Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Yak wanted

May 6, 2013 Leave a comment

As you can probably tell from this less-than-quarterly entry, I’ve been proper busy. I am not a writer. A writer’s writer I mean. I took a solemn vow as an impressionable teenager to NEVER get involved with anything creative. It’s just, well… dangerous.

This may have had something to do with my dad (who was very much a writer’s writer) having a writer’s tantrum and throwing a box full of copies of his latest book from an upstairs window, narrowly missing my daydreams below.

Now that I have finally caved in and become him, or rather a less well read, less connected, less successful ( in writing terms) version of him, it occurs to me that I really ought to have a box of books in my arsenal ready to throw out of a window.

This would, inevitably, be wonderful therapy for the sheer frustration encountered when trying to find someone to print me a simple, inexpensive, black and white, thirty pages poetry booklet. I’ve done the e-book. Easy. I just want to gently hand a few hard copies to hapless friends without killing them.

In this wonderfully technological age, it should, I foolishly assume, be a simple matter of searching, clicking and ordering online. Never before has there been such an array of technological wizardry available.

I tell you, to get this PERFECTLY SIMPLE job done, it would be easier to go into my shed yesterday, reconstruct from memory I do not possess, an exact copy of the original Gutenberg press, from half set Galician yak fudge.

Books though. Pah!



November 27, 2012 Leave a comment


Not part of a first collection found here


April 20, 2012 Leave a comment

Well, that’s odd. I was looking for a poem I think surely must be by Spike Milligan (please correct me if I’m wrong) and it’s not coming up on any search engine so perhaps I’d better recite it:

Gregory Griggs cared not two figs

Whether he lived or died.

But when he was dead, he lay on his bed

And he cried and he cried and he cried.

This, to me, encapsulates what the best comedy is all about;  tragedy being mangled back into a travesty of itself.  Life can be so grim.  It can chuck all kinds of rubbish at us.  Correction, that should be ‘death is grim’.  Life is Life is beautiful.  But when death does hurl itself at us in the crappy way it does,  we may as well belt something like this poem out and go laughing all the way to the “box office” as a friend of mine calls it.  It’s only “not funny”  if you decide it’s not;  in which case, I don’t think I can help you.  Sorry, I’m not trying to be offensive or disrespectful or distasteful here, it’s just I’ve met people who refuse to laugh, and they don’t all work for the council or LIVE IN MY NEIGHBOURHOOD!  But that’s a whole other blog.

Inspired by Spike Milligan’s epitaph “I told you I was ill”, I’d quite like this when my time’s up :

(hint: now read it out loud)


April 4, 2012 Leave a comment

‘Hello, my name’s Rupert and I’m a writing addict. I haven’t written anything now for ooh… must be four, five weeks. It’s a struggle but…’

Rupert breaks down to murmurs of, ‘We’re here for you man’.

The community centre room is decked out with pre-school depictions of “people who help us”. I spot a yellow and brown stick man bent hopelessly backwards eating flowers or it’s possibly a horse. As Rupert begins to lose the will to live, I slide backwards and reach for a pot of play-doh to sniff. Oh YES! That stuff is surely good enough for kids to eat, mm-mmm!

Angry Ange, the ex-hippie who’s not written anything happy since 1967, beckons me (angrily) to join the pity party. But I’m cured now.

‘Rupert!’ I shout, ‘Sort yourself out.’

Ange blows a fuse as shocked silence ensues. Just the hum of the night storage radiator and the echoing clank of a corridor door.

And an author’s ‘later!’


March 14, 2012 Leave a comment

I got a slightly “we are not amused” response from some guys who were scrabbling around looking for new writers for advertising.  I mean, what’s wrong with “Grolsch! Not just the sound of last night’s lager binge”?   Living, as I do, in close proximity to a pub, it’s a familiar sound to me on a Saturday night.  No we mustn’t have humour in ads, it would never do.  See this sexy car? It’s really sexy. Honest. You might not think so but we’re telling you it’s sexy though we can’t think of a slogan to make you believe it…

Here, let me have a go… as the football is so rubbish …

Will it get me from A to B without me kicking it by the roadside and for less than my mortgage? Yes?  Well now,  that’s actually more interesting as a potential customer than your idiot sexy idea.  Right… slogan is… “Gets you to B” and then Shakespeare comes in bla, bla, bla, gets run over by said car and says “or not” etc etc. 

Okay, well you didn’t mention political correctness.

Lord Byron wuz ‘ere

November 2, 2011 Leave a comment

Just sold a sketch to the Treason Show.  Living in a small town where comedy is limited to people tripping over or the antics of the omnipresent duck population as they suicidally choose to lead a string of babies over pedestrian crossings regardless of the traffic light colour, this is no mean feat.   Had I realised sooner that writing was something I’d get into, I’d have chosen a more cultured place with cosy pub snugs where like-minded jokesmiths drink beer under the guise of bouncing ideas off one another.  It’s the kind of place where you could easily imagine seeing a blue plaque on a house reading “Lord Byron stopped here for a cup of tea October 27th 1803, thought about writing a poem and said, ‘nah, sod it, I’ll have some tiffin instead.’ ” So yeah, quite chuffed but still looking out for a drinking writing partner.