Going shopping in a cramped supermarket? You’re game.

Still Rankling.

In passing, on my way to the tennis court
'I'll quickly pop into the shop,' so I thought,
I slid smoothly into Kroger's parking lot
Not knowing I'd be dealt a passing shot.

There they were, cluttering up Kroger's entrance aisle,
Proud Mom with stopped shopping cart and fixed smile,
There she was, a cute munchkin with her pretty dolly
Mimicking Mommy with her lilliputian shopping trolley.

I politely asked Mom if she might move it to let me pass,
I could've- should've- just told her to move her ass,
But I was raised by my mother to be nice and kind
And not to say what was foremost in my mind.

She clutched her trolly, a hard look in her eye
And I knew this madam wouldn't let this go by,
Grimly she pushed the trolly challengingly in my path-
Seems I'd provoked this Mother of all Karen's wrath.

Behind me my following shoppers grew pushy, restive,
It clearly wasn't me that said something suggestive,
But in a flash her eyes and trolly met mine
And it was she, not I who crossed the line.

It was a classic case of push cart goes to shove
But petty-minded petulance I can rise above,
So I asked her, once more, I asked her pretty please
If she might allow me free access to the deep freeze?

She told me to move my basket- or so I thought she said,
As it transpired she'd call me a by-product of the unwed,
That's a downright dirty lie, I know this for sure,
Though Ma says I was four months premature.

Some spoilt sweet kids are just hard to get through to
But for this progeny it was 'see Mommy do, kiddy do,'
And this wee precious poppet, bless her heart
Tried to smash my ankle with her kiddy cart.

I looked down, pained, at the little moppet
Awaiting Mommy to say 'Sweetie, stop it,'
But Treasure looked neither tearful or fearful
And Mommy Dearest gave me a right earful.

I did my best to quietly ride out the damned pain
But then the wee Kikamora rammed me again!
I'd love to say I civilly held my tongue, but gosh, by golly
Everyone behind me loudly cheered my serve and volley.


A trip down automotive Memory Lane, recalling the time the Ford Explorer exploded onto the scene.

Breaking Down The Expense.

(Part three of the misguided and maligned The Flawed Concept trilogy.)

My brother bought hisself a brand new four x four,
A big fat-ass fossil fuel driven automotive dinosaur,
He'd avoided Fords for years but now, faith restored
Dave was ready to Explore all options offered by Ford.

Tall as a schoolbus, wide as a truck, black as night,
This high riding heavyweight was a fearsome sight,
All black upholstery, windows tinted so deeply dark
This mega-sized Mothership was some bitch to park.

Thank God he'd just moved out of Los Angeles,
Moved on from Santa Monica's summer breeze,
A black car do look good tooling down the street
But it do attract the cops attention, and the Heat.

But 'twas time for a new job and a bright new start
So Dave lit out of LA with heavy foot and light heart;
And he put the sun behind him and hot-footed it East
But mile by mile, by slow degrees his unease increased.

Driving into Phoenix it came as Surprise Surprise!
Picking a black truck up as a first move was not wise,
LA to Phoenix is right out of the frying pan into the fire
And stuck within a black box he didn't desire or require.

Now his fu fickle Ford didn't help his disposition
By being selective with its defective transmission,
Dave waved Fords tragic wand in hopes to hit First,
On some Select times, contrarily, he found it Reversed.

Hearing rumblings from where the rubber meets the road 
Dave found his f Firestone treads all ready and set to explode,
Soon at his local Ford front office Dave became a familiar face;
Out back Jesús soon gave Dave his Permanently Reserved space.

As the 'winter' days shortened and his warranty ran short
The cost of upkeeping his ol' hoss caused pause for thought,
His never-trusty Black Beauty was becoming a broken hack
Only fit for sitting up on cinder-blocks in the paddock out back.

'Twas on midwinters day, down to a chilly 80 degrees,
The sun burning his eyes, slanting through the Olive trees,
As the speedo clicked over 60,000 miles Dave gave a groan,
Driving out of his limited warranty and into the Twilight Zone.

Soon came the day his Exploder's air-con turned to steam,
This was one miracle fu fix beyond even Jesús and his team,
So, like Ford's lousy warranty, we'll cut short Dave's sorry tale-
Out back went the boiling Ford, part garage project, part fire sale.

‘Exploring a better Ford option than the current ones?’


What particular vehicle relaunch could relaunch memories of a fading fallen Super Star?

Official Police Escort. 

On June 17, '94 Ford salesmen sat glued to the TV all day,
Every eye on a white Bronco, the show- 'Drive-by With OJ,'
Following cops on a long slow drive down the Five Freeway,
A free all-day live TV priceless product placement display
With not a hope in Hades of OJ making a quick getaway;
OJ deserved a one-off cheque, but hey- crime don't pay.
(Any opinions or actions attributed to bad actors riding shotgun in a Bronco were not endorsed or approved of by the Flawed Motor Company.)

