What with it being so close to Christmas, coupled with the fact that we are moving house shortly after the festive season I shall be taking a short break from blogging.

The thing is my lovely wife is, even as I write heavily into packing things away; choosing new curtains and other stuff for the new house and generally – and quite rightly – making note of the fact that I am affording her little practical help. The cheek of it!

It’s the premature packing up that is doing my head in. As of today the Christmas tree in the lounge is cardboard box camouflaged – I occasionally get more confused than usual (and that takes some doing) in the pulsating shadows of the tree lights in epileptic mode, although I suppose the plus is that at least it gives me a pointer as to where the bloody thing lurks. Whatever, its boxes, boxes and more boxes than you could shake a stick at. Indeed the place is turning into a maze of sorts…must remember not to hold on too long when nature beckons (I’ve written that in biro on the back of my hand just in case). Additionally she has made mention of her desire to flat pack me to prevent me getting in the way! I’d rather like to be flat packed yet have thus far refrained from telling her this.

I shall return though, and in the meantime I shall at long last see if I am able to work out how to use my ‘tablet thing’ thus enabling me to at least read and comment upon the blogs I follow during the duration of her frantic endeavours. I might add I say this only because I can no longer find my desk upon which my laptop sits!

So then, to one and all MERRY CHRISTMAS – HAVE A JOLLY GOOD ONE!

I shall leave you with my short post from last year – words that mean as much now as then I hope;

The simplicity of love

Is beyond all rhyme and reason

Do not complicate it my friend

During this, the festive season

Also, they say the old ones are the best so do remember,

‘Santa comes but once a year and when he does he fills your stocking’



On or about 1746; Douai, France: John Francis Wade, son of a cloth merchant and top English hymnist of his day is now living in Northern France. You see the poor sod that he is, John Wade a devout Catholic, has had to flee religious persecution in England following the 1745 Jacobite rebellion being quashed. It is thus that John spends his time now teaching Latin and knocking out a few hymns as the fancy takes him. Presently we find him stuck for inspiration at the organ (so to speak) of Our Lady’s Church just as local girl Fifi has popped in for a quick confession.

“Well I’ll be blowed if it isn’t young Fifi.” 

“Fifi I maybe yet you can be rest assured you’ll not be blowed in a house of God…mind if you’ve got thirty francs spare and you care to meet up round the back of the tavern after closing time you never know your luck!” 

“Now, now Fifi that’s quite enough on the ribald front…anyway how are you keeping?” 

“Oh I’m getting by…making ends meet.” 

“There you go again Fifi…you’re incorrigible ‘making ends meet’…whatever next will slip out of your mouth.” 

“Crikey Johnny boy you’re at it now you dirty old rascal! Whatever, still composing then I see.” 

“Trying to Fifi, trying to.  I thought what with Christmas so close I’d knock out a swift carol yet here I am, melody and title all done and dusted trying to put a lyric together yet for the life of me I simply cannot get the all-important last word to the first line. Without that vital last word I’m utterly bolloxed. I really don’t know what to do.” 

“Maybe I could be of help then? I mean I am often overpowered by the overwhelming desire to pen graffiti in the form of poems on the walls of the ladies loo in town. What have you got so far?” 

“I don’t expect for one moment a peasant girl of dubious morals such as you can afford me, an acclaimed hymnist, any assistance either in part or at all yet so desperate am I, I will give it a go. Right the carol is named O Come All Ye Faithful and the first line reads ‘O come all ye faithful, joyful and…! That’s it Fifi, ‘Joyful and what’?” 

“Well if I was penning the ditty and bearing in mind that’s it’s for a Christmas Carol I think I’d run with, ‘O come all ye faithful, joyful and quite boozed up’. Yeah, I mean just about everyone gets lashed up on the grog front over Yuletide.” 

“Yes Fifi I can see where you’re coming from but you forget the Church doesn’t really approve of over indulgence insofar as the consumption of alcohol is concerned does it? So that simply won’t do.” 

