little snides on the side

 

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Excerpt:

union baron knights

syndicated dudes the odd

working citizen

who supports this poor

replicant or Phony Bear

down the woods today

got a big surprise

waiting no more Robin Hood’s

nest of merry folk

just the Sheriff’s tax

gatherer & crossbow squad

covering the loot

when they’re not at work

hunting feral boar this lot

sacks of dripping meat

Alice serve these folks

half of them are vegans blood

thirsty hounds the rest

let us not get pole

axed no sorry polarised

polar beared indeed

cuddly toys aside

what we need’s a human being

doesn’t have to sing

dance or prattle jokes

grasping villains by the throat

wring their filthy necks

no a milder bod

someone like a rock mid stream

fit to hold a bridge

gives it left & right

sometimes straight between the lines

always fair & clean

best of all immune

absolutely quid pro quotes

every little truth

tell you what let’s draw

who’s to win our hearts & minds

sketch them up from scratch

have the polls decide

which depiction super sleuth

or romantic lead

pixilation rate

grab an oligarch’s bequest

cheap at half the price

leave the rest to fate

folks will vote on everything

leadership without

not on my foot!

The Upside of Down (Again)

 

i - With Slouch of Beast

An idiot and a madman are out mooching with their guns. The madman says, “Look, Pat!” and lunges at some imaginary foe with the old rifle and bayonet, “Stick it where it hurts!” he cries. “Don’t like it, do they? Jolly well don’t...”

So yer idiot just stands there, gawping at the madman for about five seconds. Then his face goes all dead pan and he shouts, like he was calling for his sarnies and stout, “Aw, just shoot the bastards.”

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang… sudden shots are exchanged across the clearing. Idiot and madman hit the deck simultaneously as fire bursts from clumps of bushes on either side. Bish, bang wallop, so to speak, bodies slump outta gaps in the shrubs, land on the turf, brains shot out.

“Are they all down?” asks the idiot (incidentally played here by Mr B. Spoke Hoolligan).

“Everyone but you and I!” cries the madman. “So, where’s our loot?”

“Follow me! I’ll be right behind ya!”

ii - ceci n’est pas un poème

Belarus invades

Europe using migrant hordes

screaming human rights

first deployed are god

bombers next come hoodies bare

armed with frightened kids

foreign language food

vendors then inscrutable

music smells of feet

images that pluck

Western consciences & serve

sanction servers right

till with cocaine end

games & heroin the White

Russian horde prevails

iii - Lost The Plot Lines

#1: You’re accused of possessing a dangerous weapon, the bullet that kills you. At the inquest, a PC (2b politically correct) says it was resisting arrest. Also cited, a dodgy safety catch, and lights that had changed. Thankfully, objections overruled, the judge orders pizza without coleslaw; and the jury retire for another recount.

#2: Corporation tricks the rich into believing their minds can be transferred into cloned copies of themselves as youngsters, then go on to lead second lives in new locations. But all that’s moved is the punters’ loot into accounts controlled by a gang of high tech perps. Loretta d’Orgazmo investigates.

#3: Private crimes require a private dick. Someone pour gear oil over your aura? Insulted by your bridesmaid/best man? A sibling escaped to warmer climes leaving you to care for the aging crone? Your neighbour's a snark for the Fashion Cops? Never mind, Nevin the Nose will sort you out. Family secrets uncovered with discretion, skeletons put firmly back in the closet, dirty washing taken in for questioning, and all your opinions vetted for deadly snake venom/snide.

#4: And in other news; rape trials fall apart after perpetrators turn into undercover cops. Fire brigades seek arsonists for insurance work. Nuclear submarines on standby used as canteens by people smugglers. Social media moghul pushes window cleaner off ladder. Incompetent surgeon wins own hospital in fake draw. Story teller found beaten senseless with selfie-sticks at lakeside beauty spot. Six year-old shoe shine boy behind hoax anthrax cure. & etc..

