When you travel around this big wide world you find it’s the little things that really matter.

Warm Fuzzy Feeling.

We took off on a big aluminium tube with silvery wing-
(Far away from the Wright Bros cloth and string thing,)
Exchanging long summer days for endless Scottish night,
Oh, but to see the grandson would be my hearts delight.

Once there our Christmas Day was not a white one,
A sprinkling of sleet glittered in the hard wintery sun,
The seasonal snow fell nigh on a week later, however...
Well, as they belatedly say, 'better later than never.'

I can't say I'm renowned for warm Christmush sentiment,
But out pushing my grandson in the buggy I dutifully went,
I'm a pragmatist, a realist, I'm not all gooey and mushy,
We had to make tracks before the snow got too slushy.

But then, as the snow fell down and up at me he smiled,
It released in this grizzled grumpy grinch the ol' inner child,
I held his tiny hand in mine, my eyes welling up with wonder,
That look will live with me long after I'm home, Down Under.

 

(Unashamedly soppy and sentimental. Hey, I do have a heart, lurking somewhere deep inside.) 


Song for this one is 'My Darling,' Wilco.
'Grow up now, darling
Please don't grow up too fast,
And be sure, darling,
To make all the good times last.'

©Obbverse.

Please, both kids and parents- be nice and patient to your hardworking In-Store or In-Mall Santa.

Seven Rules For Seeing In-store Santa.

Number Seven.
Little ones, Santa would like to thank
You for not giving Santa's beard a yank,
If some little tugger of a kid does it will reveal
That Mr Claus has cause to swear his beard is real.

Number Six.
Children, restrain yourselves, we know why you're here;
To present your request(s) into Santa's shell-like ear,
Children, quietly tell Santa what you wish to get,
Santa hears you, clear as a bell, he isn't deaf- yet.

Number Five.
Well mannered miniature masters or madams
Are welcome- if weighing under forty kilograms,
A graceless leap in Santa's lap leaves him whey-faced-
Santa gets a bitch grumpy since his hip's been replaced.

Number Four.
Santa Claus does love to sit with your tiny tot
But with tantrum throwing kids he does not,
Santa will give all spoilt brats short shrift,
A kick in the backside is his parting gift.

Number Three.
Moms, he has a few old fashioned quibbles;
First is no cuddle if your wee darling dribbles,
So, good parents, keep hankies and tissues about you,
Surely Santa has no need to explain Numbers One and Two?

'A nasty shock for both the kid and the faux Santa'

One from the very early days of posting, slightly amended. But why not re-give a gift that got no happy returns?

Song for this is 'Must Be Santa,' Bob Dylan. Why not, ol' Bob must have a long white beard by now.

©Obbverse.

Scientists barking madly up the wrong tree again?

 Not So Dumb Animals.

Imagine, if in some remote forest a tree should fall,
Far, away from where human beings should be found,
Some dumb theoretical scientists still have the gall
To propound that this wood have no impactful sound.

Well, tell that to all forest creatures, great and small-
One snap, crack or rap on wood and it's a flee for all.

So c'mon, daft Docs, prove what you loudly assert,
Really reality-check that fatuous theory you expound,
Toss off the lab coat, roll up the sleeves of your shirt,
Get out in the field, stick your ear near to the ground.

Would, could an actual factual walk in the woods hurt?
Duh, no geniuses, don't take a hike during a storm alert!

Hark, eggheads, see the bird-brained skylark turn tail?
Look, brainiacs, the deer herd, they're outward bound,
See, Professor, as that pea-brained bear sh hits the trail,
Piles of evidence that bear hears, clearly scattered around.

So as that big-ass bear, unbound, runs off, let's end this tale;
Should shatter your unsound pet theory, on a massive scale.

(Song for this silly dissinformational post is 'Do Bears,' Rowan Atkinson and Kate Bush.)

©Obbverse.

Crack pot six-year-old Virginia kid shoots his teacher! A bad school day can’t get much worse than that.

School Bulletin.

'We're no different from most standard American Schools,
We ask only that students abide by our few simple rules,
During lessons, no talking, texting or sexting, and-
Please, hold all calls,
Foul language, raised voices and screaming is banned,
Likewise, running crazy in the halls,
No chewing gum inside or smoking outside of on the grass
And definitely NO cases of ammo or guns allowed in class.'

