The Walrus and The Carpenter

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Were governing the land:

They fought like anything because

Things weren’t going as planned:

‘If only we could see as one,’

They said, ‘it would be grand!’

‘Should the referendum say that

First Past The Post wins clear,

Could you please drop the AV thing?’

Asked The Walrus with a leer.

‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter

And shed a bitter tear.

‘O Voters, come and back my cause!’

The Carpenter implored.

‘Let’s change these bally voting laws,

I’m sick of being ignored!

This coalition is a sham:

As doormat I am floored.’

The Wily Walrus looked at him:

His eyes were button small.

‘You’ve me to thank for being here

Your mandate is f**k all.

We like the voting status quo

So kindly, please, play ball.’

The Number One in Number Ten

Is what voting’s about.

The Carpenter was deeply miffed,

How could he get him out,

This party-pooping one in charge,

This Walrus big and stout?

Alas dear reader, there’s no end

To tale of love and hate,

For when you enter partnership

Be quite sure you don’t date

The one who claims to share your dreams

But won’t share from his plate.

Badger tries to plan an outing

It was a quiet Saturday morning and only the slightest breeze whispered through the new green leaves of the willows along the river bank.  They had finished breakfast and Badger was reading the paper, Ratty was occupied on his netbook and Mole was ruminating.

‘Have you read this about the sports day?’ Badger asked them.

‘No, what?’   They both looked up.

 ‘You can buy tickets now, on the website’ said Badger. ‘I’d like to go.  Let’s all go!’

‘Give me the address,’ said Ratty.  Badger called it out and Ratty tap tapped on his netbook and the site came up.

Parp!  Parp!  A car hooter sounded outside the front door of Badger’s tree trunk, and there was the low rumble of an idling motor.  Badger opened the door.  Mr. Toad waved at him from the driver’s seat.

‘I say Badger I thought I’d call round to see if you’d like to go for a spin.’

‘Perhaps later, Toad.  We’re busy buying tickets for The River Bank Sports Day.  Would you like to join us?’  Toad went inside and they all gathered around Ratty’s netbook.  Toad was enthusiastic. 

‘Gosh, what a huge number of sporting events!  What do we want to see?’

‘We can’t do that yet’, said Ratty, taking charge, ‘we have to create an account first.’  He was twitchy and impatient.  ‘There’s a link here’.  He clicked on it and his brown whiskers dropped in dismay.  ‘Oh!  Look at all these questions. Who’s going hold the account?’  They decided Badger should do it, and by coffee time they had created it.  After refreshments, Badger asked,

‘What events would we like to see?  There’s a whole list of them here at different locations.’  They all went quiet while Ratty explained the instructions to them.

‘We have to choose what we’d like to see and they let us know if we can see them or not...’  Ratty was scrolling through pages and pages of instructions, ‘...and we have to pay’ he scrolled a bit more,’...and we can only pay with a River Bank Card and we have to give our card details now.’

‘Oh no!  Has any of us got a River Bank card?’ asked Mole.

‘Not me,’ said Badger, ‘Never run up credit.’

‘Nor me’, added Ratty, ‘all my assets are in my hedge funds.’

  A sense of disappointment filled the room but Toad was searching his wallet.

‘I’ve got one!’ he announced triumphantly, flashing the necessary plastic.

'Phew’ said Mole, ‘that was close.  I thought none of us would be able to go.’

            ‘Let’s get on and choose our events,’ suggested Badger.  There followed a lively discussion for half an hour until they came to some agreement about what to book.

‘What do we do now, Ratty?’ asked Mole.

‘Well,’ said Ratty squinting at the screen, whiskers quivering, ‘It says here...’ he paused as he read it all,’ it says here we have to register our choices and they’ll tell us what we can see and then they make the charge on the card, but if we don’t get the tickets then they don’t charge us but if we do get the tickets and our card expires before the designated date, then we can’t...’

‘Enough!’ shouted Mole who was not normally short-tempered, ‘it’s too complicated.  Besides, it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry.’

‘Let’s stop for lunch,’ suggested Badger, ‘and after we’ve registered our choices we should work out our travel arrangements.’

‘But if we don’t know what events we’re going to see, we don’t know which locations we’ll have to travel to,’ protested Mole with perfect logic.

