December 1968; São Paulo, Brazil: Mick Jagger and Keith Richard of The Rolling Stones are endeavouring to write a lyric for their forthcoming single.  The chaps already have a melody for the song that they have named Honky Tonk Woman yet are stuck on the bloody lyric. Accompanying them in Brazil are their girlfriends Marianne Faithfull and Anita Pallenberg respectively.

 “I say Keith old chap I’m trying my very hardest to put a lyric to this sublime melody what you have writ yet am a tad bolloxed as to how to conclude the first line. As you well know nothing flows until that all important first line takes shape.”

“Good Lord Mick it really is unlike you to get bolloxed thus. Tell me what have you got thus far……you never know I might get a flash of inspiration and slip one in.”

“Not with my Marianne you won’t you rascal you! Right this is what I’ve got – and do remember the theme of this song is about a prostitute for we mustn’t stray from that – ‘I met a gin soaked bar-room queen in………’ and that my friend is jolly well it.”

“Um I see what you mean Mick…..let me have a think…….OK….try this one, ‘I met a gin soaked bar-room queen on the North Circular road as she was so pissed so got off the tube train at the wrong stop so I gave her a lift home thus ensuring her safety.’ Nice one don’t you think?”

“Bit wordy Keith…bit wordy…….and no Marianne you may not stuff yourself with yet another Mars Bar….how many times do I have to tell you they are for Keith and me to top up our blood sugar levels and thus provide a glucose rush when the wretched tiredness starts to overwhelm our creativity.  Right Keith sorry about that little intervention caused by the incorrigible nature of Ms Faithfull……what else might you have?”

“Well Mick while you were giving Marianne a bit of an ear wigging there I thought of this, ‘I met a gin soaked bar-room queen on a cross channel ferry but she fell overboard and drowned so lashed up with mother’s ruin was she.’ A winner methinks.”

“Um….very good yet not quite what we’re looking for in my book. Another stab please……and for crying out loud Anita I have never in all my born days seen a gal scoff another’s gals Mars Bar quite like you are doing now……both of you young ladies desist this very instant or Keith and I will have to smack your bums……and don’t the both of you giggle when I say that; why do you always giggle when I say that though…..never mind forget it……. Back to you Keith, what have you got for me?”

“Clincher Michael…I do believe I’ve got a clincher with this one. Here we go, ‘I met a gin soaked bar-room queen in the confessional of the local catholic church.’ I did once as it happens, she’d gone in the cubicle thing to throw up and I was sat next door as it were confessing like a good’un thinking she was the priest. It was only when I heard the poor girl utter the words, ‘I just want to fucking die’ that I could detect she was a female. Whatever, are you with me on this one?”

“Cannot say I am Keith….it’s just not capturing the feel for the lyric I’m looking for. Tell you what let’s pop back to the lodge for tea and scones and see whether or not that might just get the juices flowing again……and no Marianne….creative juices in an artistic way I’m talking here….don’t be smutty.”

“Sound idea Mick.  By the way do you remember that old tom we met in ‘Memphis’ upon the occasion of our last visit? Bit of a goer she was I recall.”

“I recall the young lady well yet let us not get side tracked chatting about our time in ‘Memphis’ when we have a lyric to pen.”

“Sorry Mick, my mistake.”




Beaten to a pulp

A mismatch

Always the same

Quit the game?

Then what?


Give it another go

Try harder this time

It’ll be OK

Sick of the

Blue blue corner

Punch drunk

Always a contender

Never the champ


She pauses


Although there is

No chill in the air

The key already in

The lock

Should she?


With reluctance

She enters the


Of the predacious one


A butterfly

Without wings


svetlana 3

“I say Carruthers how did it go…….you know…….meeting up with that estranged wife of yours last evening?  Where did you dine? Any juicy, spicy tales to impart old chum?”

“Juicy, spicy tales? What the bleddy hell are you on about?”

“Oh…don’t know really….it’s something mater used to say a lot when asking for details of conversations others had had. Never could make head nor tale of it if the truth be told. I just spat it out really. Anyway how did it go?”

“Well obviously we dined at The Ritz and to commence with everything was going swimmingly well. Deirdre asked me how I was getting along without her and I explained that the old house had become a lonely place yet at least Svetlana the maid had kindly been attending to my every need.”


“Then Deirdre dropped the bombshell saying she wanted to return home as that youth of an Italian tennis coach of hers had decided he wanted a younger model. Of course I was taken aback as I had no idea he even held a driving licence let alone was getting a new car – odd though when you think about it. Why should him buying a spanking new motor prompt Deirdre to want to come home?”

