Monday 29 June 2009
Monday 22 June 2009
The Terrible Tragedy of Tragic Man
He was born a tragic man
Disastrous Brazilian birth control plan
No surprise he traded lands
He died in England, Tragic Man.
-
The blank stare of a passport face
Well, not enough to tell this case!
The tale of our man began
On South American sunburnt land
But born for more than laying bricks
Tragic Man upped sticks
To trade upon his wit and charm
(To set American VCRs)
Brand new USA life beckoned
The Green Card application form
Filled in, until a birdshit storm
With him the target (tragic error)
The FBI cried "Bio-terror!"
And in a second
Nothing beckoned
No US for Tragic Man
Stockport
His last resort
A place to go as money was short
But pre-flight (and if you've seen Home Alone 2
I stole this from there; skip this bit or two)
His serious brow on the numbers above
Runs into a lady - calamitous shove!
Tickets get mixed up, the usual cack
(And if you just left us, we welcome you back)
Stockwell
The London smell
Had to depend on a cousin to dwell
But south London's littered with farcical traps
And Tragic Man's nothing if no good at that
NANA SKIN TUMBLE the papers'd scream
ROLLER SKATE RUMBLE (and such redtop dreams)
Even the Tube got him into a state
They say he once had to leap over the gate
Flustered and panting, not normal at all
Tragic Man sprinted and bounced off the walls
And so it was England, to no revolution,
Where Tragic Man died in a police execution.
Disastrous Brazilian birth control plan
No surprise he traded lands
He died in England, Tragic Man.
-
The blank stare of a passport face
Well, not enough to tell this case!
The tale of our man began
On South American sunburnt land
But born for more than laying bricks
Tragic Man upped sticks
To trade upon his wit and charm
(To set American VCRs)
Brand new USA life beckoned
The Green Card application form
Filled in, until a birdshit storm
With him the target (tragic error)
The FBI cried "Bio-terror!"
And in a second
Nothing beckoned
No US for Tragic Man
Stockport
His last resort
A place to go as money was short
But pre-flight (and if you've seen Home Alone 2
I stole this from there; skip this bit or two)
His serious brow on the numbers above
Runs into a lady - calamitous shove!
Tickets get mixed up, the usual cack
(And if you just left us, we welcome you back)
Stockwell
The London smell
Had to depend on a cousin to dwell
But south London's littered with farcical traps
And Tragic Man's nothing if no good at that
NANA SKIN TUMBLE the papers'd scream
ROLLER SKATE RUMBLE (and such redtop dreams)
Even the Tube got him into a state
They say he once had to leap over the gate
Flustered and panting, not normal at all
Tragic Man sprinted and bounced off the walls
And so it was England, to no revolution,
Where Tragic Man died in a police execution.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Faerie Queene Wannabe Woman
“‘Ere, where are you taking me, woman?”
Wikipedia defines them as, “a type of mythological being or legendary creature, a form of spirit, often described as metaphysical, supernatural or preternatural.” She knows of no other descriptions.
“Just come with me, Ted.”
Blood-red lipstick is something not many women can make work, says her webcam (and I agree); she now applies it with a pout that even two years ago would have been beyond her. Her technique for coring new notches in her big brown belt is second to none. Her peroxide-streaked hair looks wild and alluring when not matted by grease. But the layer of white powder has been redundant for a long time: patchy from low webcam resolution (her fear of bad luck having long since banished mirrors); her skin pale enough already. And this self-taught education in making the most of such modest means clearly hasn’t reached graduation: the maroon leather jacket utterly betrays her lack of confidence in the once-flattering (now-rotting) white summer dress, and the knee-high high-heel leather boots aren’t exactly in keeping with the aesthetic of her suburban surroundings. But this is the nature of routine.
“No, let me stay here!”
One of the funny things that binds us all together – separates us from the beasts – is how, whatever our living space, one surface in particular stands as a record of our life there. Some are as bland as a semen- and footprint-stained bedroom floor, or a hallway wall with patches of original wallpaper shade, where the art used to go. But Faye can’t let herself be seen to be so dull: her mural is her kitchen lino.
“Come on, I’ll look after you.”
Field Lane is as radical as the name suggests. One row of greying, pebbledash bungalows faces another, across a road barely wide enough for two cars. The hedges are walls, to keep out the world and the sun. The whole road is cluttered with over-sized, broken-down suburbanalities: the aforementioned hedges, the recycling bins, the hanging baskets, the parking. It has been said that no road is slower to drive along than Field Lane. This may be as much to do with the pure pensioner population as it is the cars. Still, in a land of gnomes and human-dressed animal statuettes, Faye’s front garden of little winged women is very much in vogue with her location. Though on reflection, her gate – a wooden shambles, a rejection of the street’s iron rule – is perhaps not.