‘We could go in my car; that would be jolly’ offered the Toad, not because he was kind but he saw an opportunity to show off his motor.

‘I fear that would be worse,’ said Ratty, ‘if we all end up with tickets for different stadia and you have to drop us all off at different places...’ he was studying the screen again, ‘and if you have to stop halfway on a Park and Ride scheme and then we all have to...’

‘Stop!’ shouted Mole and the friends stared at their normally placid friend in astonishment. ‘It’s all too complicated.  Can’t we just go on a picnic instead?’ and he disappeared off to the kitchen to find some food.

Pooh and Piglet go shopping on line

 ‘Move over Piglet.  You’re taking up the whole bed.’

‘No I’m not.  It’s you, you’re too fat.  I don’t take up any room at all.’

‘You do.  You’re a waste of space.’

Piglet wriggled up on top of the pillow, occupying less than a quarter of it.  He clutched one of the bars on the metal bed head so he wouldn’t roll off.  It was uncomfortable to say the least.

‘Is that better?’

‘S’pose so’ grumbled Pooh, ‘but my tummy’s rumbling.  We need some food.  We need some cash.  Where is Christopher Robin anyway?’

‘I don’t think he’s back from his ski-ing holiday yet.’

‘Well he jolly well should be.  He’s in charge of our welfare and somebody needs to do some shopping round here.’

‘We’d better get up then, if we want some breakfast.’

They got off Christopher Robin’s bed, dropped onto the floor and went down to the kitchen.  Pooh was tall enough to open the door of the fridge.  He stuck his head in it.

‘It’s still empty, Piglet,’ he complained, but Piglet wasn’t there.  Piglet had scrambled up one of the chairs onto the wooden kitchen table.

‘Hey look at this, Pooh’, he called excitedly.  On the table was an open netbook computer and it was switched on.  The screen glowed blue and a colourful soft-edged symbol shimmered gently in the centre of it, inviting them in.

‘Have you ever done on-line shopping, Pooh?’

‘Yes.  I always sit with Christopher Robin and he sits on Mr. C.R. Senior’s lap, when he’s doing it.  Christopher Robin helps him choose things.’

‘Let’s order some food,’ Piglet was standing knee-high to the screen jiggling his little arms excitedly.  Pooh sat down and started prodding the keyboard.

Nothing happened.

‘My paws are too fat, Piglet.  You’ll have to do it.’

‘What do I do?’

‘I’ll call out the letters and you hit the keys.’  They set to work.  Piglet tapped away with the tips of his trotters.  A few seconds later they were on the grocery page of Mr. C.R. Senior’s shopping account.  They selected their delivery slot and then arrived at the colourful and tempting virtual grocery store.  Piglet waved a trotter over the key pad.

‘What shall we order, Pooh?’

‘Everything’

‘No we can’t.  We’ll be here all night.’

‘Okay.  Start with honey...that one.  Get two of those and we’d better have a few spares as well.  We need bread to put it on and...some of those honey biscuits...honey waffles and the honey ice-cream...and-’ Piglet interrupted,

‘I’d like some apples.’  He went tap, tap, tap on the keys, bristling with concentration.  Eventually he said, ‘we’ve got quite a long list now, Pooh.’

‘Alright, finish the order.  Click on that green arrow.’ 

Piglet clicked and the screen changed.

‘Finish and pay!’ he read excitedly.  ‘Oh, pay!  We can’t pay.  How do we pay?’ He was immediately crestfallen. 

‘Don’t worry, I know the numbers.’

‘What numbers?’

‘The ones they use to pay with - from the little plastic card.  I’ll call them out.  Listen carefully and tap them in.’ When they’d done it, Pooh said,

‘Click on ‘confirm order’.’

‘Oooooooh!’ the little pig exclaimed.  He was SO hungry.  They held their breath while the machine did its thing.  An official and important-looking message came up on the screen.  It said,

‘This is a message from your bank.

Your payment is refused.

You’ve maxed out your credit card, moron.  You do not have permission to borrow any more money. The only thing that interests us about you is the interest on your debt.  Ha! Ha!

