THE OFFICE BORE – A piece of ‘silly’ verse!



He’d be counting out the granules in his coffee,

He’d even count how many tiles were on the floor,

He would wax lyrical about the kidney bean,

You see, young Edwin was a bore!


Oh yes, he could bore for England,

Spouting out useless facts and figures all,

Yet Edwin really had no conception,

That he was about to take a mighty fall!


It happened early one Monday morning,

Just as Edwin got to work,

His workmates had frankly had enough of him by now,

In fact they thought he was the consummate dork.


What they did to him was really rather clever,

Although Edwin plainly did not see it thus,

They carried him aloft, right into the road,

And chucked him under the number 37 bus.


Yet Edwin he did survive this awful trauma,

He even thought of boring things to say,

Lying there in traction in his sectioned hospital bed,

This bore lived to bore another day.


He spoke of doses to his nurses,

Talked drivel to the sisters so they’d faint,

Even the hapless hospital cleaners,

Were happier watching drying paint.


Back home Edwin had a carer,

A buxom lass known by the name of Beth,

Yet when she could not take it any longer,

With a pillow she did smother him to death.


Even Edwin’s headstone in the graveyard,

With his boring bones rotting underneath,

Conveyed the boring message that the last bit of him to degrade,

Would without doubt be his teeth.






“I say Carruthers I was in the lift with all the plebs this morning and they were saying ‘Millie Band’ is the new leader of the Labour Party.  The thing is I’ve never heard of her – she must have come up through the ranks at a rate of knots.”

“Funny thing is I heard the same thing whilst on the Tube – even over heard that her nickname is ‘Head.’ Hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means? You know Millie ‘Head’ Band and all the smutty connotations that go with it!”

“That’s probably why her career has advanced at such a pace what, what!  Although hopefully it refers to her passion for netball or such like. Still if that were the case her handle more than likely would be ‘Head Band.’ Crikey when the tabloids get hold of this I feel a scandal of Profumo/Keeler proportions coming on here you know.”

“I do hope not; that’ll mean MI6 getting involved. More paperwork, paperwork, paperwork – can’t face it. Do you know what I think I need a stiff one?”

“Club or sauna?”

“Club man, club – I’m talking Talisker here. Sauna be buggered – so to speak.”

“I’ll come along in a jiffy.”




What if a new messiah,

Was to be a wise female,

Who was both black and lesbian?

I think that might derail,


The perceptions of the holy,

Ones who find they need to believe,

In anything and everything,

Their imagination doth conceive.


The ones who for millennia,

Passed blame onto Adam’s Eve,

Blaming her and all of her sex,

Said she set out to deceive,


And by default all womenfolk,

Have been denied their place,

In religions highest echelons,

Surely that is a disgrace?


Not that it concerns me,

For I think religion irrelevant,

Yet to keep the churches top jobs,

For the men is indecent.


So if the one I mention,

Were to come along,

And perform the greatest miracles,

You’d say she did not belong,


You’d say it for the reason,

That when all is said and done,

Your messiah must be a white man,

And not a black lesbian.


Some will think me a pariah,

When I say objectively,

That there was never any messiah,

Nor ever will there be.





De Sade: “Tell you what luv I’m thinking of giving up my sometimes overwhelming greed for sadistic sex. I find that my deprivation levels in terms of domination of the weaker species have long since commenced their dissipation.”

Renee (aka Mrs De Sade who speaks in an incredibly annoying high pitched voice): “Oh well that’s typical of you, you selfish twat. I spend all these years against my better judgement perfecting the role of your masochistic muse and now, when at last I’m taking to my task with some gusto and panache you drop me like a hot potato. How very, very thoughtless.”

De Sade: “Hold up luv – it’s nothing personal. I’m just not in the groove that’s all.”

Renee: “And, I might add, what’s going to happen to your collection of neo Gothic caste iron sex toys. You’ve spent fortunes  at Ann Summers over the years, not to mention the faux fur covered handcuffs from Poundland. If you think I’m going to help you sell all that gear off at a car boot sale you’ve got another think coming I’m telling you. Twat. What would the neighbours think.”

