“So young lady you ask what will happen when the world ends?” 

“Just thought you might know, you are very old, have the longest white beard, live in a cave, have a magic wand and keep a pet owl after all…and anyway Gawain suggested I visit, he says you are both sage and magician” 

“Gawain you say…fine fellow by all accounts. True, I do have a reputation in these parts…indeed many think me a wizard yet I’m not all that clever. But yes I can help, I do know what happens come the end. Listen up though for first you must understand some basics before you progress to the spark of magic” 

“I’m all ears”

Positive and negative

good and bad

birth and death

north and south

beginning and end

the constant theme

of all things

all in equal measure

all in a universe

of organic construction


in space and time


In order to know


one must first

have witnessed

the malicious

or vice versa

one thing

cannot be envisaged

without the other


We have evolved

a conscious mind

to ordain such things


All the stars

you see in the heavens

seek to spread out

yet will one day

weaken and wither

become what they once were

a nothing

crushed to the size

of a tiny pinhead

every species

that has evolved

will be no more

all history seemingly lost


In this present moment

the act of coition

ensures survival

and will do so until

our forlorn fatigue

determines otherwise



best endeavours

of the fittest

it is all over and done with

yet ends inevitably

follow beginnings

beginnings follow ends

everything sucked back

into the blackness

from whence it came

then there be renewal

one giant orgasm

the promiscuous coupling of

two intergalactic ‘things’

detritus be creations sperm

newly formed planets be the eggs

one seed gets lucky

billions of its comrades

now just lifeless fragments

become the dross of the void


The realm of infinity

cannot be understood

until we know

this ‘vice versa’


Our corpse of being

will turn into fertile

carbon dust

materialising as

brand new concoctions

wholly bacterial at first

yet living things nevertheless


“What magic?” 

“That which make us cognizant of all around us…nothing can exist until that spell is caste”   

“Oh I see, or at least I think I do…anyway you said all history will be seemingly lost forever! Doesn’t that make everything that has happened pointless?” 

“Not at all my dear, not at all…’everything that has happened’ as you put it will, no matter how important or insignificant, even you and your own memories, always and forever be there, locked in its own particle of time” 

“Particle of time? You must tell me more” 

“One day yet not right now. I sense Ambrose is pining for rodents”  

“Ambrose does look a very wise owl” 

“Believe me he is”



Outcry as Pre-Menstrual Whitechapel Woman Cleared of Murdering ‘Whistling’ Husband With an Axe

This one from a new blog made both my wife and I chuckle more than a little. Do check them out on;
There is a link to their Facebook page there also

The Whitechapel Whelk

axe-woman-chop-lady-laugh-crazy-250x375 Mrs Terry poses happily for reporters after being cleared yesterday

Women’s support groups were jubilant yesterday after a 38 year old London woman was allowed to walk free from court, despite being found guilty of murdering her husband, in what was described in court as: “a frenzied and sustained attack” with an axe in June 2015..

During the six weeks trial, the court heard how Mrs Mary Terry from Whitechapel in East London, was close to the onset of her menstrual cycle at the time of the murder. The court was then told how she had been subjected, to what her barrister described as, “a sickening catalogue of abuse” at the hands of her 45 year old chartered accountant husband of 18 years, Miles.

A number of female jurors wept openly as defending counsel, Penelope Barrington-James QC, described how, during their marriage, Mr Terry had repeatedly made a slight squeaking…

