The Lonely Windmill

I am not sure what’s got into me when it comes to poems this year. It seems an appropriate decoration for these pages. This is a rhyming thought from a train journey I did recently that went past a few eco-friendly white wind turbines. You know the sort.
As ever presumably due to their direction, several were working but one was stationary. I felt a bit sad for the lonely windmill so I wrote him this.

The Lonely Windmill

All your friends are spinning
Their lives seem so great
And you’re right there with them
But you’re all about face
Struggling each day
Where is that gust?
You need just a wind of change
And the will to adjust
With your flawless complexion
And your pearly attire
I trust you’ll lose your inertia
You symmetrical trier.

A tough year

Spare an end of year thought for poor old Paul “Gazza” Gascoigne. After a difficult year of reaching for bottles of booze in brown paper bags, all too brief visits to rehab, more alcohol and more stupidity finally destroying him; domestic violence and disappointment for his long suffering friends. An underperforming national hero finally fades his last fade.
But surely today’s headlines are laying it on a bit thick. I read Israel is continuing to bomb poor old Gazza for a fourth day running.
And you thought you had a tough year!

In Praise of Beakers

Sure crystal’s nice. It adds gravitas to your cocktail party if the commissioner is coming round for dinner. China is the appropriate receptacle if the vicar is coming round for tea. And a silver chalice for mass. But have we forgotten the universal appeal of the trusty beaker? Have we relegated the word to a character on Sesame Street.
Why has someone not upgrade the concept? Why is there no posh beaker? Surely such a classic receptacle is worthy of what the moviemakers might call a “re-imagining”.
It gives us drip-free hydration during our first self-imbibed drinks. It gives us the freedom of a light rucksack on picnics.
It gives us a sense of fun. How can you not have fun when the activity involves a beaker? And if that’s not enough, it might have a lid.
The message is simple.
Bring back beakers!!

The fuller figure

I had a consultation with a lady called Mrs Morris today.
Ironically she was the size of about nine men.

Back of the net

The extremely well paid Newcastle goalkeeper let 2 get past him again today.
It seems like it is still hard to save on his salary.

The Gender Divide - a poem

A poem to celebrate a few of the differences between the sexes.

When drama lies.
When the cast confesses
When women are actors.
Instead of actresses
When the reward is the art
But a gold statue is preferred
Then equality sits down
Without a word

When recruiting the jobs
That ladies do.
Marketing pharma
Or selling a shoe.
Then Pankhurst’s dreams
Seem like distant tales
And equality sits down
And files its nails

When sport is a leveller
Though men are much faster
And women play golf
But they call it the Masters
Then the gender divide
Becomes slightly absurd
And equality sits down
Without a word

A Christmas Message

Feathers are highly evolved scales and turkeys are dinosaurs.
Go figure.

A Christmas Ode - Aboard ship

This is a Christmas ode to the crew from the middle of the Atlantic...............

The friendliest characters
Unmatched in the fleet
The yardstick for others
(If they want to compete)

The best in the company
The passengers attest
(Don’t feel bad for Ventura
They’re doing their best)

We have the happiest security
Detecting the wrongs
(We’d all like a bit
Of whatever they’re on)

And Headlining the boat
Is award-winning beauty
Smiles and glitter
The shaking of booty

The F&B team is the sharpest afloat
The invisible pianist who won’t miss a note
As he plays us his tireless, moving cadenza
We’ll even ensure he won’t get influenza.

To everyone who come to us with a sneeze
(We know at times we all feel a bit of unease)
To the ones who at Christmas get too hale and hearty
To the kids who fall down at Mr Bump’s Party

To the florist with Christmas trees, just unplanted
And to everyone else we all take for granted.
You know who you are and what you have done
And though you might not get snow this year
At least here comes the sun.

It’s not just good luck
It comes from the top
Hard work. Forgiveness.
A damn good mop.

We wish you all the best Christmas
And all that you dream
In two thousand and nine
From the medical team

Pink Christmas

The party season brings pretty frocks and an overtiredness that may lead to the occasional tear whatever our age and life experience. Perhaps all you can do is laugh it off and not take life too seriously.
Here’s a short poem dedicated to girls aged 5 to 95 years with a first line that my mother would come out with, although not in a context I ever particularly understood. Looking at it now, I think it might make more sense with the girls changed to boys. Although in todays society......
Anyway I added the other three!