“OK then Johnny try this, ‘O come all ye faithful, joyful and still having a half decent Christmas even though, what with me being a left-footer condoms are off the menu’. See that one express both enjoyment and makes suitable mention of contraception being not allowed to us Catholics. Nice touch don’t you think?” 

“I must confess Fifi I do rather like the way it rolled off your tongue you clever girl.” 

“Oi, nothing ever rolls off my tongue as you well know.” 

“True, yet thinking about it it’s a bit wordy. Basically I’m looking for a single word to finish off that bloody…oops, sorry God…first line.” 

“Got it! This one’s a belter, you’re going to like. ‘O come all ye faithful, joyful and indifferent’. Now that one sort of, kinda like, know what I mean shows a bit of compassion for the old atheists who couldn’t give a toss about Christmas…I think that makes it an all-embracing, universal, call it what you will end to the first line.” 

“The thing is Fifi you have quite overlooked that some amongst the congregation might take ‘indifferent’ the wrong way. Indeed before your most eloquent explanation of what you were on about I myself took it to be ‘in different’ and presumed you’d been thumbing through that Karma Sutra book you purloined off that sailor from Calais.  No it’s a non-starter I’m afraid and besides we burn atheists at the stake in these parts.” 

“Well that’s me stuffed then Johnny.” 

“I can well imagine you have been you little minx.” 

“Leave it out…it’s all sexual innuendo with you…fairly doing my head in.  Tell you what why don’t you take a break. We could go for a quick one down the tavern…and I stress I mean a quick drink…and see if that gets the old creative juices…as in inspiration…flowing once more.” 

“What a splendid idea Fifi, I don’t mind if I do.  I thought you were heading for the confessional though?” 

“Well I was but if the truth be told I’m sick of seeing the ‘triumphant’ look on the priests face every single time he’s dished me out ‘50 Our Father’s and a gross of Hail Mary’s’. I can always pop back on Monday anyhow.” 

“Now, now Fifi do keep quiet whilst we stroll to the tavern I‘m thinking and all this talk of ‘triumphant’ is throwing me…oh, and by the way I do have a spare 30 francs for later as it happens!”



In answer to your question

No I haven’t killed your cat

Your dog or your reptiles

Nor your stupid bloody bat


Admittedly I frowned at them

Just the other day

For when you let them out to frolic

They do quite often stray


Here into my garden

Which is my pride and joy

Those little bastards that you own

Cunning tactics they deploy


The cat shits on my fresh mowed lawn

The dog digs down to Hades

Your reptiles scoff the butterflies

And the bat carries the rabies


So if you’d be so kind

To keep your menagerie off my patch

Thus ensuring the health and safety

Of your ‘pets’ yet here’s the catch


Ignore my request at your peril

For in my cellar I keep a crocodile

And if I let Eric – that’s his name – loose

He will soon wipe off the smile


From that ugly face of yours

You self-centred, ignorant twat

For Eric when the mood takes him

Will eat your dog, your bat and cat


As to the bloody reptiles

I’ll take care of them myself

I’ll chop off their heads with a carving knife

Mount them on the kitchen shelf


So I trust you’ve got the message

And you’ll keep your pets away

Thus avoiding the necessity

Of me committing an act foul play



Outside the garret window

A carnival in full flow

Pretty maids street dancing

Each one with a handsome beau


Yet here, in here there is no revelry

Just a distant pulsating beat

Some cheering and much laughter

Rising up from those with the world at their feet


We are monochrome marionettes you know

Without a puppet master

Over familiarity has led us

To court with this disaster


Independent souls they say

A metaphor for selfish?

Both sat here silent in the shadows

Knowing we both share the same wish


That one of us first apologise

For the words that were left unsaid

That the ‘last word’ be a worthy one

To take with us off to our bed


And as ever we resolve

To cease from this hushed quarrel

Now the matter, as ever is sorted

With a kiss that promises ‘immoral’


Deeds we will act out this night

And thus ice all that we have bruised

We are the two pig-headed lovers

Both of us short fused


A mix of pure love and the X-rated

Is the best cure that we know

To rekindle a thing too good to lose

Born again in love’s after glow



“Don’t think much of your Belgian plumbing Rene mate. I mean, didn’t your original plumber realise that you’d end up challenged on the old hot water supply pressure without him having fitted a pump to the system at the outset. Even better he could have installed a combi boiler – piece of piss that would have been, I’ve already checked your local mains pressure and its way above the 3 bar minimum threshold. If I were you I’d give him a bell and ask for your money back mate…still at least it’s all working tickety-boo now.”