“Yes that is rather odd.”

“Anyway Deirdre said that provided I was willing to acknowledge and fulfil her desires she would be prepared to give the marriage another try. When she said ‘desires’ I assumed she meant she wanted me to get her the new pruning shears she had been going on and on about prior to leaving me. Of course I told her straight orf the bat that she should consider the pruning shears a given.  That’s when she dropped the next Dum Dum in my direction. Deirdre told me, ‘No you fuckwit I want a baby.’ Crikey I thought to myself.”

“Crikey indeed. How did you respond?”

“Changed the subject as it happened – the gals always fall for that I find. So as to deflect the conversation in a new direction I made mention of the night not long after she’d abandoned me when in the deepest of slumbers I was awoken in the bed chamber by an entirely naked Svetlana who was straddled across my body and how shocked I was to find I had no jim-jams on. I thought I’d be emotionally scarred for life at the very sight of her bits I can tell you.  However I explained that Svetlana had said she was simply applying an old tried and tested Romanian relaxation therapy to relieve stress and anxiety. Strangely at this point I could detect from her expression that Deirdre’s previous kindly demeanour seemed to be turning sour for some unaccountable reason.”

“No jim-jams! What on earth were you thinking of?”

“Couldn’t say….I’ve never taken to the old pit devoid of them before…..anyhow and moving on Deirdre then said with a curious, inquisitive glint in her eye, ‘Tell me more.’ So I did just that. I went on to explain that some weeks later Svetlana collared me over breakfast and advised me that she was carrying my one and only heir. I laughed at this for as you can see I have a fine head of hair yet told her she was welcome to this one – all the time thinking she must have discovered it when changing the sheets or such like. Whatever, at this Svetlana said, ‘Normally in these circumstances I would get rid of it yet since I’ve have discovered the full extent of your assets and financial portfolio I think I’ll hang on to this one.’ Again I told her she was more than welcome to keep it at which she beamed gratefully and told me that coming from peasant family who had never known anything other than abject poverty I had just made her the happiest woman alive.”

“How lovely! It doesn’t take a lot to make these Eastern European gypsy stock types happy does it? The simple gift of a hair – beggars belief really.”

“The thing is I thought this a jolly nice tale yet no sooner as I had spoken Deirdre emptied her plate of butter poached lobster with cauliflower puree, ginger and cardamom broth over my head and promptly stormed orf in floods of tears saying she’d rather be destitute and sleep under Waterloo Bridge than return home to the old mansion in the shires to an utter bastard like me.”

“What a waste of lobster – I’ve never heard the like of it. So you’re back to square one again….just you, the maid Svetlana and her affection for your hair. Sounds to me like you could do with a jigger or two down at the club.”

“How very, very true – I could and likely will murder all the jiggers you can aim in my direction. By the way that Svetlana isn’t half putting on weight about the waist for one whom barely eats enough to fill a hollow tooth.”


Prolific WordPress Comments Writer Found Slain In Apartment


What a truly ‘great post’ from Lord Daniel Soz 7th Earl of Whitechapel.

Originally posted on The League Of Mental Men:

ugly woman

“GREAT POST!” Miss Bergman pictured getting on people’s nerves in happier times

A 46 year old single female, described as a “serial blog commentator”, was discovered dead in her East London flat last night. Initial reports claim that she had been shot, stabbed, poisoned, electrocuted, hanged and beaten over the head with a heavy object. Police on the scene also revealed that a huge iron weight with “1 TON” painted on the side had been dropped on top of the body.

Det Inspector Jock Birch, of The Metropolitan Police, told reporters “It looks like this poor woman may have made one comment too many. It certainly looks like there were a number of perpetrators and we have to consider the possibility that they jointly conspired to put an end to this lady’s constant stream of banal wittering on their WordPress blogs”

The deceased woman was named as Martha Bergman, unemployed…

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THE SAD DEMISE OF BRIAN THE BULL! A piece of silly verse


Think something is wrong at WordPress as this has not appeared on the bloody reading thing thus I am trying once more!

