Last weekend of the Fall. Tuck in to that turkey, winter is a’coming.

Takeaways From Thanksgiving.

It's the family tradition, every Thanksgiving Day,
The clan all gathers here come near, come far away,
Holding hands, around the turkey together they pray.

Every year
Our near
And dear.

Meet, greet,
Turkey meat,
Leave, replete.

Well fed,
Heavy head,
Goodwill spread.

Next year there will be less left to give thanks-
The Lord alone knows why He's thinned the ranks;
It's sad and lonely scanning these photos, seeing blanks. 

(Not in the best taste after a hearty Covid Thanksgiving get-together, I know.)

What’s cooking, or brewing here?


The final send-off. Diego Maradona goes on his way; No arm, no foul.

Head In Our Hands.

At sixty years God has substituted Maradona,
No more muddy fields, he's off to a higher honour,
No dribbling then blowing past defenders any more-
He always had a nose for goal- and a damn good score.

For the true unblinkered unbiased football fan
There was no finer player than the wee Argentinian,
It's only the red white and blue 'uns of Old Eng-er-land
Who'll still send you off on your way with a heavy hand.

(one for the football fans. Some still recall the infamous 'Hand of God'. Don't we?)
Speak to the hand…


Christmas is just around the corner folks, it’s time for our end of year round up. We don’t wanna boast but…

(This began as an entry for Chel Owens A Mused poetry comp but snuck off on me. Again.)

Christmas Catch Ya'll Up. / John Deere Letter.

Hi guys, it's time to keep ya'll in the know,
With the festivities near we've horns to blow,
Folks do tell 'times is hard and the 'conomy's shot'
But we're happy as clams, cause we've got the lot.

Hubby Bubba's gone up yet another pay grade,
He must've sold every pickup truck Jeep made,
The twins is gettin' schooled and topping their class,
We're hopin', with luck they'll scrape a C and even pass!

Cody done won the Jumbo stuffed bear at the tri-county fair,
Took down them three ducks with two rounds to spare,
At the bake sale mah apple pie took out first prize as well,
The only Blue Ribbon you'll stick on this Southern belle.

Our Jolene is playing Virgin Mary in the nativity play,
Their damn Rodeo's ain't playing Joseph, if I have my way-
No mistletoe kisses a'tween Jo Hatfield and Rodeo McCoy,
I sez 'Jolene, you don't have no truck with that bad boy.'

But then that dang new preacher had to up'n speak
'Let's try to forgive and forget, turn the other cheek,'
If I believed that liberal trash I'd be a'wineing at Mass-
This Southern Baptist knows Rodeo's coveting Jolene's ass.

Still, I must say they look good together, they act pretty tight,
They've practised at the Church Hall religiously every night,
Now Jo is a shining star as Mother Mary, positively glowing,
We're praying, when Christmas comes Jo won't be showing.
‘Oh, oh, Sweet child of mine.’


‘An Alaska Airlines plane struck a brown bear on landing at Yakutat Airport.’ Now there’s a headline ripe for a satiric take off!

Living The Wild Life?

I'll never again fly Alaskan Air,
Not if you made me a millionaire,
If the flight alone wasn't a nightmare
The crappy landing was too much to bear.

Dicey icy touchdowns in the middle of nowhere?
Alaskan Airlines happy landings are mighty rare,
But there was nothing on that safety card to prepare
Us for seeing a bear using a runway as a thoroughfare.

So I'll be demanding a total refund on my fare,
Plus costs for trauma, shock and new underwear,
And could we spare a thought for that gristly bear?
A wing ding of a departure; poor bear hadn't a prayer.

Wanna make our hero an anti-hero?
Try the four lines below as the opening verse.

The wife's nagging drove me to despair,
There are no burning embers lingering there,
So I hooked up and lit out with the air-headed au pair
But red-blooded animal behaviour crushed our holiday affair.


From tweeting with the stars in prime time to begging for re-runs in the Fall schedule.

A Real Tear Jerking Soap Opera.

Ever since blow-dry Don woke post election day
The Golden Boy's looked washed out and gray,
And though he will not go quietly into the night
To see this ass silver fox turn tail is a welcome sight.

What happened to our old gold Don Juan Don?
A cold reality shows his brash charm has gone,
And after four seasons his shit show is simply trying
And his is a stinker of a final act, ain't no denying?

Don's lost his "Suburban Housewives' Choice" popular vote,
This poor actors star turn is done, and that's all she wrote,
He's lost his gloss, he's now less desirable than Charlie Sheen,
Our Greatest li'l boy lost burnt-out washed-up broken down big time small screen has-been.


Peter Sutcliffe, The Yorkshire Ripper dies in custody. Will Peter be missed? Don’t hold your breath, Pete.

Say A Spittle Word?

Today we're here to see Pete Sutcliffe go west,
The charitable say 'God only takes the very best,'
So, before someone sets down this thorny wreath
Who wants to pay tribute, before Pete's laid beneath?
     Or toss a clod on the casket, as per popular request?

Let us pray in the hope Pete has a long uneasy rest
In his interminable internment as Lucifer's house guest,
There's not a welcoming devilish smile, merely clenched teeth;
Pete promised the devil his due, but Pete had nought to bequeath.
     Poor Devil, getting stuck with an ass soul he forgot he possessed.


So long, Sean Connery; there has been no better Bond.

(Written slightly irreverently, but with love.)

James Bond- The Final Cut.

The great Sean Connery has gone to the great beyond,
Hung up his holster, laid down his gun, gone to his eternal rest,
Few dispute Sean portrayed the perfect classic Bond,
Sorry, Danny Craig, but there's no shame in being second best.

Franchise Guys.