“Jonny I can’t thank you enough. The wife, Georgette nearly caught her death of cold just last week – boy could we have done with hot water up in the ensuite then.”

“Poor Georgie Girl…how come she got so cold then?”

“Oh you know I was doing one of me trademark surrealist type nude paintings and she was the model and all that.”

“Even so Renio you’re central heating works a treat. Knowing you I’d wager you were counting the pennies and you never had it switched up.”

“No Jonny it wasn’t that all as it happens.  No, where I got it all wrong was when I had her pose for hours on end by an open window so I could set her naked form against a backdrop of fluffy white clouds and a glorious azure seascape. Do you want to take a gander at the painting?”

“Certainly do Renio…right lets cast me gazers over this one.  Bet she’s still as lovely as ever diamond kid that she is…hold up, bloody hell I see Georgie Girl’s torso has turned ice blue with what I hazard a guess to be much more than just your average winter chill.  If I recall correctly the temperatures didn’t go above freezing point at any stage last week.  It’s no bloody wonder she nigh on froze her tits off. You should be ashamed of yourself for breaking the golden rule of artists favouring the naked female form namely that you don’t, never ever ask a girl to take her kit off exposed to the elements during the mid-January inclemency.  Never forget what the tosser pre-Raphaelite Sir John Everett Millais did to the truly gorgeous Elizabeth Siddal when she posed in the bathtub – full kit on mind – for his painting of Ophelia! She very nearly died of the cold. Do not let it ever be said a surrealist would be as plain bloody inconsiderate as a pre-Raphaelite my friend.”

“I know Jonny, truly I know. It’s just that I got carried away with my work and forgot to let her take a break. It was only when I noticed I’d run out of blue paint that I thought stone the crows Georgette turned blue with the cold. The daft thing is she never complained at the time. If only she given me the nod that she was getting frost bite in the crucials I’d have stopped in an instant.”

“Has she recovered now?”

“Thankfully yes. As soon as I fathomed that our shower was up the creek I put her over my shoulder and made hell for leather to Frank’s place next door…had him run a hot bath and chucked her in it. Her teeth didn’t stop chattering till the following morning mind…it was like sleeping next to an over active woodpecker that night I have to say. I never got a wink of kip. Still all’s well that ends well – you can say hello to her if you want, she’ll be up in the studio any minute posing again.”

“In the naughty naked nud I’ll wager knowing you. I do hope you’ll keep the windows shut and the heat on full this time.”

“Oh no problems on that front Jonny. She’ll be safe and sound indoors mate. I’m going for a simple reclining nude this time around…you know playing it safe until springtime.”

“Glad to hear that…I think I’ll hang around and watch you both at work then – providing of course you have an ample supply of strong tea and a matching stock of Garibaldi biscuits mate.”

“No problem on that front Jonny, you’re more than welcome to stay and don’t worry I’ll heed your words in future.”

“Just you make sure you do.”

“You really are a living legend Jonny.”



These days

Indeed for some

Considerable time now

When he shut his eyes

Her image ceased to haunt

She had become

In his mind’s eye

A glorious black nothing


Long since

He had consigned her to


Very own waste bin

Trashed her essence

All evidence of her gone


An achievement?

