True old school romance? That Thomas Hardy sure gave Tess d’Urbaville a hard life.

Ruminations 'Pon Watching Monsieur R. Polanski's Moving Picture Based Upon Thomas Hardy's Heartbreaking Rendering Of The Lamentable Treatment Of The Much Put Upon 'Tess Of The d'Urbavilles.' 

Caution Miss, if the rich young Master approaches
Offering up gilt plated hairpins or silv'ry broaches,
Don't shake his hand, shake firm your pretty head-
'Oh no sir, no engagement 'til our banns are read.'
Yon Master is a man who'd rather do wrong than right,
You want your wedding day, he wants his wedding night, 
Pearl earrings, gold necklaces, baubles of every kind,
But handing a wedding band... somehow slips his mind.

Master may well say he will give you everything-
Give him not a thing till he promises a gold ring,
Tess, 'tis not for your sweet heart his hand reaches,
Push his hot hand away and hold on to your breeches.

(Yes, it's a light-hearted take on a grossly tragic tale. But tragedy, humour, two sides of the same face?) 
'Tess, it's gonna end in tears.'


Things in the Northern hemisphere might not be so hot, but here Down Under its beyond balmy.

Clear As Mud.

We've had it, blue Summery skies a'plenty,
We're looking up at bone-dry Day Twenty,
No cool palm oases, none for miles around,
No shelter for sweaty man or panting hound.

Our once lush Spring verges, greenly grassed?
A ground down sepia brown, fading into the past,
Daily the Weather Guy repeats himself once more,
Hoary dry old promises, we've heard 'em all before.

So, it is no wonder noonday darkness startles us,
Our empty sky is deeply banked in Cumulonimbus,
Ain't no empty promise in this passing thunderstorm,
A rumble, then down she tumbles, wet, welcome, warm.

(In these highly charged tempestuous times about all we can safely talk about is the weather. So...)

”No, you misheard me, what I said was ‘Look, Sky Water’.”


The United States Space Force is all set and ready for launch and take off. It’s the latest fantastical episode of the Donald Trump Show. Warped Reality or a re-run?

Set Phasers To Stun!

As he watches his United States Space Force flag unfurl
The High Commander pats in place a stray blonde spit curl,
A proud Donald John Trump sits imperiously at his desk
Trying so vainly to appear James Tiberius Kirkesque.

Hmmm, there’s one troubling thing about Don’s ensign,
Say, a certain something all too familiar in its design?
Hey, looky-see, it’s the old Star Trek logo, in all its glory!
Don’s set his standard on the retelling of a faded old story.

Cap’n Don wasn’t satisfied with what Ron Reagan began,
To be masters of one little world was only part of the plan,
Sure, Guardians of the Galaxy sounds grand Don will admit
But does not ‘To infinity and Beyond’ have a GreaT ring to it?

Donald is here to inform us all about his ‘super duper’ missiles-
That comedic line in ‘Galaxy Quest’ had ’em rolling in the aisles,
But one dreck of a President wanting to reboot ‘Star Wars’
Is causing millions of us muggles to cling on to our drawers.



Seeing too many old movies means it’s time to have a stab at a gripping old ripping yarn.

Low Ebb.

Back in the bad old days, in Old London Town
A mist sprung up, a heavy fog rolled down,
As the good God-fearing Victorian folk slept
Into seedy Whitechapel that damned fog crept.

At the end of a dark dank Dockside alleyway
A lady of the night decided she’d call it a day,
It had been a profitable night for an enterprising maid;
But there’s no profit being alone in the dark, in her trade.

She headed for home with bone weary tread,
After a night on her back she longed for her bed,
But she was mistaken to think she was all alone,
In the fog muffled footsteps echoed her own.

In the confines of Bucks Close the fog thickened,
As those steps sped up her heart-beat quickened,
From her trembling lips her breath came wreathing,
Then, on her neck she felt a hot and heavy breathing.

For a girl who regularly walked the street
This was no man she had wished to meet,
He seized his lapels, opened his greatcoat wide
And the size of his weapon left her terrified…

No, this was no ordinary flasher,
Yes, this was the Docklands slasher!
In a flash her days (and nights) were done,
Then ’twas the Rippers time to cut and run.

Down towards the Thames he blindly ran,
Washing his hands of the crime being the plan,
But the infernal fog hid the embankment railing
And into the dirty old river the Ripper went sailing.

Weighed down by a voluminous greatcoat
Jack the Dipper struggled vainly to stay afloat,
He and his cries for assistance were lost in the mist,
And so the Ripper himself wound up last on his list.

Though the man(iac) in question has long gone
The myth and mystery of his identity lingers on,
The name of the Ripper no-one can provide
All known remains, lost to time, and to tide.



The final curtain call for Doris Day. A lovely person, apparently, but her screen persona was quite, shall we say, twee?


We say goodnight to Doris today,
At ninety-seven she’s faded away,
No more virtuous parts will Doris play,
Bye, Americas eternally virginal sweetheart.

Perpetually preppy peppy Doris Day,
No movie dared show her going astray,
Not the kind of girl to take a roll in the hay,
Always the sweet girl-next-door, never the tart.

‘No no no’ our Doris must always say,
No petting, no rucking up of the duvet,
No deflowering of Doris, no hint of foreplay-
Not even with Rock Hudson gayly playing his part.

Doris was forever doomed to portray
The gal who favoured pajamas over negligee,
The blonde who’d kneel before bed- and pray!
No impassioned puckering could prise her lips apart.



Another morning of waking up with that dawning feeling you did something last night you now regret. (Thanks for the invite, Mike.)

No Body Likes A Lycanthrope.

What’s a poor werewolf to do
When his world and the moon turns blue?
As in this mind the lunacy surges
And the brain is beset by unsavoury urges?

I can’t help but prowl the night
And hope my bark’s worse than my bite,
But to my nature I’ve been true
And clearly bitten off more than I can chew.

This rare blood moon has ramped up my compulsion
And ‘neath its light I’m filled with revulsion,
When it comes to regrets, as Sinatra said, I have a few,
Its an issue, like this leg tissue, I’m working through

If I’m ever caught I’ll be Wormwoods bound
Or perhaps, more humanly, the Battersea pound?
My beastly hair-raising episodes I do deeply rue
So I’m keep ’em tightly leashed for a week -or two.


Spoiler alert not needed! I have a soft spot for old horror movies, but sometimes they do drag on. So, a few six word plot summaries.

Kissy face huggers become bloodthirsty buggers.

Heroine arrives, burns aliens hives. Survives.

The Fly.
Taut time travel tale. Time flies?

Norman loves being a mummys boy.

Doctor at dead end. Shock horror!