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The days go skipping by
Like children
On their way home from school

Soon they will grow into years
And leave
Without saying goodbye

A poem for Christmas

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Leave me alone, Father Christmas,
I’m really not in the mood

For tinsel, holly and crackers,

And all that fake festive food.

The turkey doesn’t want stuffing -

And frankly, neither do I -

As the Christmas tills keep ringing,

I keep on asking WHY?

Why we go with this seasonal circus,

Jump through the same hoops every year,

When gentlemen have to be merry,

And so, drink gallons of beer.

And young girls lose all inhibitions –

Their virginity too, I’ll be bound –

To be single mums pushing buggies

When September comes around.

And chasing those ‘Special Offers’,

On stuff the big stores cannot shift,

As you elbow your way through shoppers,

On escalator;  in lift.

Those ‘Christmas Specials’ on telly

(Recorded in July),

Whose stars have flown south for the winter,

And bask ‘neath Jamaican skies.

                                           

And even those homes whose finances

At this time are terribly sparse,

Must have the traditional fairy

With a Christmas tree stuck up her arse.

So let’s hear it for old Scrooge, then,

Bah, humbug – and all that stuff,

I think I’ll go hide in the wardrobe –

Of Christmas I’ve had enough!

But hey, let's enjoy this time of year - let's enjoy every time of year!

Sprouts

*********************************************************

I should have eaten more of my sprouts
At dinner 
Before starting on my pud
I know I should

They were a lovely colour
Bright green they were
The size of golf balls
But they were hard
And I thought sprouts which are hard
May be hard
To digest
So I left the rest

But that's the way they cook them
Nowadays
They tell me


There's a name for this kind of cooking
And they told me -

But I can't remember it

Anyway, I feared hard sprouts may harm
My digestion
- There's always a question
Mark about
One's digestion -
So I left some
Some of these lovely sprouts
So green and bright and
Fresh looking

Cooking them further may have
Spoiled the colour
Cooking them fuller
May have made them go
A pale yellow
And all  mushy

And now I come to think of it
They may have been more crisp
Than hard

Given another chance I would eat
All of them

An avian moment

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To the anonymous gentleman who seemed to be suggesting that my Major Retrospective was a myth:

The only reason I am unable to give a firm date for the opening is because the new Assembly Rooms are not quite finished. There seems to be some dispute  between the builder and the local council. I believe it is something to do with the quality of roofing felt.

And as regards your comment that my photograph Is 'just a plug and a plughole' ... well all I can say, sir, is that you are a PHILISTINE.

I don't think you deserve to see any more of my work, but I am prepared to give you a second chance.

Here is another of my pictures to be featured in the exhibition: An avian moment

Some thoughts on personal hygiene

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Sitting on the lavatory this morning, I thought - I wonder who decides where the perforations should go in a toilet-roll; obviously the placement of the perforations determines the size of the usable piece.

The piece in my hand seemed very small. Now I have not got a particularly big hand but I felt this was really stretching things a bit: to wipe my bum with this tiny sheet and still keep my fingers clean.

Later I measured a sheet (another one – obviously). It measured 12cmx10.5cm. This seems sparse, not to say paltry, considering the job in hand.

Just who decides how big a sheet should be? Is it decided at a full board meeting of the toilet-roll factory directors? Or does the MD say at breakfast, to his wife – how big do you think a piece of toilet paper should be? And his wife - who is getting the kids ready for school - just says the first thing that comes into her head?

If she is a midget she will specify a small size.

On the other hand, if she is a very big woman, with massive hands, you will end up with a more generous piece.

There could, however, be some kind of standardisation between manufacturers? Perhaps even a British Standard for toilet sheets. Now, with the Common Market, we may even be subject to an

EU directive on toilet-rolls.  In which case the size is of a piece is probably based upon an average European hand size.

(It would be interesting to know if any studies have been done to establish a correlation between hand size and arse size. But that is straying from the present topic.)

Of course it’s not just the length – the width is also important. But I bet that is already an industry standard, because the roll has to fit any holder.  So obviously the paper makers are in in thrall to the roll-holder makers who, in turn, are constrained by the materials and machinery available to them.

 Standardisation all the way.

 And are we, the public, ever consulted? Not likely. Have you ever been stopped on entering a supermarket, and invited to ‘try a piece of toilet paper’ and then give feedback on size, texture, absorbency and so on? I haven’t.