De Sade: “I don’t propose to rid myself of my accumulation of erotic devices of bondage just yet luv. You never know I might still have the occasional dabble every so often as the fancy takes me.  I mean the manacles on the four-poster alone cost a pretty penny and they hold memories of wanton lust I shall always treasure. Do you remember that night….”

Renee: “Don’t you dare give me that old twaddle. Look you either have given it all up and we sell all your kit and increase the ever depleting family coffers or we get back to the way we were before.”

De Sade: “Oh bollocks do what you like with it then, that’ll be my magnanimous gesture when I book myself in at the monastery up the road. You see I’m also thinking of turning to God and prayer for my salvation. Redemption for my former blasphemies if you like.”

Renee: “Well that’s the last straw. I’ve heard it all now. And do you think you could really control your sadistic tendencies when all those young virginal trainee nuns turn up every week to tend to the monks cucumber fields? Do you? Do you really?”

De Sade: “I’d forgotten about that. Um……….I don’t suppose you know what the nuns wear under their habits do you?”

Renee: “Don’t know; don’t f**king care – put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

De Sade: “I’ve let you down again luv haven’t I?”

Renee: “You could say that. And for that matter if you’re taking of your leave I want all those dodgy ‘selfies’ I took back. If they turn up on your Facebook page I’ll have your guts for garters.”

De Sade: “Would I ever do such a thing? Mind you that’s given me a certain stirring in me loins. I do believe that the very mention of your rousing ‘selfies’ has me reverting to type. Do you fancy a quick bit of unbridled lechery with a good measure of servitude on your part?”

Renee: “You’ve always been a smooth talker you old devil. Don’t mind if I do.”




Empty hives, like empty lives are a sign of things to come,

Empty hives, no insect alive; the process has begun.


No more the swarm, the honey warm, the Queen and workers gone,

The human race, somewhere in space; not here where they belong.


Empty hives, polluted pride, pollinator’s broke,

Empty lives, disgusting lies, extinguished at a stroke.


Empty hives, like those empty lives don’t mean much at End Times,

Empty hives, forsaken sighs in the face of mankind’s crimes.


Empty hives, like sharpened knives are no use any more,

Empty lives and empty hives are cloaks that life once wore.  


There may be colours in the spectrum, but all around is rust,

And all that eyeless senses feel is the ‘sunlight and the dust.’


You cannot count the cost, when all that was is lost,

You cannot count the cost of what we’ve done,

You cannot count the cost, of boundaries that we’ve crossed,

You cannot count the cost when on the run.


Empty hives are no surprise when ignorance is bliss,

Empty hives, the sad demise of nature’s elusive kiss.


A THREE LEGGED DOG’S OWN FLEA – A ‘silly’ bordering on stupid verse!


There’s a woman up the road from me,

She’s got a one eyed cat,

Plus a dog with three legs,

And a seemingly healthy bat.


I pass her in the street sometimes,

She does not talk to me,

Except the time, when locked out,

I helped her find her key.


It was on that one occasion,

That curious, I asked,

“How come your dog with three legs,

Can run so very fast?”


She looked me up and down a bit,

Considered her reply,

“Not only can my dog run fast,

At full moon he doth fly.


And that’s not all,” she added,

Her cat sat at her side,

“When I get my broomstick out,

He comes with me for the ride”


I thought about what she had said,

I thought both long and hard,

I think my neighbour is a witch,

I’d better be on my guard.


Recently I’ve noticed,

When passing by her door,

She and her bat hung upside down,

Whilst her cat sits on the floor.


I would really like to have asked,

Why she sleeps this way,

But just a tad concerned I am,

So I go on my way.


Still, this woman is a talking point,

For me and all my mates,

We wonder if she casts spells,

Or with warlocks, goes on dates.


Best keep myself to myself,

Best not to intrude,

Mustn’t be too pushy,

Don’t want to appear too rude


For if I were to upset her,

She may use her trickery,

To turn me into, well, perhaps,

A three legged dog’s own flea!





Her cheap crucifix,

Is turning to rust,

The saint and the sinner,

Don’t know who to trust.


Under the red light,

A price is agreed,

By he who is wanting,

And she who’s in need.


Her address you can find,

By charting the stars,

Reading the postcards,

Asking in bars.


Perpetual loser,

Always second best,

She thinks like a lost soul,

Not knowing she’s blessed.


