It’s time to kick one of the Classics; Poe’s heavy-on-the-dread ‘The Raven’ is overdue a take-off. Or a piss-take.

(Written for Chel Owen's Terrible poetry contest- easy rules; basically use the first line of a well known poem and then put your twisted spin on it.)

The Rottenest Ever Hangover. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
After many a gin sunken I'm found slumpen 'pon the floor,
Dryly heaving, stomach clenching, regretting my night out wenching,
'Twas all quite gut-wrenching but I've known of its ilk before,
Muttered I, 'I'll go out and get pissed- pie-eyed no more,'
Murmuringly, for my skull be ever sore.

Ah, painfully in a head most tender I remember 'twas quite the bender;
E'en as each clang of pain in my brain rings down to its sodden core,
Uneasily recalling that I and that barfly signora put away a plethora
Of gin, oodles of Boodles* resulted in a night of sin worthy of Gomorrah,
Now that fair maid lies sleepily sated, a beauty without flaw,
Yet I shudder at her ev'ry snore.

Oh, the pain, teeth gritting, hard hitting, never quitting, head splitting,
In the mirror, pale and pallid I see the sorriest wretch you ever saw,
Aye, red rimmed eyes a' gleaming, the mind silently screaming-
I, a drunk with liver past redeeming, 'twill take a miracle to restore,
Oooh, but I'll drag myself to that familiar door-
One I've slammed behind me a time or two afore-
And retake the AA pledge once more.

*Boodles, a fine old English gin, one I'm still quick to recommend - but best take it slooowly, in moderation.  


Is it already time to switch off from work and think about your holidays? For half our team, yes.

Misery Bus Tour.      
(Brighton And Hove Albion 4, Manchester Benighted 0.)

Let us follow Manchester United down the road
On this fun-filled chartered bus to the jolly seaside:
'Tis seasons end and all aboard are in holiday mode,
What long lasting memories will this road trip provide?

After losing 4 frikkin' nil to pitiful Brighton and Hove
Suddenly the whole lazy gang can't wait to get going,
As back up North the dark charabanc funereally drove
A sad loss (to Brighton!) leaves Ralf* with tears a'flowing. 

* Ralf Rangnick, Manchester United latest all-lost-at sea Manager.

(Seriously, 4-0? To Brighton? To that fu flock of Seagulls?) To BRIGHTON!!! I'd want the money wasted on my bus ticket and my season ticket back.)

‘This bunch of losers are a bloody joke.’


‘Hi, Neil Parish? Boris here; please hand your resignation and phone in. Now.’ Another stupid Tory MP brazenly seen to be doing the wrong thing.

Screen All Calls, Neil.

The fine folk of Teviton and Hoviton, down in Devon
Thought they lived in a slice of pure Southern heaven,
A quiet place where the salt of the earth simply dwell-
Now Neil Parish has blown the sweet illusion all to Hell.

For twelve years he'd toiled in the House to little regard,
A hack back bencher doing House work but doin' it hard,
Few call on him, rare are the times Neil's moved to stand,
He's usually left to ruminate on his phone, rapt in his hand.

He was found out in the House of Commons, watching porn,
Not alone, in the Roxy, in the dark with a box of hot popcorn?
Why, once again we see another Tory sat sad and contrite,
Offering up the best rushed apology he had time to write,
He knows he must live with this act for the rest of his life...
Which mightn't be long, once he's in the grip of his wife.

Once hubby is resigned and restrained within her four walls
Wifey might whip him a flip-top so he can answer his calls,
For hubby now a no-frills no-thrills Nokia surely suffices;
Not-so-smart Neil cannot be left to his phone (de)vices.

Come the Election, if Boris's Party Time culminates in a rout
Will House breeches help to get Blue members tossed out?

‘I seem to have an unhealthy attraction towards tractors. And I hope my trembling hand ain’t shaking too much.’
‘Now this, Sir, is a proper Pleasure Palace. Sit down, and PLEASE turn your phone OFF.’


Boris Johnson is resigned to have to apologise. A simple resignation would be… just better.

Party Time.

Boris knows he has to admit to his mistake,
Never been a thing he felt obligated  to make,
But given there's principles a PM's future at stake
He'll make his sad and sorry apology, for pity's sake.

Though well practiced,  Bo knows sincerity's hard to fake.

Oh, Boris Johnson, why don't you just resign?
Your blithe denials about 'a quick birthday wine'
Have resulted in the cops slapping you with a fine-
For you breaking your own rules, you pompous swine.

Your gullible public can't swallow that fatuous lie line.