Incidentally, regarding absorbency, when I worked in a factory many years ago, if you wanted to go to the lavatory you first of all had to get permission from the foreman. Then there was a man at the entrance to the stalls (which had no doors!) and he issued you with 2 pieces of toilet paper. It was that shiny kind (no longer in use, thankfully) with IZAL stamped across. 

Of course, it didn’t absorb anything. It just skidded off your bum. If you were ‘loose’ it was just too bad. You still only had two pieces. If you had diarrhoea you stayed at home. It would be an interesting study: how many workdays were lost due to the ‘2 sheet rule’.

But we’ve have come a long way from the squares of old newspaper our family used to have nailed behind the (outside) lavatory door when I was a boy. (of course we only used the ‘broadsheets’).

Today we have lovely soft toilet tissue (note the change in name) and many brands to choose from. Luxury!

So I salute the manufacturers… there’s just that question of the perforations.

Next week I shall be looking at the development of the sausage over the last half century.

Announcing a Major Retrospective

For all readers of my blog who are lovers of the fine arts.

Here is a sneak preview of one of the still-life photographs in my Major Retrospective Exhibition which will open at the Assemble Rooms - Great Sankey. (date to be announced)





 Plug with plughole 

Limited edition prints of this and other pictures will be on sale at the exhibition, or may be ordered from this website.

There's a time to rhyme

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I like to do a bit of poetry (or as Anna calls it 'poeming') now and again.
 Here is one I wrote a long time ago.

NORTHERN LIFE

We had fried fish today, for tea,

Fresh, from t’chip-shop d’yer see.

I said: I must not eat t'batter,

For t'batter's sure to make me fatter.

Our mother, she did not agree –

And threw t'teapot straight at me!

My dad, he looked up from his paper,

Shouting: Stop this bleedin’ caper,

I’m tryin’ t’do t’crossword, here –

Now go and get me some more beer.

He banged his jug down on t'table,

I ran as fast as I was able,

To the ‘Offy’ down our street,

But coming back I chanced to meet

My girlfriend, Mary Ellen Hickey,

Who said: Oi, Oi, let’s have a quickey.

We did, but when I got back 'ome,

The beer had lost its head of foam.

Luckily, mi dad was out –

Knocked cold by mother’s fearsome clout.

I said: What have you done to dad?

He’s really looking rather sad.

She finished off  t'beer herself,

Replaced t'jug upon t'shelf

And said: Nah lad, no time for strictures –

Get yer cap – we’re off t’pictures.

Anna: update

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Marks & Spencer’s café – Friday 11^th November.

I am going to reincarnate myself – she said.

You mean reinvent yourself – I responded.

Reincarnate… reinvent… what does matter? Is same thing.

To reincarnate you have to be dead, first – I quipped.

You English and your bloody silly language – she snorted.

I decided to backtrack.

Well I think that is a good thing… for you to reinvent yourself, I mean.

What, you are not liking Anna in her present invention?

Of course. What I mean is… well, I have reinvented myself several times.

Yes, but Anna is not making such a bloody mess of it like as what you have.

I decided to change the subject – I see you are still wearing that perfume. So… sensuous…powerful. It hit me as I was passing the carrot cake.

Yes, brother Sven he send me some… in diplomatic bag.

Diplomatic bag! - I expostulated.

Is little Swedish joke – she laughed, pleased that she had caught me - Of course he send by normal postal service which is crap in your country.

If you dislike our country so much why did you sneak back in?

I do not sneak back. I never leave.

But I thought you had been deported.

Hah! Such stupid immigrant officials. No wonder country overrun with bloody foreigners.

Like yourself – I joked. This, I realised as I wiped the lemon-merengue from my face, was a mistake.

I am not foreigner – she screamed – I am from Sweden, not some half-arsed country what has only just been drawn on map!

Sorry. Of course. But I see now why it is necessary for you to reinvent yourself – I said.

She calmed down. You catching on quick, boyo.

Boyo?

Just little word I pick up from Welsh gentleman friend. Which is not all I pick up from the bastard, but this is by the wayside.

So how...

When officials come for to collect me, I am no longer there, having successfully transposed myself to flat of girlfriend Sylvia, above shop of man who sell special meat for Jewish peoples.

That’s nice – I said.

No. Is not nice. You should experience awful stink what comes up through cracks in floorboards. Which is bringing me to present point of meeting we are now enjoying.

[more on this story later]

At a loose end?

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When you find you can’t face Facebook

And think that Twitter’s for twats,

And them that Skype

Are not your type,

And Bebo is driving you bats.