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The cartography of gratification

charts only a levelled landscape

whereby dreams get blown around

like tumbleweed mostly

although at certain times of the year

high summer usually

those dreams take on

a semblance of reality

have substance

become edible even


Hence in this place

in that serene spell

the finest restaurant

Michelin stars galore

opens its doors


It boasts no menu

punters seeking

such delectation

must pick from the

the vat of dreams


So choose carefully

select the wrong ones

upon which to feast

then you may find

you have consumed

The Succubus

tastes sublime

yet I’ve heard tell

the most noxious of all things

swallowed whole

one will never be the same again




A much deserved fat Havana

for the wintered-well one

who rules the stinking roost

sat puffed-up as he tots up

the spoils of war in a bar

in a sultry faraway place

his fresh meat pieces of tail

shipment delivered up

safe and almost sound

south of Old Father Thames

a ramshackle Edwardian pit

maybe, yet a pit will be

their home from home

besides so long as the girls

scrub up half decent

refrain from whinging

then hard currency galore

money for old rope really


‘Coercion’ some soppy

bleeding-heart on a crusade

knocked out in the local rag

perish the thought, maybe

stretched the truth when

the girls parted with the cash

maybe promised caring jobs

just never said caring

for cash up front sicko’s

a little white lie of no consequence

besides if they play up it’s nothing

a good slap, a razor cut won’t cure

push the point then the boys

will let them know sweet little sister

back in the village will get damaged

maybe blow away the old man

choices, choices so many choices

for the bloater in a lily pond so unclean


ferret legging 

“Ea Bah Gum son just 30 minutes to kick off, you must be getting excited beyond the pale lad. By teatime you’ll be the talk of the town and I’ll be as proud as punch”

Those were the words my retired coal miner father, then riddled with black lung disease, spoke to an adolescent me back then from what was so very soon to become his death bed. You see the old boy wanted me to champion his lifelong quest namely that I become the first person ever to attend a Bradford City versus Sheffield Wednesday cup tie with the Holy Trinity of ferrets down my trousers. That trio of little beauties for those not in the know was made up of the albino, the red-eyed white plus the notorious dreaded wild black-foot varieties of ferret. Quite a challenge I must admit yet one I was up for.  I felt it only right and proper that I should make pater a proud man before he popped his clogs.

“Now son don’t forget those ferrets must remain in place about your person until the final whistle even if the match goes into extra time.” 

“Yes pater.”

“Ee us Yorkshiremen don’t need bloody Sherpas to set world records like that southern softie Hilary did climbing up some daft hill in Surrey weren’t it?” 

“Actually if my memory serves me well pater Hilary is a New Zealander and he climbed Mount Everest in the Himalayas.” 

“As it maybe son, as it maybe…they all be southern softies to me. I’ll lay odds he wouldn’t have climbed a step ladder with a wild black-toed down pants.  Anyhow whatever you do make sure you don’t cheat…not that any son of mine would cheat of course. The rules of the contest are quite clear with specific regards to the ferrets not just being down trousers but down underpants also.” 

“Yes pater I know; you’ve mentioned it several times before.” 

“Thy knows you know…were just reminding you. You don’t want to end up like Fatty Ramsbottom do you. Fatty had stuck to rules insofar as he could yet so fearful of the wild black-foot was he that he substituted a jock strap for Y-fronts and were disqualified before half time. Did him no good mind, the ferrets still had him…he was never the same man after that…even lost his job calling out the numbers on bingo night down working men’s club…his voice became too high pitched you see and every time he opened gob pint glasses would shatter…his missus left him for milkman shortly thereafter.” 

“Well you can rely on me pater, you know that.” 

“Aye, you be a good lad. Oh yes you’ll have to confirm that the ferrets have been on a liquid only starvation diet in the days leading up to the game…I presume you’ve had vicar swear Affidavit to that effect as Denis the Arbitrator will demand sight of that before kick-off.” 

“Yes pater, look see herewith said Affidavit…in point of fact everything is in order.” 

“One last thing son before you head off to match consider this…” 

“Not the Mavis Posslethwaite tale again pater, that one about her attempting the women’s pigeon challenge at the self-same derby?” 

“Yes son it is her I speak of.  Mavis attended the very same derby match some years back with a brace of racing pigeons in her blouse yet had been spotted leaving a taxidermist the day before game and all bets were off leaving the woman ostracized thereafter and forever…stuffed pigeons I ask you, what an affront to Yorkshire pride and heritage. To this very day she is a pathetic replica of her former self, she never could show face down mine shaft ever again for fear of public ridicule.” 

