head on a plate

He had planned a

Life of debauchery

Wrote sonnets as quatrains

Erstwhile the ragged poem

The deceitful enchantment

Neither attracted nor repelled

Gifted them her regardless


She kept them in a drawer

Company for buttons

Cotton wool and


And little things that were once

Part of something else

She read just some

Found them

Not fit for purpose


Will she be his

Tranquilized suffragette?

The offer of his darkness

Politely, yet firmly refused

An almost agreeable dilemma

Were he the chivalrous zealot


In the house of vivid memories

She was forgotten in a blink

For a little while at least

Once awake images of her

Ran rampant still

A virus named ‘indulgent adoration’

Liquor the remedy


Her temper a mushroom shaped

Cloud of exasperation

Told him a thing or two

Nothing he did not already know

The ever expanding ball of fire

Merely scorched his leathern flesh

Albeit targeted at

His very being


Sat in her chair

Elbows upon oak

Chin resting on cradled fingers

Coupled palms

She watched awkwardly

Died a thousand deaths


Later that same day

The head of a potentate was

Served upon a platter


A victory of sorts

In the game of life



“Never in all my born days have I seen such a blockage as that in a shower cubicle…….what a fucking (excuse me French) mess!  What young Lisa have you been doing in there? If I didn’t know better I’d hazard a guess you’ve been having custard pie fights.”

“I did as it happens………have a custard pie fight that is…….with myself……just got carried away when I was cleaning myself up after I’d knocked out a swift painting in which I’d used a custard pie theme and had a load left over.”

“Stone the crows a lovely Lisa in the shower having a custard pie fight with herself – doesn’t get any better than that in my book I can tell you.”

“Yeah I was having a great time… know letting my hair down and having a laugh…..haven’t had so much fun for ages what with all that rubbing custard all over my body………found it rather cathartic if the truth be told. Just got a bit carried away I suppose.”

“Hold up Lisa, too much information luv……I’m coming over all excited just thinking about it……a kit less Lisa smothering custard about her bare parts……stroll on, it’ll affect me plumbing for the rest of the day if I’m not careful.”

“Thought you’d say that Jonny the old rascal that you are.  Anyhow thanks for getting round here and sorting the mess out……..don’t know what we artists would do without you.”

“Not a problem Lisa luv.  Inexcusable I know, yet I must admit I am not overly familiar with your work. What sort of stuff do you paint…….hope it’s not boring landscapes…….you clearly know already……I’m guessing here Tracey gave you the nod……that I’m a bit of a connoisseur of naked ladies when it comes to works of art.  It’s me passion as it happens.”

“Oh we all know about you and your ladies Jonny Catapault!  You’ll be pleased to learn I only paint the nude female form. Basically with all my new paintings I model on myself what with me being all voluptuous and curvy. I simply get into character…….it’s not always custard pies you see……and have a jolly good paint. Would you care to cop a gander at my latest picture – I’ve called it ‘Pie Face’ for obvious reasons.”

“Bloody right I would Lisa luv.”

“Here you go then Jonny what’s your take on this?”

“Gobsmacked I am girl……what a stunner you are……a veritable voyeur’s delight.  I’ve always gone for the well-proportioned big bird you know and you fit the bill spot on luv…..and so well stacked at that! I am bound to say I’m coming over all funny again…….it’s not good for me health you know, the quack tells me me blood pressure runs high at the best of times…..and I’m thinking here I better put the boxing gloves on when I take to my pit tonight… are lovely though.”

“Thanks for those kind words Jonny…… don’t think it’s a bit like soft porn though?”

“Of course it is Lisa luv……..that’s why I love it……..nothing wrong with a bit of healthy soft porn anyway.”

“It was the old man’s idea to do this sort of work. Previously I used to paint the female body in a more demure style.”

“Clever……and I’m bound to say a lucky – bastard is your husband. If you ever get the hump with him I’m your man Lisa luv.  Whatever, I regrettably must get along now as Picasso’s having a bit of trouble below stairs………his paintings are shit Lisa by the way……not a patch on yours and to think I’m talking to you with your togs on and gawping at your pics without them. Can’t cope……catch you later (so to speak).”