With the on-screen arrival of Sean
A double zero hero was born,
The second Bond was David Niven
So a Royale disappointment was a given,
Next up George Lazenby gave Bond a shot,
Like Lazenby's 'career' best quickly forgot,
Then came rakish roguish Roger Moore-
Uh oh, seven bombs, each worse than the one before,
Eventually Timmy Dalton replaced ol' Rog on the bill,
Twice stepped into Bonds shoes- two, run of the mill,
Then they lined up Pierce Brosnan to don the tuxedo
Of the serial seducer with the long-lasting libido,
Three quick Bonds and Pierce was spent,
Seems in a flash he came and went,
Now Daniel Craig's just the latest stud to put it about...
It's high time Fleming's played out Bond is written out.
Undertaken, then interred.

If Don can drag his bad self back to work, perhaps I should too?

In Need Of Medication.

When told a nasty airborne disease
Was a'wafting in from the China Seas
Actually, PresiDon didn't appear to much care,
Factually, he adopted a laughingly cavalier air.

When Faucci's esteemed team gave a damning report
Donny dismissed it and them with a derisive snort,
And that's when the Department of Infectious Diseases
Knew they'd be better directing their pleas to Jesus.

Though in their professional opinion covid was here to stay
Doctor Don proscribed that the virus would fade... away...
Don miserably failed to see a pandemic in the making
Or his inaction would lead to a Great grave undertaking.

Other than stopping Mueller sniffing 'round his affairs
Don's real interest remains in healthy stocks and shares,
The man is unhealthily invested in private enterprise;
Who cares if the world outside Wall Street lives or dies?

So for months now, all while the deadly virus raged
Trump soaked up the atmosphere in the rallies he staged,
Showering his crowd with promises, left 'em in GreaT cheer,
They couldn't wait to pass his message on to their near and dear.

He loved how they had simply taken him to their heart
While feeling no need or desire to stay a good six feet apart,
As he, safe and smug behind his mask of delusional self-belief
Believed no virus could dare pass on to the Commander-in-Chief.

Roaming freely, flitting and flying all over the place,
Pushing his agenda, getting Right in everyones face,
Disavowing taking a knee (unless you're using the Force)
Turning all rational debate into anti-social intercourse.

Till came a gathering, the infamous Rose Garden party
Where Don failed to smell when someone cut the havarti,
Immediately the question of a toxic President arose,
A quick Q-tip test positively getting right up Don's nose.

Don and his wife were laid low in their sick bed,
Don felt a pounding upside his boogery thick head;
Got the chills, got a hot fever and runny snotty cough,
Perhaps he had been ill-advised to leave his mask off?

But Don isn't one to lie quietly back and take Doctors orders,
He's not bound to remain idling behind Walter Reed's borders,
There's an election to rig run so Don busts out of quarantine!
Why, does he want to be seen in the back of a black limousine?

With all the best polls (excluding Hannity and Friends)
Signalling that after four years his GreaTness now ends,
He needs to leave us a lasting legacy, on top of his border wall
So he's commissioned a portrait so as to look down on us all.

(The forty-fifth President will join that esteemed list
Of Presidents who, once gone, won't be sorely missed,
'Twould be a marvel if Don ever joined the Fantastic Four-
Those icons standing stone-faced up on Mount Rushmore.)

He's going at warp speed ensuring his fine face won't be forgot-
In case in future he'll be known by the number on his mug shot-
An artistic genius might possibly portray Don as just badly painted
But even hallowed Mike Pence knows Don can't ever be sainted.

Come November, when Donald is resigned to his fate
He'll be immortalised in an uncommonly gaudy portrait,
He's sure going to stand out from all the other ex-Presidents,
The very picture of wilful ignorance and unmasked arrogance.



Going write off. The latest merry message in the old Email has suggested a writing sabbatical is in order. Funnily enough, I agree.

Well Run Dry.

I used to thrill
To raise the quill,
Words gambolled on and on;
I guess that thrill is gone.

Dyspraxic digits clubbed the keyboard,
Typos and good grammar ignored,
Ideas tumbled happily from the mind
As fingers fumbled, sentences behind.

I’d thought I had something to say,
An amusing pun, bandy some wordplay,
Double entendres, two-fingered typed fun,
Now it’s two thumbs down for this tragic one.

Joie de vivre weighs heavy in my head,
Even my black humour is all but dead,
Trying to dredge up some light flight of fancy
Would mean a lift of spirit worthy of necromancy.

To raise the odd smile was my glad intent,
Sad, all my good humour’s gone off and went,
Perhaps it’s for the best to to stay quietly depressed?
So I’ll do as weary old readers have and give it a rest.

(Just a touch of burn-out showing? Obviously. Overtly melodramatic? Yep. Self-pitying? Yessiree Bob. Maudlin? Yes indeedy.  So, time for a little time out? Fuck yes.)


Once you’ve finally managed to dredge your team up to the Premier League in English football the hard work isn’t over, it’s only just beginning. Along with the glory comes a scant few ups, quite a few more downs, plus another almost certain pitfall- just ask any committed West Bromwich Albion fan.

Temporarily Promoted.

That West Bromwich Albion crowd are all celebrating again,
There’ll be cheers and beers being hurled in Halfords Lane,
Navy and white scarves will abound around Old Birmingham town,
At least till next May when, historically they’re bound to go down.

The Albion are one of those teams that drive loyal fans to drink,
All season long, nailed to the table bottom or clinging on the brink,
The Baggies, back in in their regulation spot, flirting with relegation-
At least of late poor Aston Villa fans can sympathise with that situation.

Still, congratulations! on becoming Birminghams second best,
Now two bum *Brum fans can still share in one common interest,
For one season the twain are Premier League teams, and so sitting pretty,
Both loving lording it over mutually loathed Wolves and Birmingham City.

*Appellation the lucky locals use for Birmingham.