#5: By the way, we are being watched. Right now. Everything said, done and thought by us is going down in a report that will land on someone's desk at 10:15 tomorrow. The question is whether they are bothered to read it. Shall we buy their lazy, good-for-nothing indifference? Well, that’s just fine. But there’s no need to contact them. As we know, they’ll learn our decisions within 24 hours. And meanwhile, on Episode Two…

iv - Tripi Palet

don’t go making fun

now we know where joking leads

all our yesterdays

Black & Asian folk

got their issues pick a bone

anywhere you like

still it’s rich a Home

Secretary invokes Canute

fighting on the bitch

chess it ain’t them pawns

multiracial types the whites

outta sight tonight

cross the channel while

Sharon’s underwater raft

puts to sea in chains

v - Joe Blob on A Cooking Sock

If I remember correctly, their language was filthy and at root they had little coherent to say. Eliot, however, wrote a terrific treatise on The Pertinence, which was Faber’s first blog roll. Or was it a fig roll they published? My poor head is not what it was. Though I fondly recall the gents in Harrods, worth every Pound. Everyone should pull their teeth out and stage a revival. Lord knows how much we need cheering up those days. What with AIDS and then young Covid turning nineteen the whole world has changed utterly. Actually, what would really do the trick is a good old fashioned dose of salts. Or a jolly hard kick up the jarvis. But I might have read that gag somewhere else. Possibly here.

vi - quick gadget inspection

thanks to natural gas

as the cold comes creeping back

warm your monkey’s brass

when you gotta thirst

give the kitchen tap a twist

plumbing at its best

if a catchy song

stops your mind from wandering

radio’s a thang

so the post is late

get a tablet phone & ert

out your days on Earth

plus you gotta eat

twice a day or once at least

microwave a feast

vii - Sherbert’s Impropriety No 7

First performed on the legless piano by a string of conjoined haggises, this devastatingly important work was later transcribed for playing backwards during The War. A stoned critic writes, “Fetch my earplugs would you, Snell?” Sherbert unfortunately croaked during the composition, and the piece was further unfinished by his grandma, who thought it was a kind of German pudding. Then taken for a Turkish bayonet charge, it was to be interred on the Isle of Arrant but at the last moment got exchanged for an American radiogram, circa 1929.

viii - enough said

blunder bus defence

riding shotgun on retreat

risky seat to take

should they get a voice

those whose guns have said it all

marching home in state

put it ornery

talk like folk can understand

same as everyone

look they’re damaged goods

victims of abuse themselves

babes from household woods

let them speak but peace

that’s another can of pus

words for bitten tongues

don't stand for it

Déjeuners Nus (sur la plage)

 

Wild Fish Shoot

Visions of a young farmer in loose, turned-up blue jeans, canvas shoes and red check shirt - sleeves rolled below the elbows; she is all pink and dusky skinned, apparently unaware how cute her ankles look. Gulping on flaxen bows and scented curls, I ask for directions to the local bus.

You figure on leaving us?

Shucks, I’d love to see more of the sights.

Believe me, you seen them all.

Well, I’m a sucker for your country blues.

She gives me one of those wholesome smiles so often portrayed as a lust for life. I stick my neck right out,

You got time for a coffee or a soda?

Why, sure! Drugstore’s right across the street.

Over caffè freddo, Sandra lays bare a beautiful, hungry soul. Eager for her revelations, I’m a softball in her kid glove. Too bad the bubble bursts like a mouthful of overblown gum. Both realise our mistakes: Hers to forget that all minds are different but the same. Mine bent on getting down these lines.

Ask Hitler

If you can’t solve the problem this way, do it like that.

Rule Balloon

Lifeguard rescues Keystone Cop stranded by wind and waves in rocky cove.

Somewhat limp though still able to tug the line, a themed inflatable (most rights reserved) goes bobbing around, while a kid stands screaming on the beach across the bay. Through binoculars, our hero spots the single parent status of the mite and jetskis to the rescue. Oh how Daddy admires the way she negotiates reef and sandbank to reach the hapless plod.

In ulterior news... hundreds drown after sightseeing foreign shores, countless more choke on heatwave dunes or shrivel up in wildfires at the beachhead. Closer in, refugees from umpteen wars, economic stroke religious bigotries, punters on the Boredom Death Ride trample women and children to land below the white cliffs, while Lifeguards – undeterred – snatch cherubs from the jaws of Charybdis and Scylla.

And at a ceremony organised by local Chambers of Commerce, medals or cash alternatives are given out to all those who have made this homemade summer one to remember.