“Thanks again Jonny, you really are a living legend.”


contortionist 2

The circus visits

Acrobats distract

Brave lithesome girls

Birds on a wire

Atlas men

Muscle bound pyramid


He forgets his purpose

When the travellers

Come to town


Jugglers juggle

His eyes fail to cope

Darts of Agincourt

His thoughts blended

At a rate of knots

Hell for leather

A soup of lunacy

Inside his old head


Tortuous episode



The clowns, those

Wretched painted clowns

Calamitous demons

Targeted tittering

Spatial genius

Crooked digits point

Conspiratorial whispers

Scare him shitless

Take aim

A bucket of paint?

Only harmless confetti

He should have guessed


In his nightmare

He counts his luck

Another layer

Before he comes to


A contortionist

Impossible design

Shape shifting dyspepsia



Outer layer now

Awakes with a start

Live audio


She asks him if

Dreams still haunt

He can but nod

Affirmative nod

Reluctant nod

Truthful nod


A crestfallen sage

A wry token smile

Is all he can offer this day


ray gun

An extract from the autobiography of Twatersley Fromage MBE

KENSINGTON, LONDON; FEBRUARY 1942: It was all getting a bit too much for me.  What with the vicious Hun almost at our doorstep and the wily Japs running rampant through the Far East it was so bloody difficult to concentrate on The Times Crossword.  To make matters worse and what with wartime shortages my club in Belgravia had run out of hot pimiento stuffed green olives making a martini unpalatable to the extent that they had been forced to knock cocktail hour on the head.  How one suffers in time of war!  And then the telegram arrived; a missive from an old flame no less!

Dearest Twatersley (STOP) Long time no see (STOP) A grave situation has arisen (STOP) Need your assistance as a matter of some urgency (STOP) These days am domiciled in Singapore (STOP) News is that the Japs will invade within the next few days (STOP) Thing is I have in my possession secret plans and documents (STOP) They relate to an invention of my late husband Sir Humphrey (STOP) You do remember Humpers do you not (STOP) Oh silly me of course you would given the set to you both had at Henley Regatta (STOP) He was always a jealous man and never fully accepted the child was of his loins (STOP) Anyway said documents left in my safe care yet Japs must not lay their hands on them (STOP) You see Humpers in anticipation of war had invented a Sex Change Ray Gun (STOP) He took the view if the ray gun was used on an invading army and turned all the soldiers into females (STOP) Then all we would have to do especially so with the Japanese would be to give them Kodak Brownie cameras and they would happily mess around giggling and taking pictures rather than fighting (STOP) Super wheeze if you think about it (STOP) Time is of the essence Twatters (STOP) You are the most enterprising man (STOP) Please get over here and retrieve the plans ASAP (STOP) Winnie will be ever so grateful (STOP)

Yours eternally (STOP)

Lady Penelope Sittingbourne-Sheppey (STOP)

PS (STOP) A little Savlon ointment would not go amiss (STOP)

Crumbs, a telegram from my first true love – my Penny – the self-same girl who broke my heart when she went orf and married that awful knighted scientist chappie Sir Humpers.  Clever bastard that he was it was gratifying to note he had snuffed it, no doubt through over fornication given Penny’s active appetite and exuberance in that regard. Back in the day they called her the Nymphomaniac of Sloane Square for sound reason – I still have the carpet burns even now.  Still her message afforded me the opportunity of saving the nation and winning back her heart all in one foul swoop.  Plainly there was no time to waste – Singapore or bust!