“Well best I head off pater, don’t want to be late for the game.” 

“Ay son best you were. Ee it’ll be right, right nice to see a smile on that face of yours when you come back home an all-time world record holder.” 

With that I took of my leave. My preferred vantage point at the Valley Parade ground was the terraces in the Midland Road stand where I ensured said ferrets were delivered within my Dolce & Gabbana leopard skin printed underpants at the point of kick off. All was going well until midway through the second half (of frankly what was the dullest of dull 0-0 games at that point) when I became aware that that dreaded wild black-foot was becoming agitated. However, having spent months in training I knew that a few softly sung verses of that old Yorkshire classic, ‘On Ilkla Moor bar tat’ would calm the beast…well certainly take his mind off taking a nibble of my privates for the time being. Whether or not he would stay calm in the event of extra time being played I remained unsure.

It was about this time when Denis the Arbitrator nudged me in the rib cage, “Ee lad you’ve got a worthy opponent challenging your record attempt I see…look over there, three tiers back, the bloke with the turban.”

“Who’s that then, never seen him in these parts.”

“That young man is none other than Wilfred the Arab bloke, Chief Eunuch of the Sultan of Oman…his reputation goes before him.”

“Surely not a reputation for extended periods with ferrets down his trousers, although thinking about it is he not the chap I read about who managed to give safe haven to four wild black-foot’s at the final of The World Chess Championships in Oslo last year?”

“The very same…he’s won accolades far and wide.” 

Well that was a turn up for the books yet how could I be defeated on my own turf by this Wilfred the Arab bloke. Of course he held the trump card…well he didn’t exactly have a trump card to hold exactly if you get my drift, yet his deficiency in the family jewel region certainly gave the chap a distinct advantage over ‘intact’ me when it came to housing starving rotten hungry ferrets!

Inevitably the frankly awful match did indeed go into extra time. However just minutes before that final whistle, with my trio of ferrets now so very restless Sheffield Wednesday were awarded a penalty!  To a hushed silence around the ground their centre-forward Lanky Pickles stepped up to take the kick. As he slotted the ball away with his trademark panache the hushed silence stilled further, you could have heard a pin drop amongst the throng of home crowd. A palpable gloom descended upon us Bradford City supporters. Yet then, at that very moment the still of it all was broken as Wilfred the Arab bloke started belting out the oppositions match day song, “Hi Ho Sheffield Wednesday” at the top of his lonely voice.

Silly, silly Wilfred. How could he have not known he was ensconced within the home stand.  The Bradford boys ripped him to shreds and frankly he deserved all they threw at him. Never in the history of the club had there been such an affront toward the home crowd.

Whatever, as Wilfred’s ferrets scattered hither and yon the referee blew full time and the record was mine all mine. Back home, and with tears of joy running down his cheeks, his voice breaking up a little and now petting the black foot ferret resting upon his stomach, pater just managed to say, “Ee lad I’m right, right, right proud of you,” before choking upon what was the liquorice Pontefract cake that finally did for him.  Amen.



Letters to Kim (3) – Kim Jong-un reviewed my book on Amazon!

My good friend Lennard has access to Kim Jong-Un’s diary…even published it in book form no less…a bargain I say!

Dear Kim Jong-un,

Thank you for getting in touch. It has always been one of the main goals of my book.

In case you need reminding, you and I had a conversation on earlier today.

You left me a 1-star review for my book Kim Jong-un – The Super Secret Diary of a Young Dictator.

It’s not common for authors to advertize bad reviews, but seeing as this one quite obviously came from you I consider it the biggest compliment my book has gotten so far.

Let’s start by taking a look at the review you gave me:


In case you don’t have mutant vision, here’s what the review said:

“This could have benefited tremendously from editing. Enough grammar and punctuation errors that it makes it difficult to read through. Don’t waste your money on this one (just read the preview).”