Pink to make the girls wink
Red eyes that make them blink
From tears that force them to rethink
Whether or not boys stink.

French kissing in the USA.

You may or may not know the common continental greeting of kissing on both cheeks.
But which check to start with for your opening volley?
Well if you are from Portugal, you start on the right and if you are from Italy you should start on the left. Or the other way round.
A friend recently went to the marriage of an Italian to a Portuguese girl with half the gathering from one side of the family and half from the other.
Despite intensive training leading up to the big day, the airkissing and cheek rubbing that ensued nearly caused an annulment.

Drugs and dancing

Well that was the Strictly final - wow. It is the modern LSD for the wannabe.
So here is my slightly darker poem run to the same rules as my secondary school teacher who always kindly said.... “Write a poem... you don’t have to make it rhyme...”

POISE.

What is poise in a dancer?
If not an elegant poison
A toxin to fix the gaze
Curare for the hopeless romantic
A paralytic to make every muscle statuesque
Every muscle.
But the heart.

Poise coming up...

Well it's the Strictly final tonight... so tomorrow I'll do 6 lines on Poise.
So there!

Azucena’s Ocean - a poem

It’s a bulletin from Neptune’s
Second-to-final frontier
Its headlines screaming
The planet is here

Unarmed warfare
Coming wave upon wave
A rage o’salt,
Beckons the brave

Mariner’s pass
With Poseidon’s permission
Riding the stylings
Of nature’s beautician

But like each snowflake’s different
Each wave is bespoke.
In watery graveyards
Permission’s revoked

Vanishing coastlines
Like nature’s magician
Punishing shorelines
With brutal attrition

A roar display
Of unrestrained vanity
Banishing cliffs
With saline insanity

Yet easing the mind
Like a favourite song
Sweeping the beaches
Righting the wrongs

A soft melody
On endless repeat
The heart of the world
In irregular beat

Gaia’s draughtsman
Till the Earth finds its end,
Is a quick witted stranger
And an angry old friend.

An eternal craftsman
Pounding at granite
Marking time.
With the music of the planet

Paving the way for poetry

Tomorrow I am going to give you a poem.
There is something about the lilting journey of rhyme that soothes the soul.

I think it may be hard-wired like, oh I don’t, know let’s say an affection and respect for the oceans that dominate our planet.
That was what they used to call a Radio 2 link because it’s going to be a poem about the sea. You see.
And as soon as I find a word to rhyme with planet, I’ll be right with you.

Plastic Fantastic

Why do airports push credit cards ?
Do you really a need a glamourpuss in her fifties or a carefully suited salesgirl in her twenties jumping from behind a wooden display as soon as you clear security?
Isn’t your main concern not dropping the bags that you have quickly picked up from the conveyor belt and trying to make sure your trousers don’t fall down when in all the excitement of replacing your belt you haven’t reached your usual notch?
Does the wallet so recently replaced in your pocket really need another Mastercard?
Would you not have thought about it earlier?
It is not as if they will get it printed up for you and delivered to your seat on the plane.
It is not like a cable car ride abroad where the photo of you entering is presented in exchange for your 10 euros as you leave 10 minutes later.
Do you need another plastic fantastic fast track pathway to lead us deeper into the glamorous world of debt?
Well you might need the additional credit at airports.
Just to afford to replace the bottle of water that you had to bin before the security check.

Buying futures

Buying futures
When will the future join the Euro?
Most futuristic movies seem to claim that the currency of the future will be the rather unimaginative “credit”. As many have correctly realised, science fiction is the state of the art when it comes to storytelling. It frees the imagination like no other genre and allows for a reflection of a human spirit in the most entertaining and therefore often the most powerful and useful way. But when it comes to basic economics the writers almost always let you down.
The credit!!! For Pete’s sake. At the very least you might think that a dollar might be the currency of choice. Not sounding futuristic enough? Then stick a couple of exes or a zed in their somewhere.
If Mr Spock has to buy the intoxicating blue drink with the same currency as Han Solo and Captain Zap (a chilling character from The Dandy), then there is something pretty weird going on with the future. Especially if one of the futures was long, long ago.
What happened? Did the credit undergo a primordial crunch in aeons past? Did it return and go on to seed and populate the universe? Was there a forgotten secret history of interplanetary financial unity? Which governments argued to their people that their new improved credit was the universal way to go? Did anyone propose the debit?