“But why are we going into your place?”
The root of the linguistic connection between ‘moth’ and ‘mother’ is one of the English language’s most logical. Faye, as ever, serves as a prime example of this: though I know nothing of the nature of the inner tangle between child-yearning and ‘child? urgh!’-ning, it is at least clear that it resembles the moth’s ecstatic desire for the flame, except that where moths reel away once it feels the deadliness, mothers go further and embrace the deadliness, have the child (as such, are moth-er, more moth than moths). Faye’s struggle is noble though, I believe, because she knows that she would rear her children only to kidnap them. That she would rear them because she has to kidnap them. Today is her substitute; her contraception. Her noble way around the last of those sentences copied from the Wikipedia article into Word for an A4 printout, that has acted as her mirror into the future for so many years now.
“You’ll be perfectly safe, Ted.”
What of the linoleum on the kitchen floor? asks the linoleum on the kitchen floor. Well, those two punctures underneath the table are her heels’ resting place for most of the morning (if not the day), checking her empty inboxes and ignored forum posts. The scrapes and cuts that form its main texture are because life is unfair: when a downcast woman won’t pick up her sharp-heeled feet, it’s always the lino left in agony. Which is why it enjoys Faye’s lower ebbs so much, I suppose. Its biggest tear, the one by the back door, is a dictionary definition of poetic justice: it found Faye’s attempt at sleeping at the foot of the garden amusing; her night-time distress, hilarious. You could say that the heel getting caught mid-dash and ripping it open was exactly what the floor deserved. To put it another way, if the webcam knows all that Faye is, then the lino knows all that Faye does.
“Well... can I have something to drink?”
She’d read elsewhere in the article that this was what they did. An old person. Hardly in short supply. The tea had been the bait all along.
“That’s more like it – of course you can, Ted.”
In years gone by, others of her kind would have sprinkled some sort of sparkling dust to lure them in. She had considered sugar lumps, but sugar’s hardly this generation’s magic dust, is it?
“Two sugars, if you’re asking.”
It’s not the first shot of panic she’s had today, but when she looks in the drawer for the sugar spoon and sees she only has butter knives, her heart beats palpably faster. Stay calm, she tells herself, needing reassurance – skin that old can’t be any thinner than Parma ham (and she may be right). A butter knife, she hopes, will still suffice.
“There you are.”
The boots were a gift to herself. The jacket was a gift from her mum. And she never told anyone about the party-wings. But she doesn’t wear those anymore, ever since she realised they only made her feel more lonely, not less.
“This is all rather fancy – what’s brought this on?”
Our fairy of this tale is a fairy only by circumstance, of course. And it’s any wonder she still is, isn’t it, when you consider how with every tick by every sentence cut from Wikipedia, every task she’s completed to become better has only made her feel worse.
“Just wanted to make you a bit more comfortable, Ted.”
“For what? I was perfectly comfortable in my chair watching Countdown, thank you.”
Her grip on the butter knife is far too suited to spreading than slicing, which she suspects may be a problem.
“I’m afraid this is it for you, Ted.”
“No biscuits, then?”
“Sorry? No, listen – ”
“I could have brought some with me, if you’d have said. Do your family know you’re this barmy? Must have been a right odd little one, am I right?”
This solves the grip problem.
“Drink up, Ted. I read they used to bury people with food and drink for their... impending journey.”
“You daft girl, I’ve got plenty at home as it is. You don’t need to feed and water me, you know – you’re not my son!”
“No, Ted, I... you don’t seem to understand what’s going on – ”
“That’s because I’ve got my brain all ready for that lovely blond one on Countdown and her puzzles, not your cryptic crossword clues. Speak properly, will you!”
The lino smiles, and is met with one heel being driven right through it to the concrete below.
“Have you read about what fairies do to people like – ”
“Fairies now, huh! Mrs Wilkinson always did say you were away with the fairies, I suppose she must be right, huh... here, what’s that knife for? You got some cake hiding somewhere?”
“No, Ted, it’s not for cake – ”
“Because really you’re all right love, you don’t need to worry about that – the cup of tea’s kind enough of you, very kind.”
The door shuts, eventually, after scraping the linoleum yet further.
“Oh, you’ve no need to shut the door, I’m not stopping.”
