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.  


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.



I’m being a bit distant socially and media-wise lately. Soreeee.

Focus Issues.

Excuse my poor response to all who've posted,
Don't feel lost, abandoned or- God forbid- ghosted,
These last few days I find all my good humor's gone,
I guess I'm just not happy to be entertaining Omicron.

Between my tiresome bellyaches and pains
Short sharp temperament and long migraines,
Red snotty nose, sore ribs through coughing fits
I'm sick as a kicked dog- ain't that the puppyshits?

How hard we'd tried to keep ours a non-toxic household,
So I'll admit then testing positively made my blood run cold-
Masked up religiously, prayed God keep Covid from our door,
A positive outlook? well, no worries about catching it anymore.

Now I'd (better) thank my sweet spouse- best wife ever!
She soothes my fev'red brow, so I hold no ill will whatsoever-
Tho' viral transmissibility from her Nursing Facility brung it home;
(I'm such a shit patient she sez I'm her 'lil' Irritable Bowel Syndrome.')

She scoffs 'basic man flu,'
So I snap 'Sexist and untrue!'
Does it simply never occur?
Obviously I'm sicker than her!

I wake brimful of mucous, with a fuzzy unfocused brain,
My mind tracks back on the same track again and again,
Foggy thoughts goin' round 'n' round on an endless loop...
I'm of half a mind I'm repeatedly stuck on an endless loop...
Was that just deja vu or did I mention a flippin' endless loop?

Moaning in my sick bed, phone slipping 'twixt slick hands,
Cain't comment on fresh posts like a good host demands,
So 'scuse me while I sourly swab away the night's sweat,
Till I'm upright my tired 'Like' is 'bout the best you'll get.

                                 'There's 'under the weather' and then there's 'pretty snotty''             


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’


Over in jolly old England the fickle summer sun flits fleetingly down upon a pretty pastoral village green scene. In the cricket pavilion anticipation is in the air…

The Ducks Back.

In most every quaint English village on a summers Saturday
Two teams of lads clad in Cricket Whites stoically stand and wait
To see whether today could be the day the sun comes out to play,
Knowing fine talk of a change in the weather forecast is … precipitate.

The older sit back with a cuppa and talk of the old glory days
When Great Britain ruled o’er a vast empire, and the waves,
When pasty white chaps showed in peculiarly English ways
The way the proper Englishman abroad eccentrically behaves.

Wherever an intrepid Englishman landed and stuck his flag,
Into whatever hot dry dusty plain the Captain chose to settle on
Someone would reach into the hold, haul out the wrinkly kit bag,
Someone would mark up a cricket pitch, someone put the kettle on.

In India the wallahs looked up as the sun reached its apex,
Puzzled as twenty-odd Englishmen went out in the noonday sun,
That sun blazed down on those fair tender reddening necks,
Why, one steaming idiot batted the ball- up and down they’d run!?!

Off in the West Indies or in the Land of the Long White Cloud
Limey sailors would soon whip out their trusty balls and bat,
Soon the foibles of this batty game were taken up by the crowd,
The locals saw the Brits at their best and thought ‘we can better that.’

The Poms marked out their pitch on South Africa’s dusty loam
The games began while the colonised looked on, nonplussed,
By the time the Brits picked up their bat and balls and went home
The keen apter pupils had left the old troopers trailing in the dust.

When the Olde English had had their fill of robbers, thieves and cheats
They packed ’em off on prison ships to Aussie penal colonies forthwith,
And even now in the genteel Ashes clashes history sometimes repeats;
See the sleight of hand of *Vice-Cap’n Warner and Skipper ‘Slick’ Smith?

Strange that the English invented the archetypal summer sport,
Odder is the fact this this crazy game is now played by sweaty millions
While back home in Britain where they have summer (of a sodding sort)
The avid fans spend most Summer days packed in fuggy pavilions.

It’s a rare fine Saturday when its not a choice of cancel play or drown;
Everywhere saturated fans look out over some English village green
Looking glumly as the black clouds roll in and the heavens tumble down;
The only way most English fans will see blue skies is on a Sky TV screen.

*For non-cricket following readers- Two poor sport/dirty rotten cheatin’ Aussie bastards of the lowest order, a couple of fair dinkum prize pricks.


‘Oh, top catch, Snodgrass-Wittering! Next at bat for Little Worksop is Heyhoe-Flynt.’


The seasons cool, taking on that autumnal change; Well, I, for one, don’t like it.

Complete 365.

Summer's about done,
Autumn is nearing,
That warm effulgent sun
Fades, leaves disappearing.

Mother Nature turns
Her other cheek,
One swiftly learns
The future is bleak.

Long winter lingers...
Months in store...
Poor snap frozen fingers
Awaiting the thaw.

Winter draws on
And on, bone-chillingly,
When all warmth is gone
I turn, unwillingly...

Hands clasped I pray
'God, Great Pater
Take winter away
Jeez Please, sooner than later.'

'Spring's fine, summer's sublime, autumn blows, but winter- winter sucks big time.'


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.'


Put those everyday workaday cares and woes behind you- it’s Christmas holiday/vacay time.