No, it’s all too much to compute.

It is time to devalue the credit.

Sweetness

I met an 82 year old lady today who while she had her own problems was also concerned about her husband’s blood sugar reading which at 29 was very high.
Yesterday he had to have an early breakfast as it was only 1.9 (extremely low).
“He is missing a pancreas”, she explained. “He’s very erotic”.
“Don’t you mean erratic?” I said.
“I know what I mean”, she said.

Mincing matters

Today I am going to mince an oath.
I can only apologise.
“For Pete’s sake” I learned today (after a quick afternoon Google) is a piece of fudged swearing called a “minced oath”, as in “mincing your words”.
Pete may be St Peter (it does not hurt that it sounds a bit like “pity”) and Pete (and sometimes Mike) are used as God’s stand-ins to avoid offending the monitors of blasphemy.
So a timely Gadzooks may indeed be a way of referring to God’s hooks – the nails in the cross. Judas Priest may be ageing hard rockers but the term can be used in place of Jesus Christ. Crikey for that matter is Christ. England loves a euphemism.
But surely the brightest of these useful neologisms must be the sitcom which was loved and brilliant in equal measures. What would Father Ted or Father Jack himself have to say about all this wordy nonsense? I can hear him now.
Feck It!

Streetwear 08

I saw many fashionable people walking the streets today.
People who were able to dress to wander the streets in style without any sex-for-sale connotations.
Church-fearing family folk. Smart locals who could accessorize better than Freddy from Scooby Doo.
If you were trapped in the 80s, when Italy for example last had style and for them time froze, you might even call it a European chic. (I fear for the national outrage when someone tells them that high waistbands have been out for 20 years. Please read the papers and avoid Sicily around that time).
This afternoon, a young gentleman might be mostly wearing his gently placed cashmere scarf with aplomb.
A silver haired pensioner might be carrying off a smart jacket with distinction.
A middle aged lady might belie her true years with sophistication and carefully applied make-up attracting the eye of the youngest man.
Or you might see what I saw today, a teenage girl with a huge arse, wearing a pink that shocked in more ways than it had number of gut-covering layers.
She carried it off alright.
Kicking and screaming.

Not Talking Turkey

Today I saw a duck. Having walked though a Winter Wonderland of Christmas markets in Hamburg and its non teetotally appealing mulled drinks, it was the simplest thing. They were bobbing up and down and doing what I was taught at school as surface diving.
With a kick they would almost clear the water then, beak first, straight down they plunged, grabbing something that passed for food from the bottom. It was very entertaining. Moreso because it reminded me of my favourite joke at school: What has a duck got in common with the gas company? They can both stick their bills up their... well, you get the idea.
The ducks would always scout around for where they were heading first and then they would always shake their hair dry afterwards. The wintry chill seemed to lift.
I called the manoeuvre the Look-And-Duck. I suppose that is why they were called ducks in the first place. Was I the only person who missed that memo ?
Then I saw another sign that all was well in the world. A poster for Freiheit’s new album. Yes, German pop music funsters Freiheit. It seems like the game will never be over for the Eighties one hit wonders. They are still Keeping the Dream Alive. Perhaps a Christmas number one beckons. If the album does not turn out to be a Christmas number two.
And the poster next to them was for singing pensioner Roger Whitaker’s latest tour. (What happened to the days when fame was for only 15 minutes?) Roger Whitaker! And his white beard!
One more scrap for today – an aphorism new to me. If you run into difficulty with someone, prescribe kindness – if it doesn’t work, double the dose. A suitable Christmassy message for a suitably Christmassy day.
Apart from the ducks.

