effect is simply spectacular, Mrs Coward,

So you've changed, Diane, my pet.

I know. I look and feel completely ridiculous.

She doesn't look as if she feels ridiculous. Manfred puts a hand over his heart,

You could be the young Virginia Wade. So where's your tennis racquet?

Incredibly, and in spite of her complete switch of image, the green blazer carries something over from the military fetishes of yesterday's punk outfits. The girl is a true artist. He takes her arm, as chivalry seems to be the state of play,

You have done it again, haven't you?

Diane smiles innocently,

Have I? What have I done?

Never mind. I've forgotten what I was going to say in the first place.

As they turn out of the station and head towards the High Street, the object of beauty looks about her with relish. Despite living in London all her life, she claims she's never been to Wimbledon before,

So, Manfred, you're finally taking me back to your place?

He nods, having stuck his neck out on the phone to say that yes - purely on spec - a quick pop in and out was called for.

Can't wait for it! Quite posh round here, innit? Got any room-mates? 

She'll have to take him as found. Gives his hand a little squeeze in store. Her palm is already sopping. As soon as they're indoors, she'll expect to leap onto leather sofa, strip off and bonk each other's brains out. That sofa, what a dirty lie! And what will become of him, strutting indoors, arm-in-arm with this bare-legged smasher? For Pete's sake, she's dimpled behind the knees! What will she say when he leads her into the old family living room, sits her down on the settee and does the introductions,

Diane, my precious, this is the jolly old Mater and this smarmy-faced schoolboy is my brother Herman?

A suitable pause, then?

Herr Mann? Such a brilliant name? Charming place to be brought up? And jolly pleased to meet you, too, Mrs Noone? I'm afraid I've been dragged here under false pretences? The victim of a heartless conman? But enough of that, already? Herr Mann, don't squint at my legs, dear, you'll go blind. Tell me straight, how are your grades?

Far Be It From Me

(transcript at foot of post)

Face-to-face criticism of someone's grammar, eating habits, the way they dress... all risky enterprises. Like the average Joe or Josephine, I'd as soon tell a ticket happy traffic cop she were a corrupt little snitch as ask the man at the supermarket checkout for a bag of oatmeal on tick. Such things are taboos, hypothetical situations best left to rise and fall in nightmare visions. Therefore, when Ramazan comes round and most good folk are supposedly fasting, I tend to keep the old trap shut in public.

It's better to stick to what you know than to stick your head in where it's surely unwelcome. For instance, I was brought up in what we would innocently call a Christian country. Nowadays, that kind of remark has become politically incorrect. Though I've lived for over twenty years in a country that is overwhelmingly Muslim, even here the urge to use such language precludes many people from calling this a Muslim country, so as a rule I don't. And even a coupla decades is not long enough for me to become that familiar with the practices here to write critically of them. I can't even speak about circumcision, for example, or the wearing of headscarves, without hedging my remarks down into meaningless banalities. "My mum always used to wear a scarf to go out," I say, "until along came hairspray." Or, "My cousin was circumcised at birth and he's neither a Jew nor a Muslim." Heck, what do I even know about anything?

What the heck I know about fasting is based only on personal experience when, around thirty years ago, I took part in a series of sponsored fasts that were organised by peace movement groups in conjunction with the charity War On Want. For example, we did one over Christmas '82 outside the Royal Ordnance Factory at Burghfield near Reading. Starting on the 24th of December, we all went without food for five full days. Unlike the Muslim fast, which ends at sunset each day with a feast, we ate nothing at all. However, also unlike the Muslims, we allowed ourselves drinks - water and black unsweetened tea. Of course, had we not drunk anything, we would all have been in hospital long before the five days were up. Thirst is not something anyone would want to do for twenty-four hours, which everyone should know.

Going without food for a few days is hardly as risky - provided you're not a diabetic, suffer from heart disease or even mild digestive conditions. It also helps if you're not alone in the undertaking. Stamping outside the gates of ROF Burghfield, we got through the first day - Christmas Eve - without much trouble. I think those of us who were drinkers craved our Christmas ales & tots more than the mince pies our friends and relatives at home were scoffing. The only physical side effects of the first 24 hours were waking up on Christmas morning with wrenching guts, a touch of nausea and a strange light headedness.

That lightness of being persisted throughout the second day, during which we were visited by many sponsors, other well-wishers and the odd reporter, most of whom curious to know how it felt going hungry when everyone else was getting stuffed. While some fasters were happy to rattle on about the politics of spending trillions of pounds on weapons of mass destruction as a quarter of the planet went starving, some of us spent much of the day dreaming up and sharing menus - food lists that became more and more bizarre as the sun went down.