A Joy Full Christmas.

Hark! Does not the sweet sound of carols remind us
We've put another sad working year happily behind us?
Now 'tis time to stop work, hang up the crusty coffee cup,
To clear out the In tray, dump the files and shut the Mac up.

Now we wait for the Boss to say her interminable piece
Before getting off on two glorious weeks of work release;
So nice to hear we're highly regarded by those who own us,
Such a shame 'tis not reflected in our wee Christmas bonus.

It's finally that jolly fu- festive time of the year-
Two weeks holiday leave lets me get outta here,
So, sadly, friends, I shan't be keeping you posted,
No, Dear loyal WordPress reader, don't feel ghosted.

As another year sputters to its Cov- Christmessy end
My sweetie and I've been invited to come and spend
Our Christmas far away from our normal domicile,
So, folks, you won't hear from me for a wee while. 

It has been an all too easy decision to make,
To take a wee writing break- for Christmas' sake-
So I provide silent nights and your E-mail feed clear
Of further sadly seasoned rhymes till nigh on New Year. 

For the next carefree work free week
Complete indulgent R and R is all I seek,
A chance to spiritually clear my weary head,
Leaving screeds I want to tell the Boss unsaid.

I need a break from overwork and WordPress,
My desire is to indulge myself sinfully, to excess,
So, 'Cheers; here's to goodwill and Peace on Earth,'
Even this heathen will toast to the special kid's birth.

The time is nigh to rest the work worn brain-
Plus, the joy of writing for pleasure's on the wane,
I'm looking forward to lazily watch the sun sinking,
So looking forward to sitting, drinking without thinking.

It's my time to really relax this Christmas time,
To sit back and turn my mind away from rhyme
And enjoy the hospitality of our youngest daughter
Drowning my sonnets in Tanqueray and tonic water.

Indeed 'tis high time I got myself pleasantly pissed,
Not brood over if my sparking verse is being missed,
I'll worry about work and writing after New Years Day,
Time to pick up a gin, lay down the pen and stick it away. 
My kind of Christmas? Christ yes.


Sometimes an unsolicited e-mail that should have been spammed must be seen to be believed.

Hurry! Buy now! Limited offer! A bathroom light that senses the presence of an incoming occupant!
(A product that left me wriggling uncomfortably.)

Embare assing.

When one wakes in the middle of the night
Seeking the privacy of the littlest room
Who needs a blinding beacon of light
To brighten the WCs closeting gloom?

In those wee wee hours when it becomes clear
That the time for holding on has long gone
Perhaps a loo sensor light is a bright idea-
But, please- a light that washes dimly on...

When I'm sat, weary, head downcast
Let the light hold a comforting glow,
Not have the intensity of a nuclear blast,
Or Pink Floyd's incandescent light show.

When cosseted in one's comfort station
Answering Mother Nature's insistent demands
I'm happy to sit in deep dark contemplation
Pondering, as time weighs heavy on my hands...

The tales Gran told of going, back in her day-
Then the outhouse was a dark unwelcoming place,
Only the moon above to guide you on your way-
When striking a match could blow up in your face.

I'm a common man, not blessed or graced
With a cultured eye or artists aesthetic soul
But it's well beyond all bounds of good taste
To see a light shining up from the toilet bowl.

Who needs their nether's bathed in a kaleidoscope
Of colour when sat in one's private repository?
Dignity has headed down a slippery slope
When one is expected to go in a blaze of glory.

Only a Millennial moron would design
An intrusive light show of your very own,
What dumbass thinks a spotlight should shine
On one when readying to assume the throne?

Who was the crack-pot half-ass half wit
Who came up with this senseless notion?
And to what movement does the sensor see fit
To respond to? One's first or second motion?   

'Let us be thankful this isn't a strobing or a probing light.'



How to change a winning prescription.

Not So Hot Shots.

There's many a well remunerated sports star
Who happily pushed their performance too far,
Like the 'likes' of Lance Armstrong and Flo Jo
Who saw nothin' wrong with more get up and go.

Two lab rats, quite happy to cheat be turbo induced,
A shot of dope gave 'em that extra performance boost,
When fame, glory and rich rewards are hard to resist
Why not buy into and prescribe the illegal drugs list?

There's nothin' a decent drug cheat cannot achieve
If you can just make the effort- to roll up your sleeve,
Given a bit of bribery you should escape detection,
Those days few athletes were averse to an injection.

But the times are a'changing, even for bad sports, 
Now elite athletes don't want to drop their shorts,
A few claim it's their Right to run pure and drug free
Yet have bought into the anti-Covid drug conspiracy.

Like the once Cavalier, now Brooklyn Nets Kyrie Irving
And Novak Djokovic who insists 'not what you're serving,'
No FDA vetted jab for these two- not even one simple prick,
Give these jackasses a drug choice- Ivermectin's their pick.

They only ask to freely play before their paying fans
Yet both blindly refuse to entertain vaccination plans,
So please, Novaxx and Kyrie, just take your free shot-
Let's see you on court, not caught up in some dumb plot.