Nope Rob

This semi-automatic message is generated by the Age of Five meeting a Braun bro wearing white socks and has something of the golf course about it, a sweeter talking geezer you’d be pushed to find breaking bread improvidently early of a Sunday morning when the night clubs are chucking out.

Adolf Meet a Glitch

Jessie Grease, who nowadays resides on the left foot of The Ma, describes his words with the German über mensch as a programming error. Off to spend Lent playing with members of rival cults, His Messianic Presence is ushered into the very anteroom where some Valkyries have deposited Adolf. As told to reporters, “Our eyes have met, so over I go to offer my services as Saviour of Last Resort.”

Their moment of mutual recognition is caught on Botticelli: Though Jess is clearly moved by the Führer’s tarnished aura, he double-takes at the frailty and beatific scowl of the Grand Oaf. A troubled soul ripples through his slimy handshake, or is it just the effects of fifteen months spent drugged underground? On the rebound, Hitler’s tired eyes are raised and revived by the posh cloth and immaculate sutures on The Great Semite Emissary and Moral Factotum of The Triple God (may His glory shine round and all manner of shit simply turn white).

Nothing much is said on either side; admonition seems out of place, as is any illegal racism. Given their post-modernist circumstances, neither would cast aspersions on the other’s crew or creed. And anyway, before you can recite the twenty-third Psalm, their handlers are back and the pair are whisked off to destinations that are different, though ultimately hard to tell apart.

Smart Bug

UK Hypocrisy is on an anti-slavery field day but will be happy to help with the following link. Unsubscribe if the reader is not available for remote playback, as I don’t detect further information. BTW, this app was generated automatically and directed to your system so the provider that will be updated asap.

Gone Cop

No see here, who knows if blonde, stacked and single or just plain pin-up f-wordable. It could of been some overweight cowboy gun-happy n-word baiting f-worder on tranquillizers that have no existential effect. Happen it left its tazer behind, or a badly filled-out parking ticket gollied to your windscreen? Maybe the imprint of a sweaty hand on the bonnet of an SUV – sorry hood – gives the game away. Or it’s one of those rare spontaneous immolation jobs, all that remains a scorched Sam Browne belt with revolver jammed in blistered holster. Maybe the portal to another world that still bears the shimmering outline of their passing, a whiff of singed ectoplasm, the tinkle of temple bells?

But why cop, eh? Who’s to say they don’t engineer or keep house – full time or hours-only? And why should anyone - any THING – be defined by their profession? It’s nothing but guesswork, entirely circumstantial, nowt for a jury to hang itself on. Therefore - and may I speak with passing regret? - the whole caboodle’s persona non-grata. For “Gone” read “Has-Been”, for ‘Cop’ it's “Had”.

Turkey's Inner Nudist

Sitting here on a folding chair, staring out toward Pserimos or Kos – is like watching a fascinating but slow moving TV drama. Not that there’ve been many robberies or murders on this stretch today, or that the beach tennis tournament is an Olympic event (though some of the players' moves are amazing feats of poetry and fun). Of course, these shores have seen plenty of action over the years (the Battle of Leros, for inst); and there are pottery shards going back millennia. Just now the most interesting things to happen have been the hunt for free sunshade, a visit by the stuffed mussel man, and the appearance of a snorkeler with his undersea metal detector – which can't be legal. Actually, I have nothing more to say other than at any moment past, present and future could come crashing down around our ears. I may be referring to the migrants who still launch inflatable boats from here at night, desperate to reach Greek soil. Or that the virus is more or less prevalent on this or that side of the water. As Elis says, in Turkey the very ground is full of secrets. No, these old grains of sand would tell some tales if they could only speak. But some things are best kept under wraps, like fast food and private parts.