“You’ll be stopping very shortly, Ted.”
“Yeah, I’ll be off in a bit. ‘Ere, you sure you’ve not got any biscuits? Sorry to be a pain.”
“Ted! Just be quiet! Be quiet, all right?”
“Now hold on just a minute there young lady, you’re the one going on about cake in the first place!”
She can’t bear to look at him. She paces towards the back door. This is not the easy way round.
“Just be quiet for a second Ted, please!”
“Well then why’d you drag me here if you wanted a woman’s moment to yourself? You’re bloody barmy, you really are. Now where’s that cake? I’ll get it myself if you’re going to be funny about it.”
“There is no cake!”
“Well why’d you tell me there was cake? Gordon Bennett, you aren’t half daft, aren’t you?”
A sudden turn, a menacing lunge.
“You are my hostage, you doddery old bastard! I have taken you hostage, and now I am going to kill you! Now just shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“Well I thought I was meant to be your guest as well, until you started lying to me about cake and such!”
“Ted, what are you – I am going to kill you!”
“Flippin’ heck, it’s not that bad – I’ll have something to eat at home if you’ve not got much. I don’t want to be eating you out of house and home, now.”
“Ted – !”
“No, no, I’ll hold my hands up, my mistake. Look, if I’ve really been such a pain I’ll – ”
“What are you – get off!”
“No, really, it’s no trouble – ”
“Get off my knife!”
He wins, with his old-man strength.
“I’ll even wash this up for you, look.”
And he was as good as his word. Fairy liquid (groan) to boot. Sparkling.
“See, I am house-trained, honest. Look, it was lovely to see you and everything, just, er... yeah, see you, now.”
The doors offered as little resistance as she did. Ted went home.
The lino had never felt the warmth and the weight of her like this. They had never shared such an intimate moment before. It wanted to envelop and protect her, just like the rest of us. But what good would that have done her? How would lino help a woman on a quest to the summit of an A4 dream that only laughs at her, or to calm the doubt-flavoured vertigo? It cannot even help me decide if this smudge, this anti-climax, is a happy ending or not.
Wikipedia defines them as, “a type of mythological being or legendary creature, a form of spirit, often described as metaphysical, supernatural or preternatural.” She knows of no other descriptions.
“Just come with me, Ted.”
Blood-red lipstick is something not many women can make work, says her webcam (and I agree); she now applies it with a pout that even two years ago would have been beyond her. Her technique for coring new notches in her big brown belt is second to none. Her peroxide-streaked hair looks wild and alluring when not matted by grease. But the layer of white powder has been redundant for a long time: patchy from low webcam resolution (her fear of bad luck having long since banished mirrors); her skin pale enough already. And this self-taught education in making the most of such modest means clearly hasn’t reached graduation: the maroon leather jacket utterly betrays her lack of confidence in the once-flattering (now-rotting) white summer dress, and the knee-high high-heel leather boots aren’t exactly in keeping with the aesthetic of her suburban surroundings. But this is the nature of routine.
“No, let me stay here!”
One of the funny things that binds us all together – separates us from the beasts – is how, whatever our living space, one surface in particular stands as a record of our life there. Some are as bland as a semen- and footprint-stained bedroom floor, or a hallway wall with patches of original wallpaper shade, where the art used to go. But Faye can’t let herself be seen to be so dull: her mural is her kitchen lino.
“Come on, I’ll look after you.”
Field Lane is as radical as the name suggests. One row of greying, pebbledash bungalows faces another, across a road barely wide enough for two cars. The hedges are walls, to keep out the world and the sun. The whole road is cluttered with over-sized, broken-down suburbanalities: the aforementioned hedges, the recycling bins, the hanging baskets, the parking. It has been said that no road is slower to drive along than Field Lane. This may be as much to do with the pure pensioner population as it is the cars. Still, in a land of gnomes and human-dressed animal statuettes, Faye’s front garden of little winged women is very much in vogue with her location. Though on reflection, her gate – a wooden shambles, a rejection of the street’s iron rule – is perhaps not.
“But why are we going into your place?”
The root of the linguistic connection between ‘moth’ and ‘mother’ is one of the English language’s most logical. Faye, as ever, serves as a prime example of this: though I know nothing of the nature of the inner tangle between child-yearning and ‘child? urgh!’-ning, it is at least clear that it resembles the moth’s ecstatic desire for the flame, except that where moths reel away once it feels the deadliness, mothers go further and embrace the deadliness, have the child (as such, are moth-er, more moth than moths). Faye’s struggle is noble though, I believe, because she knows that she would rear her children only to kidnap them. That she would rear them because she has to kidnap them. Today is her substitute; her contraception. Her noble way around the last of those sentences copied from the Wikipedia article into Word for an A4 printout, that has acted as her mirror into the future for so many years now.
