National Poetry Month : Poem 5

Well it looks like I’ve failed miserably with my one a day challenge but I suppose it’s better than one a year.

Thanks to  all the people who are following this blog.

I must issue a word of warning that some of the posts will contain language that some people may find offensive. I try to keep it to a minimum and in context but sometimes it just has to go in and I wouldn’t like anyone to be offended or taken by surprise when they see it’s not all about bunny rabbits and pussy cats (oops).  I will try and have a proper home page one day.

I don’t think there’s any swearing in today’s offering.

So Maggies gone.
Far be it from me to diss the recently departed, but as everyone and their grandmother seem to be offering some sort of critique, measured or otherwise, I might as well throw in my two pennyworth.

Before we start I would like to point out that I find the organised celebrations of  Baroness Thatcher’s death unedifying. In fact totally disgraceful. However the syrupy platitudes are also disingenuous if not totally dishonest.

I suppose that her lasting legacy is that the country is now subject to the whims of psychopathic spiv bankers and foreign conglomerates. Sold off and sold out.
One of the more disturbing consequences is the way the police now deal with legitimate protest by employing intimidation and indiscriminate violence . I was at Orgreave and saw what really happened and how the media and television news twisted the facts. A few years later and just a few miles away 96 football supporters, men, women and children, died as direct result of this new “let’s get tough on the plebs” policy for crowd control engineered or at least encouraged by Thatcher. Again the facts were falsified by the police and the media with collusion by Mrs T herself.

Maybe the people celebrating Thatcher’s demise should save some of their ire for the duplicitous Tony Blair who had every opportunity to right some of the wrongs done to the communities he claimed to represent. He didn’t and even went so far as to multiply the body count exponentially by becoming involved in another war which could have and should have been stopped before it started.

I’ve tried to look for something positive to say but as far as I can see, the only good thing she ever did was to abolish that awful school milk.

So with apologies to the late great Burl Ives and the late, and perhaps not so great, Maggie Thatcher here’s:

There Was an Old Country That Swallowed a Lie

There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
Until her own party finished her
She was a Prime Minister

 She became a Prime Minister to stop the kid’s milk
Of Tory ilk
She stopped the kid’s milk

 She became a Prime Minister to punish the workers
She thought they were shirkers
So she punished the workers

Perhaps she’ll die

 There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
Her agenda was sinister
When she was Prime Minister

 She became a Prime Minister to sell council houses
Selling off houses is what she espouses
For this she was blessed with plaudits and thanks
For putting more folks in the pockets of banks

 She became a Prime Minister to shut down the mines
Leaving communities lagging behind
Their counterparts in the prosperous south
Generations hand to mouth

 She became a Prime Minister to sell people shares
In industries that were already theirs
The next day the rich men just hoovered them up
The public couldn’t believe their luck
A washing machine or a fortnight in Spain
Thirty years later we’re feeling the pain

 She became a Prime Minister and took the Falklands back
Put hundreds of men in body sacks
News of casualties made her cry

Perhaps she’ll die

 There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
Megalomania diminished her
When she was Prime Minister

 She became a Prime Minister to court the U.S.
Dancing with Ron in her best party dress
America was happy to nurture this bond
For as long as we housed all their nuclear bombs

 She became a Prime Minister when Britain was flagging
Gave Johnny Frenchie a right good handbagging
But if you look closely the evidence shows
That she sold off our country from under our nose

 She became a Prime Minister to empower the police
To bring the miners down to their knees
Once famous for fairness and total neutrality
Now driven to acts of naked brutality
Impunity for the thick blue line
She bribed them with hours of overtime
This was their culture now not a quick fix
And it led to the deaths of the ninety-six

Perhaps she’ll die

 There was an old lady who was a Prime Minister
And they all try to mimic her
Even Labour Prime Ministers

 She became a Prime Minister to set an example
For all those that followed but oh what a sample
They try in vain to follow her lead
With a programme of asset-stripping and greed
Now the country is bankrupt and it’s going to get worse

She’s dead of course

 Well there you go. As they say it’s grim up north.

Back to the proper chronicles soon.

National Poetry Writing Month : Poem 4

Day 4 and I’m running out of things to write about so I have retreated to the last refuge of the scoundrel again. No, not patriotism. Celebrity.