Ouch, Kim! Attacking me on my grammar…

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“Crikey Dr Gloom you’ve got a face like a dropped pie matey” 

“No need to get personal Landlord…you should be grateful I even bother to frequent this pig sty of a boozer what with the duff beer you serve up akin, I might add, to maiden’s water diluted with Adam’s ale” 

“Touché you miserable old sod…anyhow what’s up with you today then?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business but as it happens I was reminded of bleak times from my distant past whilst having a jolly good rummage in the attic this morning” 

“How so Dr Gloom?” 

“Back copies of the press coverage of my tragic lottery win” 

“Here’s your beer Gloomo…good health…anyway tell me more. How on earth can a lottery win be ‘tragic’…was it a big win?” 

“£37 million I won…all downhill after that…drop the ‘Gloomo’ if you would” 

“Do what £37 million! That’s more than just life changing, bloody hell mate what are you doing living in that hovel of yours round the corner, you don’t even own a motor?” 

“Long story Landlord” 

“Spit it out, I’m all ears” 

“Well as something of a preamble it is important to understand I have actually won the lottery twice. First time my usual numbers came up when the prize pool was a mere £15 million but my old cat Molly the Mog ate the bloody ticket and the powers that be refused to pay me out…I hung about her litter tray for days yet not a sausage” 


“Don’t I know it. Anyway that isn’t the main thrust of this tale of woe for the very next week I struck gold yet again using a Lucky Dip ticket and that’s when I won the £37 million. How elated I was that day I remember it so very, very well yet as ever with me the pleasure was short lived. Everything went to worms when the press got news of my good fortune” 

“I thought you could tell them you wanted no publicity Dr Gloom?” 

“I did indeed…well I thought I had. You see the bit of paper I had to sign before accepting the money posed the question, ‘DO YOU NOT, NOT, NOT, NOT WANT ANY PUBLICITY?’ A little confused I answered ‘no’ and that’s when the papers announced to the world and his brother that I scooped the bloody jackpot” 

“Still you won though Gloomo it can’t have been all bad” 

“Don’t call me Gloomo, Twatto… but oh dear it was so astonishingly bad.  Those damn newspapers had published my address and then the begging letters arrived in sackfuls…every sodding morning the Post Office sent a JCB round to my gaff to drop the post off on that postage stamp of a front garden of mine. Couldn’t even open the bloody front door to get out each day so stuffed my exit passage was.  I had to use a fishing rod, line and hook from the bedroom window to collect the letters…took me hours day after day after bloody day.  Then when I got to open them they were all taking the piss” 

“Really, you surprise me” 

“Surprise you! Just you imagine getting letters from money grabbers claiming they need a grand here, ten grand there for ingrowing nose hair treatments, Botox enhanced penis enlargements, hypnosis for a depressed budgerigar, prosthetic limbs for the able who were worried a leg might drop off sometime henceforth…you name it I received it” 

“You still had the money to enjoy though…I’ll lay a wager you were popular with the ladies?” 

“Trust me Landlord not just the ladies of all ages, shapes and sizes I might add but also a veritable host of those of sexual orientations hitherto unknown to me all claiming that my new found wealth would not impinge upon their true love for me…made my skin creep I can tell you” 

“Couldn’t you just pick and choose whatever took your fancy?”   

“No hope, you see on the very day of my win I was diagnosed with permanent erectile dysfunction leaving me as about as much use as an ejector seat in a helicopter on the getting me end away front. And there was me thinking for once in my gloom ridden life the world was going to be my carnal oyster! How wrong I was” 

“Terrible luck Dr Gloom…just terrible” 

“Tell me about it” 

“Still I go back to my earlier point…you still had shed loads of money…you must still have shed loads even today; you couldn’t spend that amount in several lifetimes…no one could” 

“Never spent a penny of it as it happens, not a single measly penny. You see, not trusting the thieving bastard banks I had them give me the prize in cash…insisted on it. Kept it all under the bed, large denomination notes, they only just fitted yet fit they did. I was lying in said bed one morning about a week after my win and thought to myself, ‘Today Dr Cedric Gloom you are going to treat yourself to something special’. I was all in a dither what with the excitement of it all…first stop a Lamborghini, then off to the property agents to buy myself a villa in the Caribbean…you know that sort of thing” 

“Good on you Gloomo… I’m guessing here something went wrong though?” 