Given the gravity of the situation and the obvious requirement for secrecy I took the view that it be best if I travel alone covertly.  Biggin Hill airfield in Kent was my first port of call. Disguised as an Air Commodore (and yes with the tube of Savlon stored about my person) I requisitioned a Lancaster bomber and made haste for Singapore. Regrettably I had forgotten to check the fuel levels that were running empty not long after take-off causing me to crash land in a field just a couple of miles south of Westerham. Not best pleased I can tell you.  From there I jogged to Portsmouth whereon I had my old chum Jonny Fuckwit, the harbourmaster there, acquire a speed boat on my behalf.  Giving it full throttle I whizzed along like billy-o and was through the Straits of Gibraltar in what seemed no time at all. I ditched the vessel in Alexandria having crossed the Med and thereafter ran the gauntlet of the wretched Turk crossing the Middle East upon a camel I obtained from an Arab through a little bartering – sods law had it that the A-Rab took a liking to my Air Commodore’s uniform meaning me having to trade it for said camel. This meant I had to face the deserts of Arabia wearing only a vest and underpants.  After successfully reaching the Indian Ocean it was a swift swim to Ceylon paying heed to avoid the sharks en route.  After a hot brew of sublime English Breakfast Tea and a chapatti or two  – a charitable gift from a kindly missionary priest who seemed most keen to get something hot inside me – I felt sufficiently refreshed to head for The Bay of Bengal, a longish swim yet my mantra was ever onwards and upwards; stiff upper lip and all that. Sadly I had lost my underpants on the swim and had a rather embarrassing situation in a Malay fishing village as I trod ashore. Had no idea what the fish gutting fillies of the village were laughing and pointing at until I checked the old family jewels. The plus was they remained intact; the minus being they were there for the world to see. Thankfully one of the older womenfolk took pity on me and traded me a dress in the form of a baju kurung thingy for the Savlon tube I had, until then kept secreted about my person. It seems she had long since suffered from an uncontrollable itching – as to where I could not rightly say save for the fact she pointed the old rigid digit due south by way of explanation!  Whatever, this was plainly not an ideal situation for an Englishman to find himself in yet I was at odds to make it clear that I was never, and never would be one of those cross-dressing fellows the like of which one finds in the lanes of Brighton if one looks hard enough. Shame they never understood a word of English really.

It was thus that I made my way through the jungles of the Malay Peninsular into Singapore dressed in the manner of a transgender type and I was only just in the nick of time. Heading straight for the garrison there where I suspected Penny would be hold up I learned that the scoundrels of the Empire of Japan were due to invade the very next day.

From a balcony within the officer’s residence at the garrison I heard Penny call out to me.

“Coey, coey…… that you Twatters…… is you……..crikey I had no idea you were a cross dresser Twatters……I mean I remember you as a red blooded beast of a lover……….did losing me to Humpers really have such an effect on you……..I’m so very sorry………..anyway get up here post haste, the doors ajar.”

As I climbed the stairs it struck me that Penny had barely changed and was as lovely and desirable as ever. I thought I might be in luck……..possibly on for a quick one if I played my cards right.  Upon entering her apartment I immediately noticed she had, as she put it, ‘Changed into something more comfortable,” adding that she supposed it would be a waste of time now that I had obviously changed my sexual orientation and that she was as desperate as desperate can be for a shag.  Furthermore she made clear that in her considered opinion I had most likely had a sex change as well.

“Well then Twatters this I believe is your lucky day.” I certainly hoped it would be! “Whilst you were journeying here Twatters I managed to construct an actual Sex Change Ray Gun using Humpers original plan and am keen to see if it works as predicted.  Given your plight you are the perfect guinea pig……..I mean if I turn you back into a man……….we can bonk to Kingdom come until the Japs arrive then hopefully construct another to tackle the little Jap bastards with thereby ending the war in the Far East. Right then Twatters cop these sex changing rays old chap. Shame Humpers couldn’t have design a ray gun you could use more than just the once really……never mind………anyhow cop a bundle of sex changing rays…… so……”

Of course I protested yet it was too late the rays had fried my prized assets and I was all of a quiver. Moments later I felt my follicles retract, breasts grew (rather nice ones if the truth be told) and down below………I really do not wish to go there.

“What have you done Penny……look at me……..I’m knobless and have massive great knockers… could you……..good god woman what have you done.”

I then explained to her as to exactly why I was attired thus and asked if she could construct another ray gun forthwith and change me back.

“Can’t do that Twatters……the whole thing about Humpers invention was that it is a one way ticket…’ll just have to get used to being a girl……..and by the way I’m not against a bit of a Sapphic liaison if you get my drift.”

“But what about the club……women aren’t allowed in……oh what, oh what shall I do?……..and then there’s the parking of the old jalopy……I mean everyone knows women can’t park.”  I was in a state of some distress having turned into a woman yet as I was pondering this point Penny said, “Did you bring the Savlon?”

I told her I had to trade it for a dress as I had lost my underpants in the Indian Ocean.

“Well you’re no fucking use then you may as well piss orf back to Blighty with the plans…….whoops, silly me I’ve just realised I’d tucked them down the front of your dress and now they’re frazzled…..what a to-do.”