He presumed it thus


Decades had past

Yet now languishing

Upon his deathbed

Nature’s Law of Everything

With neither

His permission or consent

Enabled his reflective drive

And there she was once more

Real, so very real

It both irked

And, if he cared to admit

Afforded him

Some small pleasure


Back in the day

They had been

Dyed in the wool lovers

Paris, New York & Rome

And just about any place else

Four posters, Afghan rugs and sandy dunes

Ten miles high, palaces and opium dens

Through war and peace

They had made love

And, as is the case with passionate souls

Also fought like cat and dog

Here, there and everywhere

Until the day

One fight too many

She spitting feathers

He digging deep

Into the mine of insults

Seeking out the mother load

They reluctantly agreed

The battling Siamese twins

They had become

Warranted severance

If both were to survive


And thus separation was achieved

The indifference alloy

Of a continent apart

Ensured magnificent opposites

No longer afforded

The contradiction of

Magnetic attraction


In the here and now though

Fading away

Cursed with excessive fatigue

An almost impossible weakness



Laboured breathing

Ugly swollen feet and

The mottled veins

Only a surrealist

Could do justice

She was there

Young and naked

Exquisite in her finery

Provocative in her tomboy rags

She, who once was his

Had not aged one iota

Why should she?

After all, to the world at large

It was obvious

She was nought but a memory


Not so to this dying man

He knew

A final, subliminal wish

Had been afforded him

Nature’s Law of Everything again?


Whatever, his terminal breath


A fatal


Tear of

Unbridled jubilation

She was with him at the end

Seventh heaven


The magic of time

Is the only truth we have


civil servants“I say Carruthers the PM’s private secretary is frantic.”

“Fran Tic? Gosh I thought her name was Sheila…I mean I’ve been calling her Sheila for years. She must think me an idiot…I do wish you’d have corrected me before now.”

“No old chum she’s frantic as in ‘got her knickers in a twist’.”

“How so?”

“Oh it seem that that unsavoury Peer of the Realm, Lord Daniel Soz 7th Earl of Whitechapel has been up to his old tricks again and published a transcript of our little chat only last week about organising the office Christmas party…it’s all there in print, word for bleddy word.”

“The scoundrel, I really thought he’d stop being such a nuisance after we had words with him a while back.  Anyway how on earth did he acquire said transcript?”

“FO mole.”

“How dare you speak to me like that! I shall not ‘FO’ as you so bluntly and cruelly I might add put it nor am I a ‘mole’ – I don’t know what possessed you to say such a thing.”

“No you’ve got me quite wrong…I meant we have a mole in the Foreign Office…as in a betrayer no less.”

“For pities sake man who is this Bette Rayer. Never heard of her.”

“No not a person…well yes a person sort of…more an informer leaking information from this very office. We shall have to put a stop to it directly.”

“What a morning I’m having…really cannot cope with all this confusion…if it’s not one person I’ve never heard of it’s a bleddy baker’s dozen. Tell me who this Di Rectly is and I’ll sack the bitch on the spot.”

“Crumbs I’m getting all in a muddle myself now…tell you what let’s pop orf to the club for a sharp’ner. I for one could use one.”

“What would you do with him then?”


“This Juan chappie you talk of…do trust you’re not bowling from the pavilion end these days. Oh bugger it, I’ll join at the club…just need to water the horse first.”

If that were not drivel enough I can report that the Christmas issue of the online SozSatire mag is out now and available at;


Within its pages you will find a host of characters plus the sheer lunacy of Danny Sparko (a particular favourite of mine; certainly one I wish I’d thought up) see;


And a splendid pop at the twat of twats namely Nigel Farage and his UKIP brigade;


plus, the Carruthers & Chum leaked transcript;


a host of others characters and stuff!

The ‘mag’ as ever is devoid of those awful advert things and is entirely ‘free’.

If you enjoy then you may care to like SozSatire on Facebook – the button thing for this is at the bottom of the page.



There is a certain futility

When ensconced in Paradise

And to be consumed

With wanderlust


This she knew, or thought

She knew all too well


And in her heart of hearts

She was well aware

Having read the rainbows

That beyond the far horizon

Lay a place of debauchery


That the chastity of her

Divine abode

Was insufficient

Was a fact

The grass is always greener

And what worth immortality

Without gaiety

Without passion?


It was thus that she

Packed a bag

With the merest sufficiency

Of this and that and

Took of her leave


I first met with her in

The hole that is Babylon

A revelation to one and all

Who arrived at this destination

From a ‘safer’ corner

Where love over lust

Tiresome that that could be


Mattered a lot


Over time I noticed

She took to life here

As would a fish to water

She was never to join

The virtuous coy brigade

Not this one!