“Fuck me, stop calling me Gloomo!  And yes something did go wrong” 


“Molly the Mog spontaneously combusted under the bed. You see she had taken a liking to kipping on the cash. Set fire to the whole lot…I called the Fire Brigade out but it was too late, I’d lost the lot” 

“I suppose there is no point in me asking if you were insured?” 

“Piss off”




Boomers in adolescence, the death of short back and sides
‘Shoulder length or longer’ the order of Hair tribe’s new dawning
Age of Aquarius letting in just ‘the flash of a neon light’ bogus sun
not that the free love hopefuls, the weekend hippies could differentiate

Timothy’s ‘Turn on, tune in, drop out’ therapeutic muddled mind psilocybin mushrooms
far out phallic axe hero’s, sex without hang-ups big talk, sisters doing fertility for themselves
no more sweet smile vacuuming for hubby wives ofttimes handcuffed to the kitchen sink
no more blue collar jobs for life, the paternal odyssey discharged as impotent folly

Miniskirts and Mini’s, Quant girls eight inches above the knee groovy extravaganza
go-go boots a ’dancing a punters delight while maiden aunts just shake their heads
material possessions declared a mortal sin by those who had the whole shebang
a murmur of brave snazzy gays, heads above the old order parapet of erstwhile contempt

Fetid communes, psychedelic camper vans, ‘Ban the Bomb’ dreamers, closet schemers
under an H Bomb storm cloud rocked a British invasion, birthed a San Francisco sound fantasia
Warhol’s ‘piss take’ soup art posing tongue-in-cheek questions without evident answers
lava lamps, love beads, bell-bottoms and hippie hats for those who said Frodo lives

Afghan coats and Jesus sandals for the counter-culturalists opening Huxley’s fabled doors
spies, espionage and epitaphs, students of the new left come together at the gathering
heady days of collective thought, the promise of peace presumed, its source anonymous
a sweet girl’s 1967 Pulitzer Prize carnation stuffed into the barrel of a Guardsman’s rifle

Then when the kaleidoscope got smashed in a riot of civil rights the Swinging Sixties died
bare breast modesty behind a purple pop haze of revolutionary imaginings now unimagined
our acid test not up to grade, what immaculate fools we were






There is a place, not a land nor a planet, most definitely a place where staircases hold sway over tarmac and country lanes. It is there that our closet dereistic thinker feels most at home for concept and reason are inconsequential to this resplendent narcissist in his most private of organised domains. Indeed, within this safe haven paradise this blessed one has no difficulty applying his idiosyncratic logic. He went by his chosen name ‘Mr 23.3 Recurring’ rather than that he had been born with. His reasoning? Nothing more complicated than an all-consuming obsession to divide everything that could be divided by three.  Well that coupled with the compulsion to apply said need to the unfathomably remarkable phrase that had caught his eye in some text he had once read at around the same time he had tired of the handle gifted to him at birth without his knowledge or consent, namely, ‘Three score and ten.’ The immortal infinitely-repeated portion afforded him comfort.

“Wasn’t it strange when we were strangers, Now I catch you when you fall, Why keep us informed of oddments dangers? Leave us alone once and for all,” an eerie, devoid of accompaniment little made up contradictory ditty about stairs and an imaginary bolts and braces lover named Petunia spinning around in the head of ‘Mr 23.3 Recurring’ the day he journeyed to the seaside with the others of his kind.

Still, lost in thought yet now scoffing a Mr Whippy ice cream he satisfied himself that the symmetry of the break-waters had more appeal than the somewhat threatening randomness of the multiplicity of rocks and pebbles housed within the sand.