See Boris front up and 'fess up to a minor mistake,
(Though Bo believes rules are made for him to break)
As a clear and transparent apology his is muddily opaque,
A strained 'sorry' comes as hard for him to say as us to take.

This steamin' hot mess Bo aims to pile on us is no birthday cake. 

Oh, Bonehead Johnson, you know it is just to resign,
Surely, even you must see your star has lost its shine?
Boris, dare you consider- God forbid- you are not divine?
There's talk of you and coups coming down the grapevine.

So go Bo- your Party contains more pricks than a porcupine.

‘Oi, polloi!- Boris Johnson, at your bumbling humble service.’


Just a frustrated note on- or to- the empty-headed asshats who fill whatever park they feel ably fits their needs.

(Free verse- not my fave- required for Chel Owens Terrible Poetry Contest: 'Bad Driving.')

Poor Parking Parable.

What a dazzlingly bright sizzler of a triple digit day
It was down at the Crucible Mall
What a joy it was to be beneath 
Cloudless azure skies
In a Midnight Blue Horizon with no
Fu...nctioning air-conditioning
And nary a park to be found within spitting
Distance of the Malls shady welcoming walls
Not one
Thanks to one selfish bast- parker
Who had left two half spaces on either side
Of the fat-wheeled Ford F150 parked athwart the middle line
Of the only two miserably designated 
Disabled car parks
Lolling in his idling 150 sat
A fat-as slack-faced cowboy
Hairy mitt draped on the wheel
Arctic cold cab wreathed in vape smoke
He paused but for a second
To chug down his sixth Bud
Before leaping agilely and
Lightly for such a heavy gutted hombre-
Onto the asphalt
Belched heavily
And strode back into the Booze Barn
For 'nother nourishing six-pack
No Disabled card on view
Not hardly right
Or fu-
Fair but

Never mind.

After parking way out back in the back of beyond
Out in the furthest and farthest
Rarely traversed outer reaches of the
Chokka packed Car park
Far from the Mall and the madding crowd
I gamely
Sweated my way across
The shimmering tacky tarmac
Trekking towards the far off
Sliding-doored cold comfort of 
My journey through Hades proved to be well worth it though!
So gratifying it was to see our invalid invalid
Looking fair fit to be tied
Getting roughly cuffed and arrested by someone
Healthily buffed in a well-stuffed XL black uniform
As a bonus
Our cow-pokes big-as truck getting all set
To get towed
I joined in the surrounding crowd
Watching the one-sided spectacle
Easing in beside
A finely groomed and elegantly attired
Elderly gent
'Another ass who believes it's his right to
Use up not just one
but two Disabled parks' he offered
Eyes hard as tempered steel
'Tis rare to see such justice playing out before our eyes'
I croaked agreeably in my parched cracked voice
Seems all about us most folks agreed
And as the baddest example
Of good driving I'd seen in quite a while
Had his ass hauled 
Into the back seat
Of his personally designated Cruiser
Hands behind his back
Everyone enthusiastically yet oddly waved him ta-ta's
All with both hands
But sans fingers
'Cept for middle digits
I bade the elderly gent a hearty good day
And walked 
He went gladly off on his merry way
His wheelchairs wheel
Making one hell of a deep impression 
Along the highly polished long long
Fords flanks
Which made for quite the racket too
But everyone in the vicinity
Who should have heard this
Had to have been deaf-finately Disabled

If not deaf
Smilingly unaware.

‘But Ocifer, I’m gonna light out soon as I’d loaded up more suds.’



Early this autumnal morning I was privileged to see Manchester United’s ‘diss-play’ against Leicester City- a hard watch. (Man U 1, Leicester 1.)

Effortless At Old Trafford.

Well, I just quietly put down the Sky remote,
Choked back the primeval cry from my throat,
I didn't curse at God or kick the dog, nor the cat-
Whenever I watch Man U on TV at night they all scat.

Oh, believe me, I feel like wildly ranting and raving,
But I consider the kids, and a marriage worth saving,
I don't wish to raucously rouse my sleeping household,
And why get Noise Control or divorce lawyers involved?

So rather than screaming, I decided to silently vent,
Now over my keyboard I'm pounding, displeasure bent,
Spewing, spouting out all my frustrations over the season-
The way soddin' United have failed to play I've many a reason.

Man U have so easily blown away two recent bosses,
(Less two sharing the glory, more halving their losses,)
But I watched as our torpid crew drew to Leicester today
And most couldn't muster the energy to even fester away.