Originally posted on mikesteeden:


I knew a beast called Brian once

To him I made a marriage vow

You see Brian is a massive bull

And I’m a Guernsey cow

Yet I could never trust Brian

He had a roving eye

Chased after all the other girls

Leaving me alone to cry

You see Brian the wayward bovine

He kept a harem numbering fifty

Even kept them satisfied

Although to my taste he was somewhat nifty

Never mind Brian’s gone now

Put his back out mounting Sheila

A harlot of a Friesian

Yet he did his best to please her

Farmer Giles was quite upset

To see his prize breeder suffer ache

So he sent him to the abattoir

To be turned into rump steak

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THE SAD DEMISE OF BRIAN THE BULL! A piece of silly verse


I knew a beast called Brian once

To him I made a marriage vow

You see Brian is a massive bull

And I’m a Guernsey cow


Yet I could never trust Brian

He had a roving eye

Chased after all the other girls

Leaving me alone to cry


You see Brian the wayward bovine

He kept a harem numbering fifty

Even kept them satisfied

Although to my taste he was somewhat nifty


Never mind Brian’s gone now

Put his back out mounting Sheila

A harlot of a Friesian

Yet he did his best to please her


Farmer Giles was quite upset

To see his prize breeder suffer ache

So he sent him to the abattoir

To be turned into rump steak




One I made earlier for The League of Mental Men – http://leagueofmentalmen.wordpress.com/

Originally posted on The League Of Mental Men:

jack ripper

“Well Jack its Friday night, there’s a pea-souper from the Golden Age of smog out there and you’re still indoors. What’s it all about son? Aren’t you minded to pop out and about the impoverished areas of London’s East End on one of you usual rampages of throat slashing prior to abdominal mutilations and the removal of internal organs of young ladies of the night – you enjoy it so very much.”

“No Mum I’ve given all that up.”

“Given it all up! You’re having a laugh son, surely.”

“Mother, the truth is since all the girls now carry pepper sprays, rape alarms, switch blades and some even unlicensed tasers it just isn’t a level playing field anymore. There’s no fairness in it as far as I can tell. All the fun out of serial killing has left me. I thought I’d take up a new hobby, you know instead…

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Well it was that time of the year again. With the kids are shortly to break up for the summer holidays sports day was upon us once more. I could barely disguise my glee knowing that the children so look forward to the occasion – what with their mums, dads and/or foster parents all turning up to watch.

And thus it was that I trembled with excitement as the first event – the 50 metre dash – started. Obviously I had to explain to little Billy Speedster, a young athlete of some prowess, that we can have no single winner in any race as we frown on the overtly competitiveness nature of sports these days. As it was a racing certainty Billy could out pace anyone in the school I was not too taken aback when he replied, ‘Well you can fuck off as I’m going to thrash the fucking lot of them Miss.’ I took great comfort from the fact he called me ‘Miss’ as only last week he’d called me a ‘Boring bitch’ so things are certainly on the up insofar as his manners are concerned. Inevitably though he took no notice when halfway through the race when I asked him to slow down so the girls could catch up save for putting two fingers up at me. Never mind.

Next was the three-legged race. Alison Hopley asked me if she could partake in this event with her best friend Marion, a sweet girl. However I had to explain to Alison that as she only had the one leg it would not be fair on Marion, a child of slight stature if she had to effectively drag her to the finish – which, in essence is what would have happened. Alison burst into tears and asked, ‘Well what race can I enter?’ Having had a good think I came up with the idea that she could do a 25 metre hop all by herself. She gave it a jolly good try yet collapsed exhausted after just 5 metres – it was a very hot day mind – however all the parents gave her the bestest of cheers even though the child herself was left bereft by what in hindsight I know she will see as a character building experience.

Denis Watkins did cheat in the egg & spoon race though. So as to avoid the mess of smashed eggs we had previously hard boiled them all – sensible thinking on my part. The problem here was that Denis, known as Fat Boy within his peer group ate his egg before the race even started then tripped up a number of other children and scoffed their eggs as well. I pointed out to Denis that that was somewhat unfair and he replied, ‘So fucking what.’ Naughty boy, however when I explained that eating all the eggs would likely make him pass wind and bung him up on the number two front he just laughed in my face – I drew a positive from the smile upon his face and gave him a great big cuddle even though strictly speaking that is out of order these days. What a risk taker I am when it comes to the children’s welfare.

As soon as I got home I penned a little poem about the day’s events.


Sports day comes but once a year

A chance for kids to play and run

Little Billy whizzed for dear life

And at solo hopping Alison won


Even portly Denis

Joined in the one event

Yet so challenged on the weight front is he

His tee-shirt looked more like a tent


To think of the emissions

That will emit from that child’s bum

With all those boiled eggs gobbled up

He’ll fart to kingdom come!

There, that was sweet wasn’t it? I’m going make up some signed framed prints of this poem and hand it to the kids on the last day of term. I can barely contain myself knowing that the little look in their eyes as I award them my gift of poetry will light up my life.

Still must be getting along – jolly hockey sticks and all that!



DINGALING, DINGALING, DINGALING……………  “Hello, hello…….is that the local police station…..I SAID IS THAT THE LOCAL POLICE STATION?”