 In fact, while we’ve got your attention, could we ask you to flog off a couple of family heirlooms and send us a few bob too?  We’ve got bonuses to pay.

Excuse us now, but our dinner’s ready.’

Pooh slammed down the lid of the machine in disgust.

‘What does it mean, Pooh?’  Piglet was stricken. 

‘It means Christopher Robin and his ilk have been hiding the true facts from us, Piglet, my diminutive, pathetic side-kick.  We're broker than we thought and if we are ever going to eat again, we'll jolly well have to DO something.’

In Desperate Measures

Pooh and Piglet were sitting on a green painted curlicue bench in Christopher Robin’s garden, dangling their little plush legs which were too short to reach the ground. They were chewing on stale crusts, which in happier times they would have taken to the duck pond. Pooh thrust his paw into the tired brown paper bag which Piglet was holding, and pulled it out again.

‘Hey!  You’ve eaten the last one, you greedy pig.’

‘The word ‘greedy’ I resent’ said Piglet drawing up his shoulders with hurt pride and crumpling up the bag, ‘I’ve only eaten one.  You had the rest.’

‘Whatever.  There’s not enough food in this place to keep a gnat alive.  My tummy’s rumbling.’

‘I know.  We’re stony broke.  If Christopher Robin and his lot hadn’t been whooping it up on the credit cards for the last thirteen years, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘Retrospection is all very well, you pocket-sized politician, but it doesn’t put food on the table.  We need a plan.’  Pooh slumped mournfully.

‘I know!’  Piglet threw the balled paper bag up in the air and caught it again.  ‘Let’s have a Royal Wedding.  We’ll make loads of dosh.’

‘Well I don’t know.  I don’t think selling a few tatty commemoration ceramics and setting up a ginger beer stall is going to solve our problem.’

‘But it’s a start, Pooh.  It'll bring in the crowds.’

‘Two difficulties:  We need a prince and we need a bride for him to marry.’  Pooh was scornful.  ‘There aren’t any of those round here.’

‘Christopher Robin is posh, he’ll be perfect,’ declared Piglet.

‘But he’s only nine.  I don’t think you’re allowed to marry at nine in this country.’ 
Piglet was not dismayed.

‘How about Eeyore?  He’s single.  Getting married might cheer him up.’

‘Cheering him up isn’t the point.  He’s not photogenic.  Imagine the wedding portraits.’

‘What about that Mr Toad, from the other book?  He’s got gold taps in his bathroom.’

‘Who’d marry an ugly mug like him?  Nobody.’

‘I’m not so sure, Pooh.  I’ve read stories where princesses marry amphibians all the time.’

‘I suppose so, but where do we find the bride?  All our friends in the Hundred Acre Wood are boys.  There’s a distinct shortage of women round here.’

‘There’s Kanga.  She’s quite pretty - for a marsupial.  Put her in a white dress and a veil.  She’d make a smashing bride - oh, and a long train to cover the tail.  No-one’d ever guess.

‘No can do.’

‘Why ever  not?’

‘Roo,  in a word.  Sad little bastard.’

‘Roo?’

‘Yes.  You never hear any talk of a Mr Kanga do you?  I think Kanga’s got a murky past.  Our bride has got to be whiter than white.’

‘I can’t think of anyone else, Pooh.’  Piglet was unhappy that they hadn’t solved their cash crisis.  ‘No wedding then.  I guess we’re back to square one.’

Pooh gave a huge sigh.  They'd have to think of another way of raising money.

The Supporters and the Statue

by E. Sopp.

A Welsh rugby supporter and an English rugby supporter were discussing the might of their national teams. Dai Llaffing insisted the Welsh pack and forwards were far mightier than the English due to their great strengh. Rupert Allbottom disagreed. 'My dear chap, we have by far a more superior team than you Taffy types,' he said. 'We have sooper wingers with both speed and agility. Come with me, my good man and I'll prove to you how right I am.' So Rupert took Dai along to the town centre at Much Warbling in the Weir and showed him a statue of Bill Beaumont overcoming the Welsh forwards, snarling with the ball under his arm. Dia looked up at the statue and said, 'Du, du. That proves nuthing mun, for it was an Englishman who made the statue.'
Moral:

"We can easily represent things as we wish them to be."