(Part Two of The Flawed Concept trilogy, if that doesn't sound too pretentious.)
Bronco! All new in 2022!
Bronco! Available for your no-obligation and guilt free test drive SOON!
Bronco! Available in Special Edition All American Hero exclusive Pure Innocent Snow White!
Bronco! Available on easy 6, 12, 18 years to Life terms!


Unclassified notes from an Oval Office; The Ford, Dearborn office, not the Pennsylvania Avenue one.

(Dark humour, a mild warning.)

The Flawed Concept.

Mr Ford viewed the tiny cars flooding in with fear,
Gutting sales of the gas-guzzlers Henry held so dear,
So into the new geeko-friendly no-smoking atmosphere
Henry trotted out his Pinto, with its pertly kicked-up rear,
So cheeky, chic and cheerful- and so cheap to engineer.

His Pinto putting dents in imports sales elicited a grin,
But making a profit on compacts means making 'em thin,
So, skinnier welds here, there, replace heavy steel with tin;
Ford's salesmen lightly told customers 'take 'er out for a spin,'
Is emphasising gas mileage over driver safety such a sin?
In harness with rising gas prices, sales of the sippy Pinto rose,
In his boardroom see, along with his profits, how his smile grows?
Until a rash of memos brought about a wrinkling of Henry's nose;
It's safe to say a Pinto's economy is great, as far as gas milage goes
But in a tail-ender one is not safe, as any crash dummy knows.

Was it a question of saving lives or saving on the cash?
Placing a gas tank waaay back was more dumb than rash,
The Pinto was a pain in the ass when in a nose-to-tail smash;
Percolating Pintos were hotly looked at by Police, Fire and Crash-
Hank's cheap-ass petty penny ante profits tanked, and in a flash.

(Mockery aside, a case of money over humanity. Apparently, for the sake of a few nickels and dimes per vehicle in producing these bombs cars Ford could have redesigned and alleviated the problem. Corporate cost-cutting at its best/worst. Ford lost a court case and paid through the nose.)

‘For Sale, Ford Pinto, cool retro classic, original Fire Engine Red paint.’



The road to ruin- as well as these mean streets- are paved with good intentions.

Faith, Hope And Charity. (And more innocent than you would believe.)

It's amazing how many friendly faces you'll meet
On walking up the business end of Manchester Street,
But in these grim city streets every girl has her position,
Remember, the hard fact is these are gals with a mission.

Just once I'd like to take a stroll down town
Without returning home feeling brung down,
Having not been waylaid by some sharp-eyed girl
Offering you a deal that should make your hair curl.

But she'll rarely be alone, she's one of many
And each want to take you for a pretty penny,
All eyes looking for some flush fool to be played,
Best not chance a glance lest eye contact be made.

With batted eye and oh so practiced smile
One is sure to invite you to stop and chat awhile,
Any offer to engage in conversation- don't indulge
Even should her eye linger long on your trouser bulge.

Alas, this happened to me again today,
A new girl accosted me, embarrassing to say,
Kim approached, name tag pinned bold on chest,
I wanted none of her but... she pressed and pressed.

She wouldn't take 'No' for an answer from me,
These gals keep taking me for some kind of charity,
Every week the girls change, but the game's the same,
If you don't hand over your change you feel their shame.

Gals, why am I the Saint selected to fix Society's ills?
The mug from whom the milk of human kindness spills?
Gals, the way you reach out to me in the street is a crime,
Every week, faithfully I find you've taken me for my last dime!

See, Kim, I'm loose with my money, a fool I say!
Pater cut off my account, ordered me to stay away,
In my wealthy family I've always been the black sheep,
But he pays me a pitiful stipend, so my distance I'll keep.

Sorry, Kim, I cannot hope to fill your financial need;
Good luck in all your endeavours, I hope you succeed;
But after paying for my one poky room I'm mostly spent;
Ain't it a pity I was never extended my fathers endowment?

                                 - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It's UNICEF this week, next week Leprosy Mission,
Donating to everyone is putting me in a poor position,
So, please, you gals with good intentions, should we meet
My charity stays at home, or you'll see me out in the street.

(On my being cheekily and cheerily- but legally- solicited by a well-dressed well-groomed well-meaning well-intentioned most engaging slick and professional young woman representing yet another needy charity yet again. I noticed that UNICEF was Kim and todays featured sad act. (What is it with all these peppy perky presumptuous lasses? I must just have the kind of face every girl preys for.)
Still, on turning 'em down I'm left feeling so cheap. Oh, I'd love to be able to willingly toss my hard-earned cash about but I just can't afford to sillily splash out willy-nilly.)

‘Remember, don’t hang a left down Hooker Street.’


Every new day, finding new ways to be a better morning person.


I'm a guy who needs his beauty sleep,
So if on my good sight side you wish to keep*
Just let me be, laid out, counting sheep,
Do Not Disturb and I won't raise a peep.

Lately my set routine's getting upset,
Our cat won't sleep once sun has set,
I'm lying in bed, smoking- sans cigarette;
He's a prize king-size pain in the ass pet.