For now she would

Find nourishment

Feasting upon flesh

As did I, the Libertine


Of course I warned her

That the brew of licentiousness

Comes from a bottle that

One day will run dry


She cared not

Had lovers far and wide

I included in their number


I had not come across her

For some little time

Until that is I found her

Revelling in the company

Of a cocktail of

Wanton degenerates

In some bar or other

Just this side of Gehenna


Once duly sated

She took a breather

We got to chat

To catch up on things


The time came to

Bid my farewell

She called me back

Grasped my hand

Imploring ‘Take me back to Paradise,

This game I have been playing

No longer suits’


My face

At first quizzical

Then quite blank

Told her all

She needed to know

‘There is no going back’


bum whap

‘Careful where you put your hands’

Is what she said to me

‘But madam I am armless

Turnabout and you will see’


With that the damsel about faced

Looked at me with distain

And even though I was upper limb challenged

She requested I refrain


From doing whatever she thought I’d done

Though in truth I hadn’t a clue

Notwithstanding she was in a huff

I thought ‘What a to-do’


Feeling most hard done by

I gently nutted her upon the shoulder

Once more she turned around and said

‘I detect you’re getting bolder


If you infringe my space thus

I shall have to call the fuzz

And even though you have no arms

Rest assured the police I’ll buzz’


Perplexed I determined a riposte

I couldn’t let this thing go

Accused as I was of roving hands

Hence I made mention apropos


Of nothing save that I was irked

So I asked her what she thought my crime

‘Well someone pinched my bottom

And it really hurt big time’


‘Well rest assured it wasn’t me

See, I’ve no fingers with which to squeeze

Your derriere so perfect

That it makes me weak at the knees


And any man who would even dare

Impinge upon your space

In such a vile manner

Should be slapped about the face’


At that very moment I did spot him

The joker in the pack

This time he bit the ladies bottom

Then legged it, leaving me to take the flack


Of course I was arrested

And before the magistrate I stood

He said, ‘Even though you have no arms

Plainly you were up to no good


For your most despicable act

I sentence you to life in jail

And if you’re thinking of appealing

I shan’t be granting bail’


At this I saw in the public gallery

The true villain of the peace wink

And mouth the word ‘twat’ at me

As I was taken off to the clink


When the newspapers published my story

There was a public outcry

An angry mob tracked him down

And caught the guilty guy


One of the mob, a surgeon

Amputated the fellows upper limbs

Transplanted them upon me

Thus I had what once belonged to him


My sentence quashed and free again

I got on with my life

And the girl who filed against me

Is now my lovely new wife


The plus in our relationship

Ensconced as we are in our new home

Is that she couldn’t give a monkey’s now

Where ‘his’ hands do roam!



scullery maid

Amélie was a good sort

At least I thought so until that day

She locked me in the cellar

Of her Paris bordello and threw the key away


My crime? I didn’t cough up

The fee after the event

A caddish trick I realize now

Yet my francs I’d long since spent


Spent them on the champagne

And several dancing girls

Oh yes and at the opium den

And also on street walkers of low morals


And thus it was when I arrived

At Madam Amélie’s maison de tolerance

I feasted upon both flesh and food

Yet claimed of ignorance


When presented with the bill

For all the services she had rendered

Only at the point she drew her pistol

Was the point that I surrendered


So now I languish in the gloom

Of a vault so cold and dank

In the company of sewer rats

And a rather smelly septic tank


Yet am I disappointed?

Well I am to a certain extent

But looking on the bright side

It could be heaven sent


That her pretty scullery maid Hélène

Has taken pity at my plight

And has eased the strain of my incarceration

By ‘visiting’ me both day and night


Each time she has a free moment

She takes a clandestine trip down here

Also she promises to escape with me

When the coast is clear


Yet do I really want to leave?

After all I am the consummate cad

And Hélène serves my every need

So things really aren’t that bad