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ALBERT

By O.W. Ilde

From conversations between Lady Brackwater’s nephew, Algernon, and his friend, Jack, in Act 1 we’ve already heard about Algy’s imaginary friend, Albert, who he uses as an excuse whenever he’s required to attend his aunt’s interminably boring dinner parties.

Act 2

Lady Brackwater’s drawing room, Belgrave Square, London 1895

Lady Brackwater: But Algernon, If you cannot attend my dinner this evening you will put my table completely out. Who can I possibly find now to go down with Lady Frumpington whose fifth husband, as you know, is otherwise engaged?

Algernon: (Mumbling): Not only engaged, Aunt Augusta, but practically married.

Lady B: Kindly speak up Algernon, you know very well my hearing has not been the same since my chaperone on the grand tour took a wrong turn that led us both into the battle of Waterloo.

Algy (loudly): I was merely saying, Aunt Augusta…

Lady B: Do not shout, Algernon. Shouting is the prerogative of the costermonger.

Algy: Sorry, Aunt Augusta.

Lady B: Now about your friend in the country, Algernon, the one you feel obliged to visit whenever I need you to make up my dinner party numbers, he may be the answer to a most pressing problem.

Algy: Yes, Aunt Augusta?

Lady B: Well as you know, Algernon, our dear daughter, Gwendolyn, is still unmarried, and Lord Brackwater and I feel that time is fast running out. She is, after all, fifty five next Tuesday.

Algy: Dear cousin Gwendolyn, she keeps in good health, I trust?

Lady B: Perhaps not fully at her best, Algernon. But a combination of bad breath, varicose veins and a squint is no impediment these days to a woman’s marriage prospects. You only have to look at Lady Birkenhead who, since her husband’s unfortunate demise beneath the wheels of her carriage, looks positively radiant. But what is not generally known is that her lavish mourning apparel conceals one, if not two, wooden legs. Under the terms of her husband’s will, however, she now owns much of London and a vast estate in Bedfordshire - a situation not entirely disregarded, it is said, by her numerous suitors.

ALGY: I do not think my friend, Aunt Augusta, would be the ideal husband for dearest Gwendolyn.

Lady B: I and Lord Brackwater will decide that, Algernon. (Produces notebook and pencil from handbag). What is your friend’s name?

Algy: Albert, Aunt Augusta. Albert Smalltackle.

Lady B: Not a good start, Algernon, for although his first name has a princely resonance, his surname hardly accords with what, I am reliably informed, attracted our dear queen to Prince Albert in the first place. Are the Smalltackles active in society, Algernon? They have a country estate, I assume, and a town house, but where exactly?

Algy: Albert lives near Liverpool, Aunt Augusta.

Lady B: Ah Liverpool. One of our newer colonies, I believe. But how sensible of Mr Smalltackle to live outside the city. Within its boundaries the Church Missionary Society has its work cut out dealing with the barbaric behaviour of its citizens which is reminiscent, I am told, of the worst excesses of ancient Rome. What about Mr Smalltackle’s parents, Algernon - who are they?

Algy: He has no parents, Aunt Augusta.

Lady B: No parents, Algernon?

Algy: As a baby, Aunt Augusta, Albert was discovered.

Lady B: Discovered? Where exactly, Algernon, was your friend… discovered?

Algy: In a cabin trunk, Aunt Augusta.

Lady B: A CABIN TRUNK??

Algy: Yes, Aunt Augusta, a cabin trunk, in the hold of a cargo ship en route for Buenos Aires.

Lady B: To be found in a cabin trunk is one thing, Algernon. But to be found in a cabin trunk on its way to the most dubious of destinations in anything other than the first class accommodation provided by the White Star line, is more than a little suspect. Lord Brackwater will concur with my view that your friend Mr Smalltackle is indeed no match for our dearest Gwendolyn. She will be told later this afternoon that the marriage I and Lord Brackwater were about to arrange for her is off.

Algy: Of course, Aunt Augusta.

Lady B: I am surprised, Algernon, there was nothing left in the cabin trunk with the foundling child? A note perhaps?

Algy: Only a will, Aunt Augusta. A will written by, a mysterious, well born lady, who subsequently left him the estate near Liverpool and rather more than a small fortune in bonds and gilts.