'We want to make our school your home away from home,
A safe place where a child's inquiring mind is free to roam,
A school with stated aims to be balanced and fair-
That resonated well with the School Inspector-
So you may safely place your charge in our protective care-
Uh... once they've passed through our metal detector-
And next year we're looking at putting in bulletproof glass,
Smoke alarms and panic rooms in every First Grade class!' 

When did the thought of attending school first cause concern?
When did we learn any dull school day might take a dark turn?
When did doting Mommy's darling young one
Decide to shoot his future education to Hell?
What possesses a six-year-old to bring a gun
In to school for Show and Tell?
Now that this latest crazy class action day has come to pass
Will we see disturbingly more kids show up in arms in class?

(Another life lesson brought to you direct from Newport News, Richneck, Virginia. Only in America.)

                                        
                                  Cultivating fun gun culture.


Song that came to mind when cobbling this together is Nick Lowe, 'Cracking Up.'

©Obbverse.

Looking back through the past, darkly.

Blue Moon.

I've been thinking of my brother these past few days,
It's sixteen years since our final passing of the ways?
'No good can come from looking back' the shrink says,
And it's true, see what ghosts these sad thoughts raise?

Way back when we were young, he was always there,
Endless days of fun, spend without thought or due care,
Back then, who knew this life might not be long, or fair?
Life was but a dream, I'd yet to wake up to the nightmare.

I lay me down to sleep but know what the moon portends,
Close my eyes, let my mind wander where the Hell it wends,
Drift back to younger days, before lost brothers and friends,
Nights spent in a daze, partaking in the party that never ends.

Growing up we brothers shared a bond of togetherness,
Lived life to the full, drank our fill of the cup, past excess,
When I paused to say 'no' he thought 'why not say 'yes"?
With each passing wasted year he's missed more, not less.

When flying high sound good grounded advice is easily spurned,
Life's highway blurs by, till you wish you'd slowed and turned,
If there is one life lesson I have painfully and slowly learned
It's there is no turning back on the bridges you have burned.     

Then we look in the mirror to see we're travelling on our own,
Friends, good and bad, leave us, head off to places unknown,
Sometimes Father Time rolls up early to reclaim the loan,
And leaves you, brother, stone cold sober, stood all alone.

Now I'm laid, wide awake, watching shadows on the wall,
Recalling nights to forget, full of regret, long past nightfall,
Through the shade my eyes follow that fat moon's slow crawl,
No; no resting easy for the ol' life and soul of the party after all. 

(Image / Benjaman Gudel.) 
 



Song to accompany this cheerless little dirge is the Eels 'On The Ropes.' 

(And this cold grey morn I wake up to the news, and the latest sadly inevitable episode in the endless run of God awful Reality Shows; Another school shooting in Nashville. So, sorry, not in a sunny funny mood today. Smily-face time tomorrow. Perhaps.🙂)

©Obbverse.

Would- should- how could Santa take a charitable view of young Calvin (and Hobbes) come Christmas?

Calvin And Hobbes Mull Over Christmas.

Calvin has sent his long list of wants to Santa Claus,
Hobbes prays his innocent letter is not a lost cause.

As another busy December 25th jolly well approaches
Better hope Santa Claus has no cause for reproaches,
That Santa's helpers haven't spent the time they should
Nit-picking out the nice from the naughty and no good.

Hope your lying letter lies unread by some weary elf,
'Cause Calvin...your bad reputation speaks for itself.

Ever since this January 1st's first broken resolution
Being found 'good' will require rewriting Santa's Constitution,
All year long a rare Calvin good deed's followed by plenty bad,
Calvin's record, not his covering letter reveals the year he's had.

But now time for proof reading and weeding out runs short,
Besides, they must write off all the times Calvin wasn't caught.

Not a day's gone by without you being naughty, not nice-
Truth be told, Santa should turn your demands on to Vice,
So Calvin, count yourself lucky it's a fantasy world you live in,
At Christmas even the rottenest  misbegottenest can be forgiven.

