And… another Dead Eye Dick accidentally bites the dust.

Gun Lore 101.

Again, it's that time of the silly season
When some simply can't think with reason.

On the noonday news I heard that same sad report,
Some dumbass hunter's sacrificed hisself to his sport,
Another big shot who hasn't lived to tell his tragic tale,
Went out to bag a stag, wound up deader than a doornail.

Another keen-eyed sportsman's up and gone,
Should have seen he hadn't put the safety on.

Another Average Joe who did as he'd always done,
Into the backseat so casually chucked his loaded gun
Whereupon his Labrador snagged the trigger with her claw,
Aw shoot, Damn and blast, Joe won't go out a' huntin' no more.

(Yep, another sad but true story, believe it or not. But if you don't treat guns with due respect, people are gonna come pay their respects.)

‘Shoulda thought safety first, not last.’

The song to accompany this completely senseless yet increasingly common kind of 'accident' is 'Cold Shot,' Stevie Ray Vaughn. It kind of picked itself.


Every aspect of the month long vacay had been going perfectly- till the last Titanically bad day.

(Part Six of the 'Tripping Up In Scotland Tales.')

Fouling The Nest.

It was the last day of a lengthy holiday and we were itching to fly,
But when sat, stuck in a hotel room, time drags tediously slow,
My wife and Sis said 'lets go for a long walk,' so I rose with a sigh,
When those two siblings 'suggest' something, best go with the flow.

     Many wonderers have roamed 'round this ol' world of ours
     Hoping to find the true reason of why we're all here today,
     Who truly knows if 'twas a Big Bang or Creative Powers?
     I know little, but since my recent baptism, I'll dive in anyway.

Beside Kensington Gardens cool calm Serpentine we gambolled,
Along the sun dappled autumnal cobblestones I gladly swanned,
Amused, watched as up the greasy mossy bank a fat duck scrambled
While his cold-eyed feathered friends paddled and piddled in yon pond.

     There are those who wish to believe in the Divine,
     Nature's infinite wonders to be a reflection of Gods glory,
     Others tend to wend more along the Darwinian line,
     That Man's kinda part of an ancient ever-evolving story.

Besotted by Natures spell I meandered by the green bosky bank,
A soft border bespotted with accumulated birdshit and river slime,
With one slip of my Saucony's my light sunny mood suddenly sank,
Believe me, I won't set foot near the Serpentine next ducking time.

     Now, my dunking hasn't dampened my evolutionary views
     But there's one truth in the load of hogwash the Nuns taught us,
     I emerged, positively enlightened, from the dark primordial ooze,
     Jesus in Jandals is the sole man who can walk upon these waters.*

* In the US and the UK, flip flops. Plakkies in South Africa, in New Zealand, Jandals. In Australia, thongs! Yep, that leads to a lot of strange, if not perverse looks from overseas tourists when an Australian host kindly says 'hey, ya don't wanna go out on the beach hot-foot, why don't ya slip on some of my old thongs?' 

'I've never wanted to join the Navy, but now I can swear as well as a well-seasoned sailor.'

Song to accompany this sad stupid soppy sob story is Linda Ronstadt and the Stone Poneys,  '(Up To My Neck In) High Muddy Water.'


Do not fly if you have your head up- your head is in the clouds.

Flight Risk. 

(Based on recent scary events.)

She turned up early at Houston Airport,
Not close to late, yet looking overwrought,
However, the casual check-in staff at Southwest
Did not believe she to be a woman possessed.

With ticket to Columbus held in sweaty hand
She looked to the Heavens for her 737 to land,
She held no bags to check in, no carry-on of any kind,
Yet some baggage was weighing heavy on her mind.

She trepidatiously sat upon her seat in the plane,
Another twitchy troubled passenger, this all too plain,
One or two closely confined fellow travellers drew away
When she began to pray as they sped down the runway.

For all on board it was a most distressing time,
Her high-pitched whine accompanying the climb,
After an eternity the creaking Boeing reached cruising altitude-
Now we all had quite enough of her 'Saved by Jesus' gratitude.

But now- good Heavens- He's telling her what to do!
She'd abide by good God's word but not heed the crew! 
She tried opening the exit door, at nigh on 37,000 feet! 
At which point I felt compelled to evacuate my seat.

The flight crew soon had the situation contained,
God knows she was bound to be tightly restrained,
But I'd still spend the rest of my flight sat white-knuckled
In the sole seat on the plane one can sit upon unbuckled.