Don't Shoot!

owl radiator newts

-*-

11th state anthem

it's the year 1788

New York State agrees to join that great

tax avoidance scheme the USA

man is it late

waiting while the Brits get licked or kicked

up to Canada New Amsterdam

ushers in another tribe of sly

coconut men

few Algonquin wear them ponytails

former slaves decked out in Union Jacks

Dutchmen doubled down on Redcoats' graves

bootblacks leave tips

Wall St where the first stockade withstood

Mohawk & Mohican till they fought

mutual the French & Injun War

ran out on blood

what you're saying ticker tape parades

hail or grapeshot cross Manhattan Long

Island that’s another story this

here is the song

-*-

Hershey’s chocolate heroes

Tintin-itus what a mispronounced

tick the sufferer exhibits trends

such as blind misogyny with crime

busting amends

quiff plus-fours a Crombie overcoat

retro fits the snooper to a time

hardly innocent if not beyond

taking the mick

who would daresay Dan it's fifty-nine

Eagle pecks your eye beware the pond

crossing which as well as drains your brain

points to the end

onwards pilgrim bite their heads off first

dipped in ice cream legs like 99s

hollow torsos filled with walnut whip

aniseed eyes

lick the silver foil collect the set

pressed between the leaves of annuals

Santa brings or state your preference fat

Belgian liqueurs

-*-

on Bogmouth Moor

oozing through the sluice of Bovver’s Strand

stinking rumours consecrate the ground

ditch the 4-wheel drive begin to walk

lolling around

Clarkson's homey comments take the tone

up a click but drop the pace right down

such a whiner forced to wade on bad

legs through the mire

slide’s the word your very footprints suck

all along the simply right & wrong

centrists ins & outs the compromised

died-in-the-woods

toxic cheapskates peddling raucous snide

those that lie for coppers penny shrews

rampant populists the gutter snipe

boilers of newts

low as Bogmouth sinks its height of depth

sure as folks at home you sat & watched

matchless crud purveyors meet their patch

stuck in the blood

-*-

fyeo

I have never understood the games

people play surrounding bed & board

footie I can manage but not break

fast with a broad

Stewie's got a woman on the go

shags the living daylights out of him

not for money nor for love perhaps

yoga's her thing

me I'd love to meet the likes of her

scare the evening skylights out but fun

when the kids are grown up & have gone

gonna get some

Jill was one who didn’t give a damn

Mystic Rose she went by but no man

mastered her had ruined seventeen

husbands in Spain

how the wives reacted I can't say

women always get me in a jam

keep it cool the time the place the plan

drawing away

-*-

turn to Peter

Peter's smashed the car

shagged the girlfriend ate the chips

always on your side

been through everything

after college work & play

hardly fell out once

had some up & downs

like the time in Spain he popped

all the cash on wax

but through tick & tins

buddyness endures the worst

life can throw at them

so he never thinks

twice to ask for his advice

face the Winehouse truth

Pete would know the who

what or which to sacrifice

how to skin the cat

family you see

plus the old school tie a smile

here a favour there

years of getting by

on a prayer yes go to Pete

man who knows his stuff

just a word enough

said to sort the problem out

come on Man pick up

read all about it!

CAMP RELUCTANCE

chapbook sampler...

click to order

 

don't mention the war

only the elephants in the news

they’re politely ignored by this G

7 while Japan their neighbour scores

tickets for free

Russian mammoths couldn’t crash them gates

Asian quadrupeds from Singapore

to the Arctic Circle tigers all

African states

jumbo nations makes no odds you’re pink

white & circus trained or just forget

it’s the colour of your money nods

winks to a deaf

horse the ring of course is televised

nothing Trojan mind the token Greeks

here with buckets & spades for a week

at the seaside

party games some grub & jungle juice

donkey rides across the sands at low

tide just hope no cockle diggers show

up on the loose

Greenswill

Lex von Greenswill got the job of bag

man at Adolf’s favourite skulking hole

where on Tuesday nights he’d leave the owl

feller his pile

when the conflict ended no one gave

Lex his marching orders on he went

serving up illicit scratch my green

backs as before

US forces Russian submarine

crews the Royal Horse Artillery

OTAN plus United Nations friends

gendarmes du monde

all the gang & then some dipped their snouts

where the Führer got his ya-yas out

down the banks you’d think their greasy plot

rumbled & yet

here we go again the crooked bonds

private jets & dodgy msgs

next up Doctor Goebbels recommends

Covid 19

Camp Reluctance

information please

where the hell we coming from

give it to me straight

be it horse’s mouth

other end or in between

who we talking of

as the prodigals

asked before their parents’ wake

what’s the bottom line

why’s the music gone

someone turn my channel back

on for pity’s sake

this is how it starts

people asking questions like

me the only one

which will do for now

campsite’s turning into view

whose owl bunk is mine

not to miss!