Hark, I hear some cock crowing in the dark;
Rousing me at dawn shall leave its mark,
Who wants to see me, up with the lark
Slug gun in hand, prowling Peacock Park?

I've never been a sparkly-dewy-eyed early riser,
Now I meet the bright new day masked in a sun visor,
After ten I'll wearily start in at my usual appetizer,
A Starbucking black coffee, one strong tranquilizer.

*See Mr Muses comment below… I had to leave the evidence…

(I do love me a lie-in. But. This last week we have had the cat at the vet, and he’s been up at night, and since misery loves company he thinks we should share in his too. Nightly. So we- and our excreble adorable little Prince are all now just a tad shitty scratchy.)



A man once said ‘Football is not a matter of life and death- it’s much more than that.’ In these Covid spreading times, all too true.

Cruel Britannia.

The Home fans had flocked here from miles around,
To Englands green and present Premier football ground,
All set to see England play winningly at Wembley,
All so happy together, in a gloriously riotous assembly.

All through the first half the crowd stood, up and singing,
By late on in the second half, down and hand-wringing,
Still hopefully singing- this time the lads would be victorious,
Ringing proud round the ground, loud if ultimately vainglorious.

Once more, as oft before, England failed the test,
Again, fair England, penalised into being second best,
As per tradition, opportunity and spot kicks missed,
But this national tragedy came with an extra kick twist.

The stunned crowd streamed from Wembley, sad, deflated,
Not singing 'Land Of Hope And Glory' as much anticipated,
Herded into their British Rail carriages, to sit in silent ponder;
Emptiness carried up to Goole, Hull, Halfwhistle and yonder.

Or to East or West,
But, everywhere, depressed,
Even in the Beautiful South-
Deeply down in the mouth.

Later, be it in the Albion, the Crown, Anchor or the Rising Sun,
Fans shared rounds with old mates, gathered in commiseration,
Next morning, wondering upon waking, shaking, with sore head
How much viral disappointment could they possibly have spread? 


‘Want a beer when you’ve got nowt to cheer about- fancy a Corona?’


England, shot in the foot AGAIN- So who in the England set-up ran over a black cat? Or a nun?

RIP 1066-1966.

Shawly, just two minutes in
And there was no doubt-
England, for the win!
Barring a penalty shoot-out.

Would Football be coming home?
Not according to Gods plan-
Thy praises ring all 'round Rome,
They were all a'praying in the Vatican.

(All my commiserations to all in England. It ain't right, it ain't fair, but that's how the Rosaries roll. Looks like we all know who is Italy's Number One fan.)


Donald Trump runs his mouth off on being denied his free speech. Yet on and on and QAnon he talks.

Won't Go Quietly.

Don's taking his well-worn case to court again-
He simply wants to give his grievances full rein,
He's gonna sue Google, Twitter and Facebook,
A Great voice rendered mute we can't overlook.

He wants his rights to his free speech protected,
He wants his lines of communication reconnected,
For 'them' to hush his mouth sounds grossly unfair,
The fact his every word's a lie is neither here nor there.

It deeply pains him that he is so conspired against,
For his hurt feelings he must be heavily recompensed,
To be cut off from his huge audience leaves him cut up,
And the last Great President can't bear to be shut up. 

Donald loudly champions his idea of hate free speech,
But others he know might also feel free to over-reach,
As far as loose talk from ex-lawyers and business friends?
Right there's where Don's talk on free speech promptly ends.

                                                 ‘speak of the devil.’


The picture of Dorian Gray. Now, more than ever, not a pretty sight.

Yesterday's Man.

When folk reacquaint themselves with Mr. Gray
They look, stunned to see he ain't aged a day,
They ask if Dorian has found the elixir of youth?
But behind Gray's merry eyes lies an ugly truth.

Back in the old days when he was young, in fact
Dorian drew up quite the Mephistophelian pact,
He could live a libertine life where age took no toll
And all it would take was a worthless eternal soul!

This Faustian deal only a short-sighted fool would sign,
For a moment Gray's hand hovered on the bottom line,
It looked quite the bargain- to a damn fool lad of his age-
So he struck the devil's bargain, signed on the last page.

In exchange for his signature Dorian gets the picture,
Faust gets a hell of a deal, ironclad as Holy Scripture,
Faust lingering over every letter should've been a hint
That Dorian should've better reviewed the small print.

Then Dorian lived the high life, and life rolled along,
All wine, women and song, doing everything wrong,
Years passed, as in the looking glass he aged not at all,
But before too long he turned his portrait to face the wall.

A picture is worth a thousand words, so it's said,
Now Dorian looks at his rendering with daily dread,
A portrait ageing in Dorian's place sounds far fetched
But it troubles him to see a fine face so deeply etched.

At days end, when Dorian looks back on his debauchery
Then what ghastly mistakes will the old roué and rake see?
A savagely ravaged face, facing an eternity of damnation;
And who signed off on fucking himself? self-fornication?

‘The devil with all that old technology. I’ve updated!’