'But Jesus told me to do it,' she declared on her arrest,
Now she's banned, in perpetuity, from flying Southwest,
Still, next time I'm liable to fly the Houston/Columbus route
I'm packing me a bible, clean underwear and a parachute.

                    'Southwest Airlines will get you there on a wing and a prayer.'

(Song for this one was always destined to be 'Airline To Heaven' by Billy Bragg and Wilco.) 


Can’t- cannot- forget Remembrance Day.

Old Wounds.

Canny Generals and clever Chiefs Of Staff
Set out their boy soldiers on their bloody stage,
So sure of victory, with Right and God on their side,
All to please some President, Princeling, King or Kaiser.

Then the winds of war blow away the chaff;
Them old Field Marshalls live to a grand old age,
To think back on service and sacrifice with due pride,
Mind full of their many medals, yet still none the wiser.

                  'Life is an all-too fragile thing'

Song for this post is 'Mama Bake A Pie (Daddy Kill A Chicken') by the Drive-By Truckers.


Presenting Scott Morrison, previous Aussie Prime Minister; Talk about a job of work.

(ScoMo explains why he secretly made himself the Minister of Everything.)

Only One Of The Team.

Let's stand and applaud stout Scott Morrison
For the power of work he has so selflessly done,
Overseeing not only his Prime duties, but everyone's,
The unheralded effort he's put in both shocks and stuns.

ScoMo believes he is God's gift, precious and rare,
Willingly able to shoulder more than his fair share
While leaving his five trusting Ministers cluelessly unawares-
Aw, poor Health, Finance, Treasury, Industry and Home Affairs.

Some say 'twas a power grab, carefully planned,
But what those of little mind failed to understand
There's a few too many Ministers who mightn't do as I demanded,
And I take pleasure in my solitary secret vice; being underhanded.

In times of Covid there's no time for Democracy!
ScoMo can't wait for his Cabinet to sit and agree!
He must take drastic action to arrest this dread disease!
As your duly elected Leader he felt he had to take liberties.

Now the sitting cocksure member for Cook*
Is getting a worse grilling than a rotisserie chook,
His old Cabinet stand, simmering, casting him incendiary looks,
Looks held for ill-bred sheep rustlers, thieves and common crooks.

Seems the one-man band's played his last gig,
His lies are less likely to fly than a bewinged pig,
He proves there is a real Right-wing shadowy Government figure,
Want a dumb Big Brother? Great Scott, they don't come much bigger.
*The Division Of Cook, ScoMo being its sitting MP for years. His seat is hotting up now!

'It disgusts me my people don't trust me to do the right thing. They should be more like me.' 


I’ve been recalling family tales lately ; misty maudlin mushy memories of the way we wuz.

Through The Glass Darkly.
Chet had a big-ass Ford Explorer, black as midnight,
His wheels afforded him freedom, were his dark delight,
So, when on a hot Phoenix afternoon, the sun at its height
To see he had locked his keys inside was a chilling sight.

Chet yanked at all four doors, heaved at the hatchback,
All windows wound up tight, 'nary the sliver of a crack,
Above, clear blue sky, below Chet's mood pitchest black,
Bro, time to step back, take a deep breath and a Prozac.

Now is the time to retain that cool detached air
Though its already a hundred and rising out there,
Just the knowledge that ignition key's one of a pair
And the other's at home started driving him spare.

Thank God, one heartfelt call to the AA shall provide
A key man to get you back into your pride and joyride,
Providing you've not let your AA membership slide?
Or your billfold and phone ain't locked safely inside?

His dark outlook zoomed past gloomy to black as jet,
Beyond onyx, ebony, obsidian- and then darker yet,
Don't cheerily say 'tomorrow's a bright new day!' to Chet
My bro wouldn't stop to think if he wound up upset.

Chet was left with no wallet, no funds, no phone,
Sweating on a Ford sitting in a 'No Parking' zone,
Up till now what remarkable restraint he had shown,
But that passing cop in his Cruiser had eyes of stone.

Getting yet another citation Chet could ill afford,
Especially since that last violation had been ignored;
Why lead a cop's eye to a smoky windowed black Ford,
To that indiscreet decal announcing 'Dooby on board?'

Chet had never been the most patient of men
So even after slow counting to a thousand and ten,
Trying to find calmness, channel long forgotten Zen
Breaking point was bound to be not 'if' but 'when.' 

He was not the kind of guy to be forestalled by locks,
Neither the time nor patience to think outside the box,
So I pity the Ford that unmovingly sits, smugly mocks;
Give Chet a handy loose rock and- opportunity knocks.

By the by, did I say Chet was an impulsive guy?
He roughly took aim, rocked back and let fly-
The rebound could've given him a glass eye- 
But his second speed ball was a cracking try.