Johno's Fifth Column

 

The Two Johns

Johno’s Fifth Column #1

Just a note to say I shan’t be home for tea, got some govt. do on. The day job, you know. Dreadful business this earning a living. But bread & butter must be realised.

So, feed the cat, eh, and iron my best socks? Just kidding. But did you know lots of fellers here at the top don’t wear ’em no more! Frightful habit this bare feet in brogues, could be a Fenian thing that’s caught on. I suspect accounts for half the odd smells you get under these summit tables.

The GF, Whatshername, says we’re bringing the tiddler – got a name, too, I suppose – though which exactly I’d be pushed to say. You know me, always get it in the end. But fuss not if I have to slope off early. And there might be a helicopter, so better not leave the washing out. There, I don’t forget everything, do I? But I think I lost another bicycle chain down the back of the sofa.

Johno’s Fifth Column #2

The GF found another tiddler! Can’t say I’m too surprised, we did get rather wrecked that night. They say expensive wine doesn’t give much of a headache but think of the school fees.

Trouble with the world today is it’s all politics. I’m giving it up. Quitting has never been my forte but I believe I’m going to put my foot down on this one. The German ambassador tried to sell us a fake Picasso. I said, that’s looted art. But he insisted it was a genuine forgery and would go perfectly in the hall opposite the photo of us on donkeys at Lampedusa. I said we’ve never even been there. Phooey!

So from now on I’m not voting. It’s never really agreed with me anyway, despite my love for all things Greek. Or else we should go back to scratching names on pottery sherds. That’s much more civilised and a good use for broken plates, as I said to the GF. Now that was a mistake. I’m not saying she’s clumsy, far from it.

Johno’s Fifth Column #3

The GF has named the day. Waiting till the servants all had their jabs, lots of foreign chappies, see. Well I said you’re the one who’s taking the chance, I ain’t got much to give still forking out on the old predecessors. But she’s a spunky gal Whatshername, as I think I’ve said before. It’s all becoming a bit of a blore, life passing in front of your eyes, I wonder if Winston saw it that way. He did have his Connie, though, steak & kidney pudding steamed in a bowl. Lovely grub, but I prefer little rhubarb tarts swimming in crème brulée. Pay for themselves in the long run.

I’m signing off, sorry Love, if you thought this would go on indef. I’ve kept some columns on for donkeys’ ears I know but the money’s only chicken feed even if it’s regular. Three book deals are lining up and then there’s Reality TV which pays you by the episode. Just need a smidgeon more celebrity. I made a big mistake giving up my US citizenship, big job going over there when old Jed is dead. Figuratively speaking. Tootle pip and all that jiz. Invite’s in the post.

Johno’s Fifth Column #4

Well I never. Talk about shotguns at dawn. You gorra believe me. Honest to God. I will go to the foot of our stairs, and don’t spare the Stannah, James. I thought I’d seen it all. Now I’ve really had my blooming lot. Aghast and bleary, the festival season in glorious bacchanalia, malgré tout!

The official wedding’s still on, by the bye. The do next summer will be a full, no-holds barred registry office affair with duelling bridesmaids, hoarse guards of honour, forty-nine gun salute and Whatshername will be given away by the Queen’s brother. If we can get the paperwork sorted, Cummings’ beheading will be celebrated the night before, and the highlight of the reception will be Public Image going fifteen rounds with UB40. The White House is booked for the old honeymoon. Branston is lending Jed and his family an island or two while we’re in residence. Osborne (I don’t mean Sir Oswald) is picking up the tab, so there should be no fuss about that. Not that I’m thinking of bringing him back into power, but it lends a sense of continuity. Both Cameron and May have offered to cover while we’re away and I don’t see why not. Breakfast TV and all that jiz.

Looks like the column is still on too. Mark my words, I can’t believe a word I say.

Johno’s Fifth Column #5

I shall be home for tea. Scones, please, with all the trimmings (rhubarb jam). Bagged another tiddler by the seaside. Funny little things, I never could get used to their slimy little ways. You couldn’t do the honours, could you? Got a bit of a bone in me leg.

Wot No Colour?