It was at various times during Christmas Night that several of us got up to be sick. "That's the bile coming out," said one experienced faster, as though vomiting were part of a healing process. Our stomachs being empty - apart from the residues of many cups of tea - there was nothing to chunder that wasn't a throat burning, foul smelling slime. Morning on day three was when the smokers found they couldn't smoke any more. Having happily puffed their way thus far, the nicotine now went straight up to their heads and down into their guts. Those poor souls had to cope with drug withdrawl as well as hunger. So Boxing Day was a day of ears buzzing in the brittle December wind and an inner chill settling in.

Surprisingly, the fourth and fifth days were much easier than the second and third. We started to shun tea for plain boiled water. We had headaches but felt little pain and less nausea inside us. Our food fantasies lingered on, became even more abstract indeed, but less craving. One guy kept going on about kippers with custard, which became a lovely image for even those of us who were vegetarians. Food morphed into an abstract concept. Around this time, a psychologist supporter turned up and told us we were now like primitive hunter gatherers who had been out in the field for so long that our instinctual survival mechanisms had kicked in.  Natural opiates were dulling our hunger and the jokes we were sharing were evidence our brains were drawing on fat reserves to keep us sharp. He then went on to show a parallel between our situation and that of people living in drought areas of Africa. This was interesting and prescient (in retrospect) since the famine in Sudan and Ethiopia which led to Band Aid was still a year or so in the future. Some of us began to suggest that, having attracted some local media attention, we extend the fast indefinitely and make a bid for World Peace. We were hallucinating, of course.

Doctors and children can tell you everything you need to know about refusing food. Doctors will say, eat regularly if you want to stay healthy and the best diet of all is three light meals a day. As most children know, the best way to get what you want is to refuse your food. The hunger strike takes fasting to its illogical conclusion, death. Bobby Sands had gone that way only a year or so before, refusing food while imprisoned for Provisional IRA activity. Actually, I believe many of us in the peace movement at the time had much sympathy with the so-called Nationalist side in The Troubles. But the death of Bobby Sands was a feature of the struggle with Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government we cared not to identify with in public. There are so many taboos associated with the eating and non-eating of food - or certain foods - but our aim was not confrontation. Perhaps our protest was idealistic or even child-like, but we really were seeking to heal the planet.

Towards the end, there was a great feeling of togetherness at the temporary Peace Camp; but finally the fast broke up with most of us going our separate ways on the evening of the fifth day. I got a lift into London, where I spent the night with some old friends. I broke my fast with a bowl of vegetable soup. I wasn't ravenous at all. Perhaps my stomach had shrunk? The next morning, I had a half a bowl of muesli and then caught the bus back to Liverpool, a door-to-door journey of about eight hours. Not looking particularly thin, nor demanding a whole Christmas pud to myself, the old family and friends were dubious I had really gone the full five days without eating. So, somewhat disappointingly for a stoyteller, there was no slaughtering of fatted calf at the return of this prodigal.

When you finish something like this, it's tempting to talk about "the conquest of desire" as though a battle has been fought and won. In fact, fasting's parallels with military conquest are scanty or, at best, dubious. Though the importance of comradeship is paramount (to employ one of Margaret Thatcher's favourite words, as in, "the wishes of the islanders are paramount"), there is no orgy of victory. Instead, the participant is left with a quiet strength. In this kind of fasting, hunger is curbed and so no feasting is either desired or appreciated.

Transcript of above from Reading's Red Rag (Britain's only newspaper) Dec 1982:

A MOST BORING HEWS ITEM

Britain's only newspaper interviewed a spokesperson from the Burghfield Peace Campaign who are currently holding a fast outside the Royal Ordinance Factory at Burghfield. 25/12/82.

r.r. How many of you are taking part in the fast?

s.p. About 20 or so.

r.r. Where are you actually holding the fast?

s.p. Most fasters are sat at a brazier by the back gate of the factory, but there is continuous presence at the front, entrance and we've got a portacabin for shelter.

r.r. Have you had a lot of support?

s.p. Yes, we've had a steady stream of visitors, and lots of support from passing cars.

r.r. What about madia coverage?

s.p. We've been interviewed by the Post and Chronicle, Thames and TVS television and Radio 210. On the other hand the BBC said it a was the most boring news item they'd ever heard. We said the person in question was the most cynical person we'd ever spoken to.

r.r. What did you have for Christmas dinner?

s.p. A cup of hot water.

r.r. What about the vegetarians?

s.p. Ecologically and Ideologically sound water.

r.r. Fluoride Free?

s.p. Oh No! Blast!

- The fasters will be there 'til midnight on Tuesday pointing out the connections between Arms spending and world hunger. They are also raising funds for War on Want and any donations or support are of course welcome.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

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!