“You’ll be perfectly safe, Ted.”
What of the linoleum on the kitchen floor? asks the linoleum on the kitchen floor. Well, those two punctures underneath the table are her heels’ resting place for most of the morning (if not the day), checking her empty inboxes and ignored forum posts. The scrapes and cuts that form its main texture are because life is unfair: when a downcast woman won’t pick up her sharp-heeled feet, it’s always the lino left in agony. Which is why it enjoys Faye’s lower ebbs so much, I suppose. Its biggest tear, the one by the back door, is a dictionary definition of poetic justice: it found Faye’s attempt at sleeping at the foot of the garden amusing; her night-time distress, hilarious. You could say that the heel getting caught mid-dash and ripping it open was exactly what the floor deserved. To put it another way, if the webcam knows all that Faye is, then the lino knows all that Faye does.
“Well... can I have something to drink?”
She’d read elsewhere in the article that this was what they did. An old person. Hardly in short supply. The tea had been the bait all along.
“That’s more like it – of course you can, Ted.”
In years gone by, others of her kind would have sprinkled some sort of sparkling dust to lure them in. She had considered sugar lumps, but sugar’s hardly this generation’s magic dust, is it?
“Two sugars, if you’re asking.”
It’s not the first shot of panic she’s had today, but when she looks in the drawer for the sugar spoon and sees she only has butter knives, her heart beats palpably faster. Stay calm, she tells herself, needing reassurance – skin that old can’t be any thinner than Parma ham (and she may be right). A butter knife, she hopes, will still suffice.
“There you are.”
The boots were a gift to herself. The jacket was a gift from her mum. And she never told anyone about the party-wings. But she doesn’t wear those anymore, ever since she realised they only made her feel more lonely, not less.
“This is all rather fancy – what’s brought this on?”
Our fairy of this tale is a fairy only by circumstance, of course. And it’s any wonder she still is, isn’t it, when you consider how with every tick by every sentence cut from Wikipedia, every task she’s completed to become better has only made her feel worse.
“Just wanted to make you a bit more comfortable, Ted.”
“For what? I was perfectly comfortable in my chair watching Countdown, thank you.”
Her grip on the butter knife is far too suited to spreading than slicing, which she suspects may be a problem.
“I’m afraid this is it for you, Ted.”
“No biscuits, then?”
“Sorry? No, listen – ”
“I could have brought some with me, if you’d have said. Do your family know you’re this barmy? Must have been a right odd little one, am I right?”
This solves the grip problem.
“Drink up, Ted. I read they used to bury people with food and drink for their... impending journey.”
“You daft girl, I’ve got plenty at home as it is. You don’t need to feed and water me, you know – you’re not my son!”
“No, Ted, I... you don’t seem to understand what’s going on – ”
“That’s because I’ve got my brain all ready for that lovely blond one on Countdown and her puzzles, not your cryptic crossword clues. Speak properly, will you!”
The lino smiles, and is met with one heel being driven right through it to the concrete below.
“Have you read about what fairies do to people like – ”
“Fairies now, huh! Mrs Wilkinson always did say you were away with the fairies, I suppose she must be right, huh... here, what’s that knife for? You got some cake hiding somewhere?”
“No, Ted, it’s not for cake – ”
“Because really you’re all right love, you don’t need to worry about that – the cup of tea’s kind enough of you, very kind.”
The door shuts, eventually, after scraping the linoleum yet further.
“Oh, you’ve no need to shut the door, I’m not stopping.”
“You’ll be stopping very shortly, Ted.”
“Yeah, I’ll be off in a bit. ‘Ere, you sure you’ve not got any biscuits? Sorry to be a pain.”
“Ted! Just be quiet! Be quiet, all right?”
“Now hold on just a minute there young lady, you’re the one going on about cake in the first place!”
She can’t bear to look at him. She paces towards the back door. This is not the easy way round.
“Just be quiet for a second Ted, please!”
“Well then why’d you drag me here if you wanted a woman’s moment to yourself? You’re bloody barmy, you really are. Now where’s that cake? I’ll get it myself if you’re going to be funny about it.”
“There is no cake!”