We, the freaks

Facing down the expectations of society can be a tough call for many of the more disadvantaged.
It is easier not to even try to appreciate the extra difficulties that many face on a day to day basis through prejudice, ignorance or the feverish desire for fame, fashion and vanity.
I talk of those ostracised by bullying or politics or any other thinly veiled arrogance that represents human expectations.
This diary is not a confessional but I am going to offer you this insight into my soul as I too have been on the receiving end of being marginalised from society. I have peered through a chink in the window and felt the searing heat of the glowing rod of human pity.
Anyone who has actually seen me get some dust behind my contact lens, have to take it out, lick it and put it back in will know something of the prejudice I have faced down.
Should those that see me fear me or throw me change ?
Only they can decide that for themselves.

A Size Trial

I have made a shopping error.
I am not proud of it but I offer it up for your judgement.
First a little background.
I tend to buy medium.
And I don’t mess around.
I saw it in the window. I tend only to buy things that are in windows as I always know they will have at least one in stock. Over the years, I have paid for more display models than Rod Stewart.
Within two minutes I was at the till having spotted a Medium, solicited the opinion of the Portuguese shop assistant and was at the till entering my PIN number before catching up with the friends waiting outside the shop whom I had not informed of my intentions after seeing the item in the window.
With me so far?
Good.
As I walked along I found I had chosen the wrong size (I wore it to go and it felt loose).
How? Surely I could not need a Small. I have never bought small clothes. It creates an arms war and exposes my long wrists and cheap watch to public ridicule.
I returned home, looked again at the crumpled label and saw my M (for Medium). Then I uncrumpled it and noticed something else. Above the M was an S. And below the M was an L. And below the L was an XL.
And the XL was in RED.
Hmmmmmm.
Being about the leave the city realised I had 90 minutes left to get back to the shop and exchange the item. I was back within 20 minutes to spare with a Large jacket and a small voice in my head.
Tell the world, it said.

We who are about to try on clothes... salute you

Today, I was ready for trouble.
All I wanted to do was buy a jacket but the only mirror was in the Men’s Fiting Room. I presumed this to be a turbulent area of semi-literate tributes to the male of the species.
I entered.
There was attitude, men in trunks and talcum powder everywhere.
Someone offered me a massage.
I declined.
I put the jacket over my shoulders.
Eye of the Tiger played in the background.
It was animal.

With a polyester lining.

Nutter Sighting

Today, I saw a nutter.
In the streets of Lisbon on a Sunday afternoon, he enthusiastically directed traffic in the most random manner possible. I have been to Lisbon many times and every time have been offered Hash in hushed tones. I tend to decline as my computer keyboard comes with all the hash I need to get through the day. And a lot more besides.
His arms thrashed and waved as he waved at cars that were slowly driving up the road, vigorously blocked their way and pointed them onto the pavements or towards some trees. He leapt and threw his heart and soul into the bogus directions. No car escaped his attempts to direct them off the road. I defy you not to have laughed.
Then I noticed something. A woman gave him some money. What was this?
Pity? A friendly “push-off”?
So I looked again.
Yes, he was directing cars onto the path because he had spotted in his unique viewpoint, as an eagle-eyed pedestrian, two things.
One. A place to slot your car on a busy Sunday in a capital city.
And two. A gap in the market where he could offer a new service of parking space spotting for the beleaguered weekend driver.
He went up in my estimation.
Hats off to the European entrepreneur.

At the foot of Mount Hilarious

Have you ever seen a comedian?
Has he made you laugh? Or perhaps even just smile.
Ahh but then have you recommended him to someone else?
Perhaps you have the power to influence a lot of people, say writing movie reviews? Then you may have stumbled across the world's most overused and abused word.
The worst offenders are the reviewers who write their reviews so that they get their name on the front of the comedy movie DVD release which pronounces their esteemed opinion.

The movie I can tell you will be "Hilarious".
Just imagine the level of gut-punishing laughter that it would take to reach something that could be described as hilarity. A level of amusement so high that 'adjective plus laughter' would be simply inadequate in transmitting the message of how funny the movie/show/book/comedian truly is.
Imagine that level. Then double it. Twice. Congratulations. You are at the foot of a steep mountain that leads to the mythical world of hilarious, a trip that criminally overpromises.

Maybe you were feeling down and you wanted, you needed, hilarious. Simply insert DVD with recommendation. Press play. Absorb hilarity. Feel different? No, more likely these movies will be crimes against comedy. Likely they may be likeable. But make you laugh even once? Not so likely.
The foot of Mount Hilarious can be a confusing place.