I left Singapore a broken woman.



“I say Inchy old chap I do think it’s a bit orf you publishing that photo of me and the missus having a swift snog at the Palace all over Facebook – my reputation as one who favours a republic lies in tatters – even worse the old boot refused me my knighthood.  Told us both to ‘Fuck orf’ to boot. Your entire bleddy fault!  I can however report that Her Majesty never used the kharzi, belched or farted even just the once in the time we were there.”

You can catch the swine that is said Inchy (he being the one who mugged this shot up) at both;


He is worth a read if you’re prepared to open a vein!


Another from the early days of blogging worth – I hope – a swift re-run!




Somewhere in the Middle East; Quite a long time ago BC: God has the raving hump that his Adam & Eve experiment hasn’t worked out as planned. In short it’s all gone horribly wrong as just about everyone is evil nowadays.  God, being omnipotent searches through His hard drive to see if He can find just one good fellow to implement the cunning plan He has come up with. He discovers that a bloke called Noah and his family are right good sorts.  We join the story as Noah is sitting on a bar stool keeping his own company in The Oxen & Pomegranate Ale House, somewhere in the Middle East enjoying a beverage or two. 

God: “Noah, don’t jump up and look shocked or anything. This is God talking to you inside your head. I need an urgent word with you.” 

Noah, his pint at his…

View original post 1,134 more words

Jihadists Need To “Dress For Success” Says UN Envoy Victoria Beckham

Insane satire at its very best!

The League of Mental Men!


Victoria Beckham pictured last week showing the General Synod Of Great Britain how to look classy but sexy during a fractious, religious schism 

Newly appointed United Nations envoy and fashionista, Victoria Beckham, has hit out at what she calls the “appalling and outdated” dress sense of Islamist terrorists, insisting that if they were to “smarten themselves up a bit” and start “dressing for success” the rest of the world wouldn’t see them in such a bad light.

In her maiden speech to the UN in Geneva last night, Ms Beckham, 73, was particularly scathing about the Islamic State fighters, currently cutting a murderous swathe through Syria and Iraq, whose full length black robes and matching face masks were described as “samey” and “lacking in oomph” by the star

“Perhaps if these jihadist people were to pay a little more attention to their wardrobe the British and Americans wouldn’t be quite…

View original post 280 more words


apron girl

Outside just the first inkling of

Auspicious daybreak

Inside, in the kitchen

Clad in just an apron and

Silly slippers

Upon a bamboo cutting board

Brandishing a chef’s knife

She chops a red onion

Cries red onion tears


From behind she hears a

Familiar, much hackneyed

Wolf whistle

Tongue in cheek

He tells her that her

Bare bum is in

Fine fettle

Even now


Albeit playfully

Half a red onion

Whizzes past his face

Bounces off the wall

Lands on the tiles


He cracks a ribald joke

Old ones are the best

Tears of laughter now


A perfect start to the day

The preparation can wait



South West France, March 2012: The driver of the car we are travelling in says, “Do you realize you are now over a mile above sea level?”  ‘Crikey’ I think to myself, ‘that’s rather high.’  You see generally I don’t do high – at least not since the debacle of many years previous when I had the misfortune to take a trip in a 1930’s de Havilland Dragon Rapide ‘Gentleman’s Flying Machine’ whose handle bar moustached, aging and rather portly pilot was the worse for whisky. I have not flown since and have no intention of doing so again.

Anyway, we are in the Pyrenees. At ground level this early spring morn the temperature a not unpleasant 15 degrees. Atop the mountains – well at least as high as the winding road with its perilous sheer drops will take us – it is minus 8 degrees and the winter snow is far from melt down. We park up to take in the glorious vista. Shirley is fumbling in her bag seeking out gloves as we progress toward a suitable vantage point to take photographs. It is then that a thought strikes me!

“Here Shirley, do you realise I – with your compliance of course – could fulfill my life time’s ambition of joining the ‘Mile High Club’ right here; right now? It’s the only thing left on my ‘things to do before I die list’ you know. Please Shirley please – I’ll beg if you want me to?”

She has found her gloves, leather at that so they sting severely as she playfully slaps me about the face with them, calls me an “Idiot” and walks on laughing.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then?”