Lady B: How much more, Algernon?

(Algy whispers into Lady B’s ear)

Lady B: (Clearly impressed) Really… (Notebook and pencil are swiftly returned to handbag). In that case, Algernon, Lord Brackwater and I will completely overlook the cabin trunk, the cargo ship and Buenos Aires. I will instruct the archbishop today to make arrangements for the nuptials

Algy: But you can’t, Aunt Augusta, Albert Smalltackle is already wed.

Lady B: Being already wed these days, Algernon, is no …..

Algy: Sorry, Aunt Augusta, I meant dead, not wed.

Lady B: But five minutes ago, Algernon, Mr Smalltackle was alive and well. As much alive, that is, as anyone interred in the colonies can be. (Enter Brightman, the footman) What is it, Brightman?

Brightman: There’s a gentleman downstairs m’lady who wishes to see you urgently.

Lady B: But I’m very busy, Brightman, did he not leave a name?

Brightman: Mr Smalltackle, m’lady, Mr Albert Smalltackle.

Lady B: (Giving Algy a withering look) Really. Show the gentleman up, Brightman.

(Lady B turns to face the door, lorgnette at the ready. Behind her, Algy is seen disappearing behind a Chinese screen.)

Unaware that Algy was with his aunt, the gentleman visitor turns out to be Algy’s friend, Jack. He was hoping, by pretending to be Albert Smalltackle, to ingratiate himself with Lord and lady Brackwater in order to further his latest, shady business venture.

Jabberwocky - A translation

'Twas footy, and the many fans
did meet and greet within the stands.
But nervous were the playing teams
and the managers felt damned.

Beware their goalkeeper, my men
the hands that catch, the feet kick hard
beware the linesmen and the ref
And shun the yellow card

He took his lucky charm in hand
This local derby would be hard.
He leant against the tunnel wall
And said 'Be on your guard'

And as he stood and pondered this
The other goalie led his team
Proudly to the tunnel's mouth
and muttered 'in your dreams'

1 - nil, 1 all; 2 - 1 2 all
The lucky charm was working well
The other team were beaten down
They'd had the game from hell.

So you have beaten them my lads.
Hooray Hooray we won the cup
This win puts us two points ahead.
you clever lot, we're going up!

Twas footy and the many fans
did meet and greet within the stands
But nervous were the playing teams
and the managers felt damned

Sir Clegg

Me and Cam so rich that we both went
off to work in Parliament.
Always voting as I was told
leaving all the Libs out in the cold
I voted for the cuts so selfishly
that now I am the PM's deputy.

Of Tory policy I'm unaware
but they got my vote so I don't care
I don't care for the plebs you see
cos now I'm the PM's deputy.
I sold out and became power crazy
when they made me the PM's deputy.

They say I was once a principled man
but now the country's going down the pan
going down the pan all because of me
being made the PM's deputy.
I thought so little of others you see
once they made me Cameron's deputy.

So all you MP's whoever you may be
you can rise like scum to the top like me
if you have no principles at all
and Tory Toffs give you the call
turn your back on the people and climb that tree
and you all may one day be the deputy.

The Prime Minister's Song

I am the very model of a modern prime minister,
I’ve information political, fiscal, and sinister,
I know my spin advisers, and I spout their lies habitual,
From Brussells to Washington, in order not very factual;
I'm very acquainted, too, with matters sort of financial,
I understand posh boy Tory boom and Labour bust-ical,
About duck houses and porn films I can endlessly enthuse,
With many cheerful facts about expense fiddles in the news.
I’m au fait with Liberals, Cable and Clegg and whatsiname;
I know the Strictly judges and slumming celebs seeking fame,
In short, in matters newsy, popular, and on Twitter,
I am the very model of a modern Prime Minister.