When your Hotmail’s gone cold

And though you’ve cajoled

The bloody thing won’t let you in,

All your text has been lost

At unthinkable cost

And you just don’t know where to begin.

When you see the banality

Of ‘virtual reality’

Staring you right in the face,

And you live in terror

Of ‘system error’

And haven’t got room for ‘MySpace’.

Why not pick up a book (not a Kindle!)

Or better still, go for a walk –

You could call in a pub

Some shoulders to rub –

Before you forget how to talk

Anna returns

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Well, it’s funny you should say that, Mr Adams, but I shall be seeing Anna later today. She has changed her name ‘for professional reasons’, and does not wish me to disclose her new name – at least not for the time being.

 I shall, therefore, continue to refer to her as Anna.

She did, however, make an informed comment on the recent scandal concerning – as she puts it – ‘the gent what got the boot for relaxing the immigration controls and has been used as a sacrilegious lamb by that cow of a Home Secretary.’

It is most unusual for Anna to take an interest in the political scene; I really don’t know why this item should interest her so much. I hope to find out more when I see her and shall, of course, pass on any relevant information.

DANCING TOWARDS THE DOLE

(Headline in the Independent – 24/10/11)

… The Northern Ballet Academy may have to lose 10 out of 40 jobs because of spending cuts…

I can imagine them hanging around on Monday morning, along with the regular clientele, waiting for the Dole to open: Leotards and Arabesques meet Shell Suits and ASBOS.

“What you lookin’ at mate? Fancy a trip daahn A&E, do ya?”

(I don’t know if ballet dancers really do speak like that.)

Anyway, it isn’t called the ‘Dole’ anymore: it is now the ‘Benefits Office’…

 ‘A rose by any other name…”?

I wonder if the unemployed dancers will get ‘Jobseeker’s Allowance’. What kind of jobs would they be seeking? Is ballet a transferable skill? And, if so, transferable to what?

“Unfortunately, we do not have any vacancies in Ballet at the moment.”

“Mmm, I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Err… You look a fairly fit young man. How about something in the building trade? Plenty of fresh air, exercise, that sort of thing. Now, Barrett Homes have a vacancy for a brickie’s labourer and- “

“Messing about with BRICKS! Have you any idea what that would do to one’s hands? A dancer’s hands are as important as his feet. Artistic impression. It’s all in the hands, you know.”

“Okay. Well, how about Postman? Again it’s out in the fresh air, and they give you a bike and- “

“A BIKE! Now you really are joking. Wreak havoc with the calves, that would: pedalling some stonking great machine up and down the highways and byways? Be serious, lovie.”

[Sighs] I’ll just put you down for Jobseekers Allowance.”

And would the ladies fare any better?

“I’ve got this vacancy for a female lavatory attendant at the town-square toilets. It’s mostly just sitting in a little cubicle taking their 20p and giving them a ticket. Of course there is some cleaning too, but you will be issued with rubber gloves and– “

“Excuse me – did you say rubber?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible darling. I’m allergic to rubber. I found out by accident one night when I…  Never mind. But I just don’t do rubber.”

“Well, ASDA are looking for shelf-stackers. I could–“

“LIBRARIAN!  Now I think that might suit me.”

“Oh - do you have any qualifications?  Experience?”

“Well no. But it can’t be that difficult: stamping books and keeping kids quiet.”

“Alas, there have been swingeing cuts in that field too. Do you know, I get library assistants in here looking for jobs as dancers! Some in their fifties too. Sad really.”

“Well, perhaps I could- “

“Tell you what: I’ll just put you down for Jobseekers’ Allowance.”

We no longer make anything in Britain, so the one-time employees of the ‘manufacturing industries’ are well used to ‘signing-on’. But when the recession hits the Entertainment and Leisure Industries things are indeed becoming rocky.

The CIRCUS for example: The only things CLOWNS are good at are honking motor horns, falling down and frightening small children.

As for LION-TAMERS – forget it.

And what about JOCKEYS? Little men who ride horses. What are they going to do if the Racing Game gets clobbered? I suppose they might get some seasonal work – in pantomime: Snow White and the seven jockeys?

PROFESSIONAL  FOOTBALLERS?  Oh dear!

Ironically, TELEVISION CHAT-SHOW HOSTS might not do too badly. With their incisive, probing interviewing skills they would be ideally suited to working in the Benefits Office which, because of the current crisis would need more staff…

The ‘ill wind’ that blows up the tutu also fills the sails…