'Father Christmas hasn't crossed Calvin off his list- yet.'


Thanks to Bill Watterson for the image and for 10 years of his humour.

(Song  for this whimsically silly little post is 'Mistaken Identity' by Van Morrison.)

©Obbverse.

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.

©Obbverse.

Our holiday accomodation was largely commodious; pity about the itty-bitsy bathroom.

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

Haunted By Our Uninvited Pest.

Our historic ground floor Edinburgh Airbnb was a joy to behold,
All the modern conveniences of now fused with the charms of the old,
As a guy raised in an archaic house it seemed a second homecoming-
Hardwood heated floors, re-enameled old bath, antiquated plumbing.

As I turned the front door key
I felt with a stone cold certainty
the ghastly pestilential presence an old house oft retains
Lurkin' deep 'neath a twisted maze of dank and clanking drains.

First night there came a scream as Aunt Kath stepped into the bath,
What cellar dweller caused conniptions in Aunt 'Scaredy' Kath?
Out of the plug hole Doris the Spider proceeded to calmly crawl,
Her arrival saw highly strung Aunt Kath climb straight up the wall.

You should have heard her shriek
At that Daddy of an eight legged freak,
Be it rare exotic tarantula or common house spider
Whatever Doris is, our Kath couldn't bear or abide her.

Poor petrified Kath couldn't stand to see a creepy arachnid,
Petting freaky creepy crawlies wasn't something our Katie did,
Two days on, Kath remained skittish 'bout using the bathroom,
Only when Doris is flushed away can normal service resume.

Before stepping into bath, shower or toilet stall
Wary Aunt Kath gives each and all the hairy eyeball,
Don't want an arachnophobe Aunt to totally bug out?
Then don't leave that ol' big-ass bath with the plug out.

                 'Aunt Kath's bath night eight legged freak out.'


(The theme song is, predictably, the Who's 'Boris The Spider.')

©Obbverse.

At Old Trafford the stage is set; the first act is a catastrophe but the poor show must go on. Sadly.

Same Old Trafford Same Old.
(Man U 1, Brighton 2.)

After last years disastrous run at Manchester Disunited
We had every expectation old wrongs would be righted,
Given the change of season, of luck, a change of boss
I had every reason to think we'd not kick off with a loss.

Oh, but NO, this year the boys start much like the year before,
Fu Flubbing two great chances my great gran could score,
But we saw defence, midfield, attack, three working as one-
What a crying shame 'twas Brighton showing us how it's done.

Old Trafford was our Theatre of Dreams just a decade ago,
Slowly it has become a regular Saturday shit Horror show,
Already another tough watch, with the whole season remaining,
Only fans of tragedy or farce will find this shoddy lot entertaining. 

‘Pull the curtain. Please draw the curtain. PLEASE.’

©Obbverse.

The view from the top of the Royal balcony must get dizzying at times. Or so one wonders.

Smiling Through The Jubilee.

Seventy years she's sat on the throne
And still Mizz Liz refuses to stand down,
Poor patient Prince Chuck has always known
Mum won't willingly deign to hand him her crown.

The crusty ol' crown has lost its sheen,
The ol' Royal family has started to unravel,
All this bitching and bickering behind the Queen;
Who told Harry and Meg 'it's time for sex and travel?'*

They're relegated to the second pew,
Tucked away even behind Chuck's consort,
Their poor American Reality Show, in her dim view
Proves class walks out the door when cash runs short.

Things have changed since back in the day-
If a Princess played up the Press weren't alerted,
Skeletons emerging out of the closet- fast locked away,
Allegations about a randy Prince rarely (barely?) asserted.

Supporting her Church for seventy long years
Sure as hell is beginning to grate on Her Majesty,
Upholding the Faith brings forth less joy than tears;
All her genuflecting is causing her Housemaids Knee.

Her seventy year regime won't be ever repeated,
Seventy years she's kept ties on the Windsor knot;
She won't be retiring till her work to rule is completed,
Then Ma'am can look down on her happy family. Or not.

*Or, in the parlance of the common 
people this advice is roughly shortened
to 'f~<k off.'

‘Happy families- they’re all relative.’

©Obbverse.