This is just to say

(Parody of the poem 'This is just to Say' by William Carlos Williams)


This is just to say

I won’t be eating
the plums
that are in
the ice box
and which
you are probably
saving
for breakfast
they may be
delicious,
so sweet
and so cold,
but as you know
I have very
sensitive teeth




Shirley Elmokadem

Samuel Pepys' Blog

26th January 1666-ish

Up and to the office, at least, that’s as I had planned but the carriage arrived so late and so full I was unable to make my customary journey.  I texted my Chief Clerk and informed him of my difficulty, and to say I would not attend the office in person that day but would work remotely, and then at noon to a tavern to meet the Captain and to discuss his affairs concerning the East India Company, and dined.  Having a great deal of business to transact on his behalf I was pleased to take advantage of their internet connection, this tavern by good fortune being one of the many in the City so equipped, and we fell to discourse about the convenience of having such facilities at our disposal.  He is a most genial acquaintance and asked after my family, whose likenesses I was pleased to show him on my android device and he showed me his.  After the Captain’s departure, it being late in the afternoon, I remained in the tavern and made an end of the accounts to my great content, by remote file access, and to answer my email correspondence.  This last I completed with great efficiency, thanks to a new service provider, DigiPigeon, which offers a most impressive and speedy facility and for which I have provided the link to their Homing Page, for your convenience.  Late home and my eyes sore, to write up the blog, to supper and to bed.

No Country for Old Haggis

A tribute to Robert Burns in the style of Cormac McCarthy

Y'all should of had some haggis
stead of cheeseburger and fries
then shot the waitress through the head
an left her to the flies.
This here's no place for haggis
lessen you pepper it right well
with liberally fired buckshot
then send it straight to Hell.
For what's the use of haggis
when a man's no shoes to wear?
let him toil or let him die
an who'll be left to care?

Never again

Wines comes out of my mouth
and some even from my eye.
I know I have drank too much
I think I am going to die.
I lift the lid of the pan,
and call to that God in the sky.

(From A Drinking Song)

In which Pooh and Piglet are looking for something to eat...

It's tea-time.  Pooh and Piglet are in Christopher Robin's kitchen.  Pooh says,
'I say Piglet, there's nothing to eat and my tummy's rumbling.'
'Didn't Christopher Robin do your plate of honey sandwiches?'
'No Piglet, you deformed pink fool, there's just an empty plate.  Oh, just a jiffy! Here's a note:  it says,
     "There's no more bread and there's no more honey
       Tough luck teddy, cos we're out of money."
'That's good Pooh.  It rhymes!  I like a nice rhyming couplet.'
'You can't eat it, stupid.  I'm starving.'
'We could go and ask Eye-Ore.  He knows everything.'
'No way.  I'm not talking to that manic depressive mule.'
'Why don't we go down to Hundred Acre Wood and find our friends the bees?  They'll give us some honey.'
'That's the best idea you've had since you learned how to hold an apple in your mouth and not eat it, you chipolata.  Bring my honey pot.  Let's go.'

The sun is shining and the birds are singing, tra la la la lah!  Pooh and Piglet skip down to Hundred Acre Wood, if it is possible to skip holding a ceramic pot twice your size.  They stop.  Piglet puts down the pot.  He is puffed out.  Pooh gasps.
'It's gone!  It's not there!  Hundred Acre Wood has gone!'
'Hundred Acre Stumps, more like.'
'But Piglet!  My wood!  My honey!  Where will the bees go?  There'll be no more honey!  Who chopped down the wood?'
'Christopher Robin, probably.  He said he was going to.'
'Christopher Robin?  How could he?  I thought he was my friend.  He never even asked...I'm going to give him a piece of my mind...'  Pooh stomps off, muttering to himself.  Piglet abandons the honey pot and tries to keep up.  He's grumpy because he's hungry too.
'Well don't complain to me you fat furry moron.  I didn't vote for the bastard.'

The Rub of Love (in the style of Dylan Thomas)

O to feel the rub of love, fingers that caress my limbs

and make my member wonder if it is real.

Does it rain on the moon? Do sandcastles fall into ruin?

Will my love put on the kettle or leave me in this dingy room?

My eyes see only turmoil that rages like an angry sea

I drink too much, I think too much. I write this stuff then weep.

My tears splosh in my beer, a salty tang I do not hanker.

My privations leave me like a shilling whore

bereft of love, craving ever more.

I will feel the rub of love, thrice this night

For a two bob bit is in my grasp, clutched greedily like a spoilt bairn.

I will spend on love not willingly given

But what the hell, fornication comes not cheap

If like me fornication comes at all.