In crashed the dark glass, out rushed that pent-up heat,
But his rash smashing of tempered glass he'll never repeat,
Daren't risk driving in the discomfort of shorts and bare feet
Now he feels such a pain in the ass sitting in the drivers seat.
‘Not the most logical nor rock solid thinking, Captain Chet.’

Boris Johnson’s walked away, but if you’re behind him, watch how you step.

Sick Bastard Puppy.

Boris once was top dog, but now he has had his day,
His old House has kicked him out, sent him on his way,
Bo has been relieved of his big dog role, his run is done,
This mad dog of an Englishman's had his day in the sun.

Boris has long felt, for him, your normal rules don't apply,
Up till now if Boris says the word- why, it cannot be a lie!
Now, like a whipped dog draggin' his ass, he'll go to ground
To lie, lick his balls wounds, but this sick pubby will rebound.

Boris bowed out of office with a jaunty 'Hasta la vista, baby,'*
Yet the fantasist in him still believes that maybe, just maybe
The Johnson has not been terminated, has not got the sack,
And just like 'The Terminator,' welcome or not, he'll be baack.

It's of no matter to him he's not invited to hold a party any more,
That most shun him as a pariah, like a leper with a running sore,
For Bo's simple appeal to loyal supporters has never been a handicap-
Makes a case he could come back- like Herpes, Chlamydia, the Clap?

*What else would the comical Boy Marvel say? something wise, statesman like?
Nah, not this befouler of the footpath that leads to Number 10.


Boris holds back on his retirement party. C’mon Boris, there’s no better time than the present.

Can't Take A Hint.

Boris Johnson may be much maligned
But he has confirmed he's all set to go,
But whoa, hey, hold fire- not yet though;
Boris did stand up and say he is resigned
To go, but one thing we've come to know
Is this ditzy blonde can act a little... slow.

So, now he's not going till early September!?!? 
Yep, he's holding on, Boris is hanging tough,
Standing firm by sitting on his ample chuff;*
We're stuck with you, you (dis)honourable Member?
Be like May, walk away, you dishevelled scruff-
Yesterday could not be soon enough.

Oh no, so we're lumbered with Bo all Summer long?
Given time, might even his conscience be stirred?
Perhaps admit, with shame, it is he who's erred?
Or... Trump-like, think 'I am right, so can do no wrong?'
For the oh-so special ones, 'sorry' is the hardest word-
Our boy's sad apology is there to be seen, not heard.

Two more long months his lies have bought him;
Why flush rush off when you can sit and stall?
September is going to be a long hard haul.
We're lumbered with bloody Boris until Autumn?
That prick procrastinator won't leave till fall?
His sheepish mob and he have learnt f^(k all.

*Old British slang for bottom. Or in Bo's case, arse.

              'The Boris Johnson Time Management Method.'


Boris Johnson- still telling it like it isn’t.

Trotting Out The Twisted Pig Tales.

Still Boris Johnson keeps on clinging on,
It's a high wire he's sweatily swinging on,
It's quite the parlous position he is in;
Why or whoever could be the reason?

He has apologised for the crass behaviour,
He's cravenly asked Sue to do him a favour,
Even gone where a Johnson rarely ventures-
He's had to front up to his lowly back benchers.

This time, he swears, the lesson has truly stuck,
This time, he hopes, with an ounce of dumb luck
Just enough fools will believe he is rightly contrite-
And that's worth celebrating come Friday night.

For apologies from Number 10 are ten a penny-
So what's another broken promise, after so many?
Lessons learned from Public School still ring true,
'If you believe a word Boris says- more fool you.'

It's not as if Boris has seen a sign from on High,
That there are consequences for retelling a lie,
And people may well call Bo the consummate liar
But it matters not a jot till his pantaloons catch fire.

The Left wing's working to toss him out of the joint-
No need for mutineers to Rightly belabour the point.
Boris does not appreciate criticism from his betters,
He needs to survive all those no-confidence letters.

So Bo hopes to navigate his way past Partygate,
To again scoff caviar canapés off of a silver plate,
A carafe of Cabernet slugged back from a pint glass;
Don't believe anything emitted by that windbag ass.


Somehow slick-as-a-greased-pig Bo has survived the cut,
His thick-as pigshi pals all mucked in to save his sorry butt,
So he's putting on a Party for the loyal swine who saved his bacon,
They can stomach his pisswater and pork pies? I'd put the stake in. 

'The Boris Johnson patented and well-practiced thumbs-up .'


‘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.’