A little later, mid-afternoon at a guess (he had no use for timepieces) ‘Mr 23.3 Recurring’ hypothesized that the older fellow sat in a deck chair donning a fedora and wearing regular trousers yet without shoes or socks, clearly engrossed in his writings looked a decent sort, sensed a friendly disposition.

“What are you writing?”

Fedora Man looked up to assess who was looking down asking him a question…took off his tinted reading glasses for the sake of good manners, “Me? I’m writing a piece about this terrible place…well not so much this place if the truth be told, more the throng of hollow people ruining it, although I’ll exclude you from the rotten horde.” 

“What is it called?” ‘Mr 23.3 Recurring’ was nothing if not direct. 

“Beam Me Up” 

“Can you read it to me? Your handwriting looks appalling by the way” 

“My handwriting is indeed appalling…you are in luck though for I have just finished writing, topped and tailed the wretched thing…it’s not that good mind…some might say it’s twaddle!” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Do bear in mind that it’s a tad ‘wordy’ you see for my sins I am a compère of re-enactments of olde music hall theatre at the Chiswick Empire where elaborate spoken rubbish is expected of me by the paying public, and the punters must get what the punters want!” 

“Again, I don’t care.” 

It was thus that Fedora Man rose to full height, readied himself and commenced his recital with just a modicum of gusto for fear that if too loud, too keen even, passers-by would likely take him to be a vagrant and lob small change at him.

“Glabrous the scalp of the masculine lump in Union flag Speedo cheapalikes
his beer belly inducing a worthy eclipse twixt a seething sun and viscous tarmac
unwittingly conserving a large small child mumbling profanities aplenty
from over-exposure to whatever it is ultraviolet radiation does to inflated skin
vulgar wife, markedly chubby cheeks chewing a thong; laid bare, expert bingo wings
Icarus could have put to good use upon that awful day of deranged expectation
the whole bevy with own kind lined up affront The Seaside Mad Cow Burger Van
taking time out for selfies, wishy-washy ‘whose got talent’ soap opera of no avail chat
August is a dive and unwell in this olde England once more; that social media will be awash
with puerile snaps, drivel and shot-swigging before bedtime a lamentable inane certainty
Marooned in my puzzle I succumb to the proletariat that spawned me, ‘Beam me up Scottie’”

“What do you think?” 

“It makes me want to go back home…I don’t think these people understand harmony” 

“You’ve got it in one Sir…you have the gift of instant reflection and analysis, not many do, indeed I’d say you were a good thinker by the cut of your jib”

“Most just think me to be deluded”

With that ‘Mr 23.3 Recurring’ took of his leave, made for the coach in the car park, notwithstanding that it would be an age before the others of his kind were gathered together for the homeward bound trip and promptly fell asleep stretched out upon the back seat. He dreamed dreams of staircases and of an imaginary bolts and braces lover named Petunia.





Black Bottom wigglers raggedy trot, hungry dancer’s improvised fast kick Charleston

Broadway tap lunatics, Crazy Years of Cotton Club jazz, flaunting bobbed flappers flapping

impetuous chance encounters, the birthing of movies gods, first fridge chilled beer utopia

lustre of open top motors, wind in the hair, neck scarf Isadora’s benign hypocrisy

the unique trinity, Art Deco symmetry, delicious sex scandals, envied Stateside innovations

new found philosophy, politics gone awry, hard left, hard right, so soft the centre ground

spouting off expatriates, new pens and paint brushes, bright young things one and all

filling the gap twixt one war born of inbred blue blood sires and lacking of maternal guidance

the next of exorbitant reparations claim of the then castrated soon to be metamorphosed


Time, time, dispassionate time undo your folly, rewind, gift this human zoo another chance

never again the naked open palm salutes of the dog and pony showstoppers

let the dilettante’s party forevermore, let the altruists set the metronomes pulse