Dillan Duffy

Mr Toad's letter from The River Bank to the inhabitants of 'Wind in the Willows'

I say what jolly japes - looks like inflation’s gone down a bit, what? I say! That means I can afford to take the motor out on the open road for a spin! Which of my fellow furry friends would like to accompany me? I can’t take all of you with me, mind, got room for about half a dozen - only my closest pals. Ain’t got room for any more. Budge up, that’s it! Jolly good show! And I can fill up the picnic basket with some choice morsels to accompany the bubbly. Spiffing! Mind you, that inflation is a bit of a slippery rascal. Just when you think you’ve grabbed it by the tail it slithers out of your grasp and is off away to who knows where? Can’t allow that, no sir! So we’d better make the most of it while the going’s good! Phew!


The MPC - that’s ‘Mole’s Planning Committee’ for those of you not au fait with the jargon - has had a bit of difficulty keeping all the balls in the air. For that reason we’ve set the abacus back to ‘Start’, wiped the blackboard clean with a WET cloth (no traces HAH!) and handed it all over to Old Badger’s Reckoning - or OBR - as we call him and I’ve told him in NO uncertain terms to make sure that he and his pals all bally know how to add up or we’ll be up the IMF without a paddle if you get my drift (my drift! ha! ha!). For creatures which live on a river bank that’s no joke, trust me.


What’s that, Badge old boy? Inflation’s going UP not DOWN? Are you playing pranks on me? No? Oh no! You’re right - you stripey streptococcus-carrying set-dweller, you! I’ve got the bally chart UPSIDE DOWN. Ah HAH! If I turn it the right way up maybe it’ll make more sense! Oh dear! Looks like the picnic’s cancelled - no money. Better tell all the little river bank dwellers to put their party hats away and go back home and stew some lettuce leaves. Oh drat, Ratty! Our party plans are foiled again!!

Dracula by Ham Poker

Van Helsing's Journal
1 March 1897
I have been summoned to London by my old pupil and protegee Dr Seward regarding the mysterious malady of a young lady, Miss Lucy Westenra. I have my suspicions about the case already, but I fear there are those who will find it hard to believe me so I have decided to record the facts here as written evidence. Together with other correspondence from my friends they may form an invaluable record. Fortunately we are all gifted creative writers with photographic memories and remarkably similar styles. But I digress. I must hasten to London so I can begin my next diary entry at an exciting point.

3 March 1897
I have seen the patient and am not surprised that dear Dr Seward is quite in love with her. He is one of many to worship this perfect creation. I do not tell him of my suspicions concerning the cause of her illness, but she has two puncture marks on her neck and a giant bat flapping at her window nightly. As Dr Seward was my star pupil I am quite sure he will soon come to the same conclusions I have.
Mem. to self: Nip back to Amsterdam to pick up my copy of Vampire Hunting for Dummies.

5 March 1897
On my return to London I found Miss Lucy to be in a most terrible condition. She is pale with sharp teeth, a heaving bosom and a wanton look in her eye. I announced my conclusion that she should have an immediate blood transfusion for which I required a donor. It is testament to Miss Lucy's sweet nature that most of the male half of London are willing to empty themselves for her! I must begin my work on the transfusions...

The menfolk are exhausted and have retired for cigars. Miss Lucy is much improved with a pretty flush upon her cheeks again. I asked Dr Seward if he had any notion yet of what her condition might be but he looked quite blank. I fear my pet pupil has lost his touch.
Mem. to self: Nip back to Amsterdam for Ladybird Book of Vampires and slip into Dr S's pocket.