It’s not really finished and a bit rushed , but as I have nothing else and there’s only ten minutes of day 4 left, here is one about:

Simon Cowell

I shared a hot towel
With Simon Cowell
We were having tea
At the Cafe de Paris
He said people are jealous cos I’ve got loads of stuff
And some of them accuse me of being a puff
Well I don’t care
I live in Bel Air
I’ve got a yacht and a mansion
I’m building an extension
To house all my pictures
And collection of bitches
And the funny thing is
Though I’m top of the biz
I know bugger all about music
I can’t tell a chord from some dog sick
I nick the best writers best songs
And get Christmas number ones
They sometimes object
Until I send them the cheque

 Now put that cup down and listen
I’ll give you a business lesson
So your singers can’t sing and your comics aren’t funny
Just make sure that they care more for fame than for money
I’ve got some right minging acts in my stable
Half of my shows shouldn’t have made it to cable
How did I acquire such riches this golden raft
Because millions love watching me bully the daft

National Poetry Writing Month : Poem 3

Well its day 3 and I must admit I never thought I’d get this far.

The days are getting longer and the poems are getting shorter.

Here’s one called:

Korean up the Apocalypse

 

Kim Jong-il
Kim Jong very-il
Kim Jong die
Millions cry
Kim Jong’s son
Kim Jong-un
Mega-tons
Mushroom clouds
Shops have no food
They only sell shrouds
He could be thinner
He looks like a boy who enjoys his dinner

Will we make it to day 4?  Not at this rate

National Poetry Writing Month : Poem 2

Poem No 2 and I’m starting to suffer from burn-out with the pressure of keeping up.

Here’s one called :

Forty Billion Dollar Babies

I still feel a bit sad about Michael Jackson
Though I can’t say I was that much of a fan
And to be fair to him we’re all reluctant
To grow up from a boy to a man

 His family were on the news at three
I had the sound off just watching the images
A banner said they were suing AEG
For forty billion in damages.

Now I know he sold a lot of records and was quite a popular turn
But is this really an accurate figure of how much he was likely to earn
I turned the volume up a bit and this woman reporter said
Poor old Michael had earned the most money not while alive but while dead

Mike’s tragic and untimely death may have left his kids in the lurch
And to boost his projected earnings they should take their lead from the church
The best way that the Jacko clan can justify this claim
Is to resurrect poor Michael and then kill him all over again

Well, perhaps not the best possible taste but we’re working to deadline here

National Poetry Writing Month : Poem 1

Hello

I’ve just heard about something called National Poetry Writing Month where you have to write a poem a day for all of April.  I don’t really know how this works so I’ll just shove some stuff in and see what happens.

I’m a day late starting and probably have no chance of keeping it up but here goes anyway.

We’ll kick off with a heart-rending little number called :

The Saddest Sound

I’ve heard the toll of a solitary bell
The cries of a kitten stuck down a well
My little girl with a poorly tummy
A baby whale that’s lost its mummy
The heart-breaking strains of someone sobbing
The screech when a cat got hold of a robin
The voice of a lover saying goodbye
The haunting howl of a lone wolf’s cry
A tearful toddler that’s over-tired
I’ve heard my boss tell me you’re fired
A favourite band’s new song with something lacking
The thin ice I’m walking on creaking and cracking
A drunk lamenting a wasted life
Silence from an angry wife
A wallflower weeping after the ball
But really the saddest sound of all
The one that stops me dead in my tracks
Is the sound of a pound in an auto vac

Well that’s the first one. Better get off and do another to try and catch up.

Post No. 7 : In which Johnny goes on a date with a super-model

Hello again. It seems like ages since I’ve posted anything  which is probably because it is ages. Must try and do better for my reader.

The best advice I’ve ever been given, is to always look for an unattractive girlfriend. There are two very good reasons for this:
1. She is unlikely to leave you
2. If she does leave you, you won’t be that bothered.

The worst piece of advice I’ve ever been given is to “Just be yourself”.

