The fly

Working at home is largely enjoyable but does have its challenges. I wrote a short poem about one of them last night. A five-minute effort, but it captures the moment.

 

Read it here:

 

The fly

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An ode to Vegas

Long haul flight through the dead of night
To a desert jewel shining so pretty
As wheels hit the sand, we come in to land
Through the neon-encrusted jaws of Sin City.

It fills you with awe. But leave your morals at the door.
It invented the word hedonistic
And at its worst, it’ll empty the purse
Of each gambler and chancer that  risks it.

Great hotels new and old
Each one promising gold
Eden’s serpent around every corner
But thank God as a rule the air con keeps you cool,
Because outside it burns like a sauna!

it’s a well-known tradition that by its own admission
Vegas meals come in Olympic-size portions.
A farm’s worth of meat is the rarest of treats
And the ‘Supergulps’ should come with a caution!

In the state of Nevada they’ve raided the larder
For the finest in meat, fish, and pasta
Each buffet divine – ‘all you can eat’ in your own time
For your waistband it’s certain disaster.

Playground of pretences, a feast for the senses,
Oasis of fun in the sand
Spend your days looking cool in your shades by the pool
And your nights trying to play a good hand.

A city nocturnal, a spirit eternal
With a flauntingly brash sense of style
Whether taking a dip or cruising down the strip
Its exponents are sure to raise a smile.

Nights in the bars, the clubs and the cars
High on excess and elation
By the time you go to bed it has drained all your credit
And drowned you in intoxication.

The entertainment is extensive. The drinks are expensive
A land of opportunism and endeavour
The more you explore, the more you’ll be sure
To build fond memories that last forever.

So farewell desert jewel, you set your own rules
What wonderful magic you gave us
But we’ll be back to find more support  for your line
That what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

An ode to England’s less than beautiful game

As the curtain rises on another season
I find myself struggling to find any reason
To watch any manner of Premiership football
When I’m unsure its players care for it at all.

My childhood memories may be rose-tinted
When players had passion and were less ludicrously minted
Caring more for supporters and the good of the game
Than inflated egos and absence of shame.

Sick, bloated greed and the morally obscene
Never more apparent than in our own national team.
Overpaid underachievers, with selfish intention
Spoilt brats. Cry babies. Words too rude to mention.

Who will be captain? Who shall we choose?
The list of current candidates is sure to amuse.
And as we assemble England’s so called elite
The absence of role models is impossible to beat.

Should we pick John Terry, brave lion all our own.
So disciplined he couldn’t leave others wives alone.
Or perhaps Rio Ferdinand, a rock in defence

But missed drug test a rather suspicious offence.

While we’re at the back, we could pick Ashley Cole,
But those phone text affairs have taken their toll.
Wayne Rooney’s a legend, if not such a looker,
But his chances are slim now he’s been with that hooker.

Perhaps Steven Gerrard? His shot’s like a bolt.
But he can’t lead a team when he’s charged with assault.
England’s footballers are a low rent sort
And we only know about the ones that got caught…

Cheating chav scum, and if you need persuading
Just watch a match and see sportsmanship fading. 
The beautiful game, played with skills still sublime
But increasingly ruined by petulant pantomime.

The diving, the histrionics, the appealing for cards
Touch a hair on their head and they’ll roll for yards.
And in what other sport do you so often see
Such sustained, furious arguments with the referee?

Take a leaf out of cricket or rugby’s good grace

Quite frankly our footballers are a fucking disgrace.
These things leave our fans with raw hopes and fears
But for our arrogant players, it falls on deaf ears.

What a load of balls

Wrote this while idly waiting for a bus on the eve of the World Cup. Will doubtlessly be writing a revised version over the next week or so. Never expected them to win it but their performances to date have been nothing short of embarrassing.

Twas the night before the World Cup
And all through the house
Every man fit and ready
To neglect his spouse.

A four year wait over
Hope and expectation up
To end 44 years of hurt
And bring home the Cup.

Pundits and plaudits
Critics, fans and press
United in ambition
For England success.

Determination, passion,
Each nation on call.
Rich depth of emotion
Stirred by kicking a ball.

And so to South Africa
A footballing fest
Lions on the savannah
And three on our chest.

Once more on tenterhooks
Whether win or defeat
It’s certain to keep us
On the edge of our seat.

So come on our England
You’ll never walk alone
Fulfil your potential
And bring Jules Rimet home.

The Girls of QVC

Flicking and floating through Freeview,
Idly browsing TV;
Opened the door to a netherworld –
The girls of QVC.

Attractive, approachable ladies,
Grins like cheshire cats;
Making the best of wearing
Complete and utter tat.

Quality. Value. Convenience.
In theory the acronym is fine.
But if TV’s future looks bleak,
This channel’s a warning sign.

Presenters like vacuous mannequins,
Peddling teleshopping hell.
Capturing hordes of pensioners
Under their unwitting spell.

Freedom of choice is a privilege
Enjoyed by you and me
Don’t be fooled by the call of the sirens,
The girls of QVC.

Farewell Mr. Brown

A little something I scribbled down on the bus home. An ode? Hardly. A release of tension? Possibly.

Farewell Mr Brown

While reclining on my sofa
I catch word that his reign is over
From Hadrian’s wall to the cliffs of Dover
England cheers.

Farewell to the unelected
Farewell to the unrespected
Farewell to the vote-ejected
Mister Brown.

He dragged us down from boom to bust
Filled our soldiers with disgust
Let bankers earn the largest crust
Spent it all.

Lies deceit and false pretences
Shrouded under vast expenses
Unapologetic veiled defences
Lost our trust.

Like King Midas in reverse
Every judgement getting worse
Chance of victory in a hearse
All but gone.

Clinging on to number ten
Last to see the moment when
Evening chorus from Big Ben
Signalled the end.

13 years of sleaze and spin
An election that he couldn’t win
Even when he tried to grin
Time for change.