“If you think I’m taking my clothes off in minus 8 and snow you’ve got another think coming!”

“Oh well it was worth a try.”

Summertime, a few years earlier; somewhere in Surrey: The old fool sits outside tonight.  He is unusually relaxed in his patio chair.  It is a summer’s evening, cooling slightly, but still uncomfortably hot.  The sun will shortly set.  At his side, a glass of good ordinary claret; in his mind, barely an anxious thought.  The sunset is magnificent.  An orchestra of grasshoppers play only percussion.   In the sky above he cannot help but notice a noisy flock of emerald parakeets homeward bound.

Indoors, in the house where they are staying, the one he calls his child bride steps out of the shower and straight into a wedding dress she has found hanging on the back of the bedroom door.  Standing in front of a full-length mirror she smiles at herself.  “It fits”, she says out loud, not that anyone can hear her.  She has never worn wedding apparel before.  Having decided that they match the dress, she dons her white-framed sunglasses.  She makes her way, barefoot, onto the patio. She twirls before him, smiling the mischievous smile he knows so well.  “What do you think?” 

“You look lovely,” the old fool says.  “If you’re not careful I will have to ravish you.” 

Leaning beguilingly toward him, aware that her cleavage in this low cut gown both teases and inflames, she whispers in his ear and says, “You’ll have to catch me first”. 

Then she steps back inside, pausing for an instant at the patio doors to glance back at him, he the object of this premeditated bedevilment.  She flutters her eyelashes and takes flight.  The chase is not a long one.  It never is.  The old fool, even with his gammy leg catches his child bride at the foot of the stairs.  They are careful not to tear the wedding dress.

Later that night they lie in bed together.  Her head is nestled in his shoulder.  He likes it this way.  She sleeps soundly.  He gently kisses her forehead.  She doesn’t stir. A woman of free spirit when animate, she reminds him of a hibernating dormouse when she sleeps – all tucked up, safe and warm.   Like all enduring insomniacs he lets his mind wander to whatever place it wishes.  Earlier that day they had spread his parents’ ashes.  The old fool is now an old orphan and a perplexed one at that.  He thinks back to his teenage years.  Back then an only child who had no knowledge of the ways of the world.  Now he has the love of his life and all the wisdom he requires.  The pair have been together a very long time now and their love persists.  In these days of negligence, expedience and wastage he wonders how this can be?  He and his lover must be telepathic, he thinks.  They do not need words, or even eye contact.  Together they always know the right moment for romance, for fighting, for forgiveness, for sharing, for lust, for understanding – indeed for all of the aspects of pure love.  Whatever the future may hold the souls of this man and his lover are entwined forevermore.  Eventually he drifts into a restless sleep.

In the morning he determines that he shall write her a poem – one she can treasure; keep in her purse to share with others should the fancy take her.  The masterpiece he pens reads thus;

I love your eyes,

And all your bits,

But most of all,

I love your………

Upon reading said poem she arms herself with oven gloves and slaps him about the face with them, calls him an “Idiot” and walks off laughing.  I did attempt to point out that I simply could not think of a word that rhymed with ‘bits’.

A re-run of a blog from when I had just started out a year ago!



To be besotted is the cruellest thing

I know that to my cost

For I fell head over heels in love

For a girl with a heart of frost


I wined her and I dined her

Gave her gifts of jewels and gold

Thinking that might impress her

Yet the thing I desired she would withhold


Despite my best endeavours

To get my leg across

She thwarted my ambitions

And left me at a loss


As to what to do about it

The thing that irked me so

Prompted me to propose a marriage

In the hope her love for me would grow


Yet it was only when I told her

That my fortune it was vast

That she acceded to my proposal

And thus the die was cast


We tied the knot in springtime

Honeymooned in old Bombay

I enjoyed conjugals aplenty

For she let me have my wicked way


Once home back in Blighty

She was at it day and night

I could barely match her prowess

But did not put up a fight


For I am aged one hundred

My time was running out

I barely could keep up with her

Though I did my best, of that there is no doubt


You see she was but only twenty one

And making love with her left me short of breath

And she knew she’d inherit my estate

Hence she shagged me to death


Not that I objected

And I could see right through her plan

And when I slipped this mortal coil

I died a happy man!