7 March 1897
Oh terrible fate! Why do you pursue us and undo our good works? Upon my return to London I entered the house to be met by a hellish scene that needed no explanation. Servants lay dead upon the floor like husks, drained of blood. Miss Lucy has fearsome fangs protruding from her dainty mouth. And there are bat droppings all over the drawing room carpet.
"What can it all mean?" Dr Seward cried desperately.
I am afraid I lost patience with my old friend. "Do you really not understand? Are you so thick you cannot connect bats, blood, bitemarks and our dear Miss Lucy's transformation into a fiend?"
"Erm..."
The poor man was a blank and I confess I shook him hard. "For god's sake, man! Must I spell it out for you? I see I must!"
I had just opened my mouth to say "V" when the room darkened. The sun had set without either of us noticing! At that moment Miss Lucy flung open the door. The once soft eyes were hard and cruel. The shocking red mouth dripped with fresh blood. She held a severed arm, which I recognised by the rings to be the left hand of her mother, Mrs Westenra. She held it to her lips and supped the blood with relish.
"People always say I had a lot of my mother in me!" she quipped horribly.
"What vision is this?" gasped Dr Seward.
I slapped him round the face. "She's a vampire! Get it? A vampire! V.A.M.P.I.R.E!"
Dr Seward's brow creased. "Are you saying she's suffering from some sort of attack of the vapours?"
Miss Lucy was advancing on us. I was all right, I had my crucifix, thank God, but as I hadn't told anyone else what was going on they were all completely unprotected. I believe it serves them right, the dimwitted fools.
I turned away in disgust and left Dr Seward to his grisly fate.
Mem. to self: Nip back to Amsterdam - and stay there.

Messages Much Missed ( parody of Thomas Hardy's The Voice)

Oh, how I miss you, texting me, texting me.
My phone now lies silent and dead.
You were my everything, all to me, all to me,
as from the very first day that we met.

I gaze at your photo, standing here next to me,
taken in town at our favourite spot,
where you would always wait for me, wait for me.
How cool you look in jeans and white top.

I'm reading your messages over and over,
dreaming that you're here by my side.
Perhaps I should delete them, delete them.
But without them how will I survive?

So, here I am
barely coping,
birds around
me singing,
'Flesh perishes,
and life goes on.'
But not your texting.

Shirley Elmokadem

Sonnet to Maturity (in the style of The Bard)

Shall I compare thee to a withered fruit?

Thou art more wrinkled and yet more beloved

Rough hands do feel like leather of a boot,

And rasp as winter makes them to be gloved;

Sometimes too quick thou triest to rise from chair,

And all thy joints are heard to creak and groan,

A helping hand is needed then, to bear

Thy weight, to let thee rise and stand alone;

But still thy eternal humour shall not die,

Nor leave me cold when jokes thou needst to make,

Nor ever cause my heart and soul to cry,

When thou in company dost ‘The Mickey’ take;

So long as we still smile and laugh as one,

So long we love, and love till life has gone.

No Country for Old Spies

The latest James Bond adventure in the style of Cormac McCarthy

James Bond stepped out of his car. It was a fast car. A red car. He liked it because it got him places fast. He liked it because it got him admiring glances from the ladies.
Y'all can't park there. The traffic warden had appeared from nowhere.
Bond slid the Walther PPK 65mm pistol from his inside pocket, cocked the hammer and fired a single shot into the warden's pigeon chest. The silencer muffled the blast to a high pitched nyeek and Bond strode past him up the steps of the Plaza Hotel. The warden reeled backwards into the rhododendrons, disappearing under the cover of the foliage.
Bond slid the gun back into his pocket and wiped a bead of sweat from his top lip. He reached the revolving door and stepped inside. The large reception area seethed with party guests in evening dress. He slid the Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun from his right hand pocket, raised it to arm's length and started firing into the crowd.
Y'all can't shoot here, suh. The uniformed waiter flew backwards into the bar as Bond peppered his spotless white shirt front with bullets. Behind his crumpled and bloody corpse sat Lola, crimson clad and perched on a bar stool.
Y'all took ya time gettin here...ya should of phoned if ya was gonna be late.
Bond stepped over the heap of dead and dying bodies as he slid his machine gun back in his pocket and caught the eye of the bar tender. I'll have a vodka martini shaken not stirred. He drew Lola close to his chest.
I sent y'all a text. Ya must of been out of range.

Daffodils, by W Wordsworth. 1st draft (beginning),

I walked along the road a bit

and up and down some hills.

And then I saw some yellow flowers

They called them daffodils

Along the pond and in the wood

waving and wobbling, they looked good

unending like the stars that glimmer

and glisten high up in the sky

they stretched as far as I could see

until a fly flew in my eye

I thought I saw a fair few thousand

sort of jigging to an unseen band