“No need to shout luv – this is indeed the local nick.  PC Robert Bobby, known to my friends as ‘Bobby Bob Bob’ at your service. Please state your name and the purpose of your call.”

“Well I’m Mildred Bracegirdle and I think I’ve got a radicalized Buddhist in my garden shed.”

“In your garden shed you say?”

“Yes, in my garden shed – that’s what I said.”

“How pray do you know he’s (I’m assuming it is a ‘he’) a radicalized Buddhist?”

“Oh easy-peasy. He’s chanting rather a lot and Buddhists do like a bit of a chant when the fancy takes them don’t they?”

“They certainly do Mildred.”

“Oh and I forgot, I believe he might be a German radicalized Buddhist.”

“How is it that you think him to be a German radicalized Buddhist?”

“His accent is giving him away – he’s chanting with a Germanic accent you see.”

“What exactly is he chanting?” 

“Well as far as I can make out he’s chanting away like a good’un the words ‘One – Nil, One-Nil, One-Nil, One-Nil, One-Nil, One-Nil, One-Nil’ to the tune of Amazing Grace, then when he’s finished that he claps his hands several times and then belts out a blast of ‘We are the Champions’ in the style of Freddy Mercury. As soon as he has finished he starts again from the top…..you know…. ‘One-Nil, One-Nil……’ It’s getting on my tits more than a little I can tell you.”

“I’ll be truthful with you Mildred it sounds to me that he’s singing more than he is chanting.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were here listening…..it is most definitely a chant. Belting it out he is. What are you going to do about it?”

“How is it Mildred you think him to be ‘radicalised.’ I’m with you on the German bit and the Buddhist bit but thus far cannot get my head around the radicalized bit.”

“He must be because he’s in my fucking garden shed – surely you don’t get more radical than that? Christ you haven’t seen the shit that’s in there.  Anyway I’ll wager he’s going to blow himself.”

“So then Mildred you are now saying that he is a German radicalized Buddhist suicide bomber are you?”

“Suppose I am come to think of it.”

“Has he hit you with a ‘saying’ yet? You know one of those Buddhisty type ‘sayings’ what they knock out ten to a dozen. If he isn’t knocking out a swift saying in between chants (or songs for that matter) he’s not a Buddhist in my book. Why don’t you tap on the shed door and ask him if he’s got a ‘saying’ for you?”

“Good idea……….I’ll just put you on hold and pop out to have a word. Shan’t be a minute.”


“Are you still there Bobby Bob Bob.?”

“I certainly am Mildred. What did, or did not he say?”

“Weird really, when I knocked and said, ‘What are you doing in my garden shed’ he replied, ‘A wise man’s joy following an historic victory far outweighs his trespass within the bleakness of a garden shed whose only comfort is inadequate shelter.’ Couldn’t make head nor tail of it. What do you think he means?”

“Um……um…….tell you what Mildred I do believe you’re on to something here. That ‘saying’ could just be a coded message of sorts. I am minded to ask you to take to the hills forthwith, or at least until the anti-terrorist squad arrive as he’s likely to have a ‘potato masher’ strapped to his torso and it could explode any minute.”

“Will I get a new shed if he blows this one up?”

“Most likely the Criminal Compensation Board will help you out in that regard Mildred.”

“And will the anti-terrorist squad set down an explosive device to send him to Kingdom come regardless – one that will also be paid for out of State funds?”

“Most certainly they will.”

“So I get a new shed any which way this situation goes?”

“Spot on Mildred.”

“That’s blinding for the shed is falling apart as it happens and I could do with a new one. He can do what he fucking likes as far as I’m concerned. Oh, just remembered I think there’s a radicalised Christian in that old greenhouse of mine.”

Letters To LOMM: Double Missive Spectacular!


Insane satire at its very best.

Originally posted on The League Of Mental Men:


Dear League Of Mental Men

In order to reduce my car insurance premium, I pretended to be a woman and took out a policy with Drive Like A Girl Ltd. As a prerequisite of getting a cheaper premium I had to have a sensor linked up to my car’s Electronic Control Unit, which would then monitor my driving habits, average speed, gear selection,braking pressures etc.

Imagine my annoyance when I then discovered that I had completely lost the ability to reverse into small parking spaces and that every 28 days I would drive with the window down so that I could make obscene hand gestures and scream hysterical abuse at other road users.

Bob Fuck (Mrs)



Dear League Of Mental Men

Reluctant organ donors

In order to deter unscrupulous medics from harvesting your innards during a post mortem, simply swallow a number of mousetraps just before your death.

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