“Well why’d you tell me there was cake? Gordon Bennett, you aren’t half daft, aren’t you?”
A sudden turn, a menacing lunge.
“You are my hostage, you doddery old bastard! I have taken you hostage, and now I am going to kill you! Now just shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“Well I thought I was meant to be your guest as well, until you started lying to me about cake and such!”
“Ted, what are you – I am going to kill you!”
“Flippin’ heck, it’s not that bad – I’ll have something to eat at home if you’ve not got much. I don’t want to be eating you out of house and home, now.”
“Ted – !”
“No, no, I’ll hold my hands up, my mistake. Look, if I’ve really been such a pain I’ll – ”
“What are you – get off!”
“No, really, it’s no trouble – ”
“Get off my knife!”
He wins, with his old-man strength.
“I’ll even wash this up for you, look.”
And he was as good as his word. Fairy liquid (groan) to boot. Sparkling.
“See, I am house-trained, honest. Look, it was lovely to see you and everything, just, er... yeah, see you, now.”
The doors offered as little resistance as she did. Ted went home.
The lino had never felt the warmth and the weight of her like this. They had never shared such an intimate moment before. It wanted to envelop and protect her, just like the rest of us. But what good would that have done her? How would lino help a woman on a quest to the summit of an A4 dream that only laughs at her, or to calm the doubt-flavoured vertigo? It cannot even help me decide if this smudge, this anti-climax, is a happy ending or not.
Wednesday 10 June 2009
Crashley the Coyote Car Driver Man
Greased palms!
(A surface layer
A bitumen mix
Of three parts bung
To one, the sweat of uncalm
Not suitable for street-drive tyres
We only know that the car went off the coil)
When it came to dotted lines
The famous sportsman's hand was well-versed
A shame he couldn't drive on these all the time
It was commonly believed that the sports star
Was a wanted commodity by his then-employer,
Who were all too willing to stump up the primely figure of
[In this case, a figure confidential]
But the sports superstar was too clever for this
A technique, seen on the screen of his bedroom
He was determined to try
But inexperienced in the ways of contract law and negotiation
He overshot the turn
To the tune
Of five grand!
Five grand!
The sports club board was unwilling to budge
An awkward situation, I hope you'll agree
A man, I'm not sure who he was
Called the sports legend as he split a speed limit
Down the line did the fat man sing the tune of five grand
Hyperventilating bagpipe march, played reverse
We only know that the car went off the coil
Five grand? Here's all the stuff it can buy you
Half a Mondeo, or a hot tub or two
An evening's average red-light wrongs
So many sarongs!
Appalling miscarriage!
Miscarriage of justice!
The sports god, though he'd mastered his Adidas curving
Was powerless to prevent his indignance from swerving
Sometimes things can be both lateral and falling
You get the same score for both speeding and calling
The traffic figures of G Britain will ensure this one's forgotten
Yet another of the garish cartoon falls we've been brought up on
The car went off the coil!
To the tune of five grand!
Hit that tune, Liberace!
Hit that tune
The tune of five grand!
(A surface layer
A bitumen mix
Of three parts bung
To one, the sweat of uncalm
Not suitable for street-drive tyres
We only know that the car went off the coil)
When it came to dotted lines
The famous sportsman's hand was well-versed
A shame he couldn't drive on these all the time
It was commonly believed that the sports star
Was a wanted commodity by his then-employer,
Who were all too willing to stump up the primely figure of
[In this case, a figure confidential]
But the sports superstar was too clever for this
A technique, seen on the screen of his bedroom
He was determined to try
But inexperienced in the ways of contract law and negotiation
He overshot the turn
To the tune
Of five grand!
Five grand!
The sports club board was unwilling to budge
An awkward situation, I hope you'll agree
A man, I'm not sure who he was
Called the sports legend as he split a speed limit
Down the line did the fat man sing the tune of five grand
Hyperventilating bagpipe march, played reverse
We only know that the car went off the coil
Five grand? Here's all the stuff it can buy you
Half a Mondeo, or a hot tub or two
An evening's average red-light wrongs
So many sarongs!
Appalling miscarriage!
Miscarriage of justice!
The sports god, though he'd mastered his Adidas curving
Was powerless to prevent his indignance from swerving
Sometimes things can be both lateral and falling
You get the same score for both speeding and calling
The traffic figures of G Britain will ensure this one's forgotten
Yet another of the garish cartoon falls we've been brought up on
The car went off the coil!
To the tune of five grand!
Hit that tune, Liberace!
Hit that tune
The tune of five grand!
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