The city calls out,

When day turns to night,

Street lights are the sirens,

Moths round a light.


Taking their chances,

Riding their luck,

Some end up in gutters,

Some make a fast buck.


Some offer salvation,

They make cups of tea,

Brass bands and war cries,

They gift unto thee.


The helpless find ‘kindness,’

The rich no reward,

There’s no place in their heaven,

If you haven’t a sword.


The sun slowly rises,

New shadows are born,

The ladies of night now,

Suffer the scorn,


Of those of the daylight,

Who prefer not to see,

This cheap scented landscape,

Where no one is free.

CARRY ON CONFUCIUS – A tale of ridiculous proportions!



Random Woman: “You’re that Confucius bloke aren’t you?”

Confucius: “Might be luv, what’s it to you?”

Random Woman: “I’m your biggest fan that’s what. I hang on your every saying. That one that goes, ‘Confucius says, ‘ Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves,’ has always done it for me and I lived my entire life adhering to the spirit of your masterful gem, ‘What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.’ So can you give me one today?”

Confucius: “Don’t know about that luv; I mean if you really want to I suppose I might feel inclined to slip you one.”

Random Woman: “Oh you are a very ribald man aren’t you? No I didn’t mean any of that malarkey. I meant a saying. A proper ‘Confucius says’ one. Anyway maybe you could knock one out on a bit a rice paper and sign it for me?”

Confucius: “Hold up luv that’s a bit near the knuckle. I don’t share me DNA around willy-nilly you know – and I would remind you we’re in a public place here.”

Random Woman: “You’re getting me all wrong. I simply want one of your ‘sayings’ that’s all. I’ll even give you a hand taking it down if you want.”

Confucius: “A ‘hand.’ Crickey you’re not backward at coming forward!” Well I suppose we could nip behind the bus shelter then.”

Random Woman: “How wonderful, ‘Not backward at coming forward.’ That’s just marvellous – I’ll treasure that small fragment of philosophical genius for an eternity. I can’t thank you enough.”

Confucius: “What? That’s it then?”

Random Woman: “Well yes I’ve got to update me Facebook page with this. Cheers for that. Oh, and before I forget can I have a quick one of us both on me mobile?”

Confucius: “Blige, that’ll be a first for me. I don’t think I’ve ever done it on the move before. Sure, I’m up for that.”




Hemingway: “Christ Jimmy boy I’ve got a thirst you could photograph.”

Joyce: “Me too; what’s your poison?”

Hemingway: “Bugger me I haven’t got a clue. Can’t think of what I want.”

Joyce: “I’m in the same boat Ernie. I was looking forward to this little soiree and now this. I’m bolloxed.”

Hemingway: “Name a drink; any drink – we’ll knock back whatever you name.”

Joyce: “Give us a minute I’m still thinking………no, not a thing.”

Hemingway: “I’m only getting J20 orange juice and passion fruit flavour – f**k me I can’t believe I just said that!”

Joyce: “Anymore more talk like that I’m unfriending you off me Facebook page.”

Hemingway: “Stuff this for a game of soldiers I’m off round the kebab shop. You coming?”

Joyce: “Reckon I am.”

Hemingway: “I’ve always wondered what a kebab tastes like sober.”

Joyce: “Guess we’re going to find out then Ernie.”




The sky above a pastiche of greys, the air below hangs still and sodden. The atmosphere so clammy and humid is nature’s very own sauna. It signals the imminent arrival of an electric storm. An addition to the potential drama in the heavens, here at ground level the actuality of a dramatization unfolds. The subliminal word that clings to this sticky air spells, ‘catastrophe.’

The menacing, thunderous pounding of the hooves of the less than pliable, dung brown, gargantuan old nag of a carthorse as it awkwardly rampages through an otherwise placid family campsite sounds akin to those that might herald a Mongol invasion of a tranquil settlement somewhere upon the Steppes of Mother Russia. Only the very brave, or those startled like rabbits in the gaze of oncoming headlights, stand their ground. The others, those fathers, mothers and offspring alike take flight, making, as fast as their legs will carry them for the relative safety of the surrounding forest. Those too old to stride out abandon walking canes and claw with their fingernails, bodies prone, their fraught passage to the sanctuary of the pine woods.