I saw our wonky backline, Mag, Luke Unsure, Dalot,*
Outside of Varane- as defenders they don't offer a lot,
Did Cap'n Maguire bellow out his directions from the deep?
Barely a peep, seeing his fellow defenders keep falling asleep.

Given our toothless attack, Rangnick gave Rashford a run,
After a jog or two, he parked up out wide, enjoying the sun,
McTominay kept manfully back-tackling, not easily shaken off
Till a bad tackle meant someones kneecap or he'd be next taken off.

'Tis a sad day indeed when Man U only score via Fred,
Hearing that would've had Cristiano giggling in his sick bed,
Sad to know Bruno hadn't turned up with his shooting boots on;
Signing a juicy new three-year deal means that's one target down?

We're grateful we can rely on Pogba long as he's here,
Happy are we he's not focusing on his future till next year,
Sancho failed but kept trying; (at least my patience was tried.)
Such an asset, consistently smashing every ball high and wide.

Getting stuck with this second-best team,
Table top remains an unattainable dream,
DisUnited display a lot of huff, a lot of puff,
But blood red passion? Not nearly enough.

*Harry Maguire, Luke Shaw, Diogo Dalot.



Having a baby in the USA don’t come cheap. High Health Insurance costs ensure you’ll have a fit when handed the bill; That should leave you spewing and sobbing like your baby.

Overdue Thanks.

We cain't leave without thanking the Maternity Team-
To those oh so many who helped deliver us our dream
Understand, this poor mother was full of Nitrous Oxide
And an eight-pound boy who wasn't ready to be outside.

Salutations to all in the endlessly rotating parade of staff
Who worked with us as she laboured for a day and a half,
We're sorry, to all those many nurses who came and went,
Believe me, those flippin' curses weren't personally meant.

Untold thanks to the NHS* for giving so freely of their time,
We're blessed to know we can go not owing one thin dime,
Happily we three can leave- scot free- the Royal Infirmary-
If he'd been born in the USA we'd be paying for all eternity.

*The National Health Service, free to all residents in Scotland and the UK.

‘All part of the Service’


First Putin sets foot into Ukraine- so then the big Western boys take out their business from the Russian market.

Appetite For Destruction.

President Vlad Putin went off on a Righteous war
Like many a mad Right dictator has done before,
And though 44 million Ukrainians maligned him
Millions more Russians rallied right behind him.

Most know Vlad's always had a long-term agenda;
If he had a heart, 'twas stone, not warm and tender,
When the Iron Curtain fell, up sprung a warmonger,
In Vlad's eye-spy eyes still burns a powerful hunger.

But for sad Vlad his war games gone wrong, not right,
In Old Petrograd Western sanctions have begun to bite,
If the proletariat can't fill up on Pepsi, Coke 'n' Big Macs
Someone might be tempted to take out the old battle axe.

                                     'See ya later, dictator.'

(Starbucks are bailing out of Russia too, but they can have ’em; who needs the dregs?)



The Palace let their guard down again. (Crystal Palace 1, Burnley 1.)

Home Truths, Selhurst Style.

Back home happily to Burnley the Clarets* run-
Came up to Selhurst Park** pointless, leaving with one,
For this Palace fan another frustrating Saturday
Watching another two f- flipping points slipping away.

*Nickname for Burnley Hoof-ball Club.
**Selhurst Park- Home ground of Crystal Palace Charitable Football Club. (Own goals given freely away almost every Saturday.)

'If Burnley can't stuff the ball in the net, trust the home team to stuff it up and in.'


Another sad tale from a long-faced long time Crystal Palace follower.

Time Bomb. 
(Chelsea steal the win, last minute, 19/2/22.)

Once again this long-suffering Crystal Palace fan
Marvels at how well his players play to Pat's* plan,
Fully focused on keeping the opposition scoreless,
So many times Palace's defence is so close to flawless.

The times I've watched as injury time runs deep-
Then's when our blinking back line goes to sleep,
And in one single moment of slack-jawed yawning
We're back rueing their mistake on Sunday morning.

The way Palace let themselves get robbed is a crime!
Must we relearn our lesson, time after time after time?
Wouldn't it be wonderful, just once, for us to scare late?
Wouldn't it be great to see Patrick Vieira finally celebrate?

Wouldn't it be some turn up if Palace scored last at last?
Wouldn't it be terrific to not leave Selhurst** downcast?
One day the scoreboard will say (I pray with heart and soul)
A Palace player scored the late winner- and not an own goal.

*Patrick Vieira- Managing brilliantly for eighty-nine minutes every game.
**Selhurst Park- Palace's home ground and field of broken last minute dreams.

‘Last minute panic at the dismal Palace again!’