On with todays offering.
I was going to start with some rambling diatribe about good-looking people getting all the attention and breaks in life but it’s very late and I’m sure people don’t reckon much to that bit of the post anyway. So straight in with Johnny’s latest tale of woe in a cautionary story about:

Naomi Campbell

I once had an affair with Naomi Campbell
Well I say an affair it was more of a fumble
I think that I caught her in a bit of a lull
And just happened to be there when she was out on the pull

She was wearing a pendant made from a blood diamond
Said she had an apartment somewhere near Richmond
She gave me her number and we arranged a date
She said don’t turn up early and don’t turn up late

When I got there she said that she fancied some grub
So we set off to seek out a nice gastro pub
As we strode up the road it was just like a dream
I felt like the cat who had taken the cream
She was drawing admiring glances from men
And I wanted to snog with her right there and then
She had on these hot pants with white ankle socks
And I dragged her into a telephone box

She’d just had a cold and was still a bit phlegmish
I looked at her face and noticed a blemish
I said darling I think you have a teeny-weeny spot
She said how dare you, you bastard I fucking do not
She ripped the pay-phone off from the wall
Smashed it on my head then kicked in my balls

While I sat there waiting in A and E
I thought that just about fucking does it for me
And as the nurse wrapped a bandage around my noddle
I swore to keep clear of super-models

Well that’s it for this one pop-pickers but we’ll be back before you know it with some more rubbish in a similar vein

Post No. 6 (In which Johnny becomes annoyed by show off celebs collecting for charity)

Hello everybody.

A big thanks to the people who have read, liked and followed my stuff so far. 

I noticed many years ago when Thatcher sold off all the council houses, that the first thing that the people who bought them did, was to re-paint the front door in some bright gloss as far away on the colour wheel as it was possible to get from the councils drab tones. Maybe a gold letter-box, an ornate door knocker and a trendy, indecipherable number. This was to show the outside world that they were no longer council house plebs but bona fide property owners on the up with aspirations, kudos and money. So fuck you.
In a similar vein when someone makes a load of cash these days, the first thing they do is install a shiny new fifty grand (minimum) set of ultra-brite white teeth. You see them nearly every day on such as Dragons Den, X-Factor, The Apprentice etc, clicking away like a coked-up crocodile while bullying the fuck out of some hapless wannabee.
Do they have to be so big? Do they have to be so white? Do they have to be so menacing?
Little Red Riding Hood wouldn’t have a prayer.

Anyway on with today’s topic… Charity
Or rich people  showing off by publicly giving ridiculous amounts on radio or television, dwarfing the efforts of those who have to actually do something to raise a bit of cash.
The adoration and veneration of the obscenely rich, mainly by each other, is quite prevalent these days and it seems to be gaining popularity in the world of the charity-a-thon. First you hear of terrible poverty and deprivation, in England of all places, and by the way didn’t Mr Gladstone put a stop to all that in the 1800s, then they play a record, then some chirpy fucker from the Home Counties comes on the phone who just happens to have £140,000! to spare to play a game of golf with a D-list dickhead.

Here’s Johnny with…

Children in Need

I’ve been priced right out of children in need
I heard it on the wireless
It’s not for the likes of you and me
In fact they couldn’t care less
About the ordinary Joe with his pound or two
To boost the target figure
They’re just interested in the rich folks who
Will offer something bigger
I’ve ran fun runs dressed up like a clown
And carrying a bucket
But the BBC has let me down
So now I just say fuck it

There’s Wogan and Evans going on
About themselves and their wealthy mates
Thousands for a session with Gok Wan
So why should I donate
No Mr Evans I don’t have the means
To drive in your Ferrari
So I’ll just sit in a bath of beans
While you bathe yourself in glory

One forty K for a round of golf
It’s staggering. It’s crackers
Now there’s not much point in German Rolf
Waxing his chest and knackers
The forty-two pounds from the local brass band
Starts to look a little shabby
When someone else pays thirty grand
To walk round Downton Abbey

The kids on the street have been baking cakes
They’ve been selling them for ages
But what difference will their pittance make
When what for most is three years wages
Is laid down on a whim by Tony from Tring
He’s a hedge fund bloke or a banker
He gets to hear Sir Tom Jones sing
And drink champagne with a wanker

I may be being expedient
But would it do me any good
To claim tax relief on ingredients
For the world’s biggest yorkshire pud

Many of you will see this rant
As laced with spite and envy
And to be honest I don’t understand
What brought about this frenzy
Was I annoyed by Chris Evans
Being in my vicinity
Where others saw benevolence
I could only see obscenity
Perhaps the crowing ginger nut
Put my nose right out of joint
And he’s raised a lot of money but
Have we somehow missed the point
So Britain’s no longer a super power
I think on that we’re agreed
But surely a country as rich as ours
Shouldn’t have children in need

Well it’s been very nice to have this talk
But now I have to leave you
I’m off to do a sponsored walk
Done up like a fucking Emu

 

Blimey is that the time!