Saddle long since vacated, a first time rider, out for an afternoon’s safe and gentle trekking with his three children and their chums, hangs on for dear life. Only the gross belly of the morbidly obese hack to cling to; let go and certain death is guaranteed. His plight is worsened by the whipping of clotheslines and the stabbing of tent pegs about his torso as Marcus the horse ploughs, as the bird flies, toward the creature comforts of his stable yard and for his tea. Marcus, you see, is a very hungry herbivorous mammal.

A polka dot bikini bottom, once drying quite nicely on a washing line strung ‘twixt two tents stuck fast to the riders face,held there ‘suffocatingly’ tight in the back draft caused by the speeding animal, like cling film about a lunchbox sandwich. Facial features masked in gusset from gob to forehead, this unintentional pervert knows abject fear. The thought does cross his mind though that at least coming fresh from a clothes line said gusset is likely ‘clean’ – at least he hopes that to be the case! Regardless, this would-be equestrian is no longer afforded the benefit of video. Maybe that is, in the circumstances, for the best. Words of derision and censure are thrust at him from the hidden ones – those previously happy campers who now peer out from the sides of trees, or over gorse bushes, their worldly possessions spread over an acre of terrain; their temporary encampment in ruins. Not that he hears them for he is busying himself just staying alive. Should he survive, should his children, so young that they all are, not end up fatherless, he makes a promise to himself that he will never again mount anything that is not a human (obviously not a bloke).

Only minutes previously he had been becalmed, Marcus stood fast on the stony pathway, tucking into something or other green growing out of the very edge of (and almost defying gravity) a sheer drop beyond from which there was a stunning and panoramic view of the Moors. He had tried to make it, ‘walk on’ by heeling it in the guts and saying things like, ‘giddy up’ to no avail. The brute just ignored him. The children, on their ponies, were already miles ahead. He could just about still hear them chittering away to the instructor for the day, rather butch, beefy lass, blessed with an enthusiasm for those little ones in her charge she had chosen not to extend to him. With a look of feminist disdain, she had, as they set off, suggested it would be best for him to bring up the rear. She had offered no reason why. It was only when the clock on the tower of the mansion that housed the stable yard struck four resounding strokes that Marcus had bolted for home. He was later to discover that Marcus always had his tea at 4pm on the dot.

 As the salivating creature, a gelding, hit base, a first course of hay in the forefront, and possibly the only thing, on his mind, he ground to a halt with the grace of a skidding juggernaut with burst tyres at his trough. Once sure his mount was truly at a standstill and was going nowhere his rider, although not by design, already three quarters dismounted anyway, let’s go and falls, devoid of any dignity to the unyielding, dusty floor. At this point the resolute instructor is in a barn eagerly helping the kids change out of their riding gear, blissfully unaware of what had happened to the senior of her customers; the one who had paid out hard earned money for this dreadfully frightening experience. She surely must have heard Marcus arrive for she now pokes her head over the barn doors. Giving her customer a glance of detestation; noting him stood pitifully alone, brushing with bare hands loads of muck and shit from himself, she merely remarks, indifferently, “Oh there you are. You took your time didn’t you?”

 He wants to tell her the whole story, to get angry with her, to demand a refund, yet, cannot find the words. You see his brush with death has left him in a state of fear and trepidation. His legs still shaking with the trauma of it all. Later, in the privacy of the place the family are renting for the holidays, he would check his groin, more precisely his testicles, for bruising. Aside from the harrowing conclusion to his expedition, and whilst still afforded the supposed comfort of a saddle, he had discovered that the male anatomy was not designed for being sat upon a moving – let alone a hurtling – carthorse! All that bouncing up and down, his nethers smacking repetitively and with venom upon the polished leather seat ‘twixt him and the girth of the beast would surely leave him infertile at best. He wondered if John Wayne ever sired any heirs.

He, of course, was me having yet another, ‘Why me?’ experience. The intent of occasion had been for fun – a holiday treat for my three children. We were, at that time back in the mid 1980’s, on vacation in the West Country.

I never did find (not that I was weird enough to look), and therefore never got to return the polka dot bikini bottoms – regardless, even if I did have them to hand I don’t think I could have thought of a way that was not totally embarrassing to affect their return to whomsoever was the owner.