I will not look at my facebook…

I will not look at my facebook, that Butterball bastard has tagged a photo of me eating an icecream and I look terrible. Where are my tablets? Tablets, goblets, goblins gobbling my niblets, I DO NOT want any sweetcorn on my baked potato Johnson, give it to the goblin hobbling along the cobbling, old king cobbler  he was a merry old soul, a very cold troll was he, he called for his soup, and he called for his soup and he CALLED FOR HIS SOUP AND HE CALLED FOR HIS SOUP AND HE CALLED FORTH HIS SWOOP, swooping fear, down from the starry gulfs where dwelleth that which shall remain nameless. And which is even now crawling up the leg of your ill fitting clown suit Yolanda. Why are you always wearing that old thing anyway? It has seen better days, in fact it is a disgrace, covered in old beans and gobbets of potato. Who do you think is going find that attractive? Except of course sex mad food fetish Johnson that is, and here he comes now etc etc….

It is about this time of the morning I like to settle down in my tower for a spot of baking, no not a potato Johnson, get you flippery mits out of the flour or you will ruin everything. Where is my pinny? Where is my penny? My lucky penny has gone? Johnson did you take it? I must remain calm or the mornings experience will lie in tatters, no not ‘tatoes Johnson please remove your avian apendages from the mixing bowl Iwill not tell you again. Now then where was I? me and my lucky pinny were about to go bowling. That cannot be correct as I am not in the bowling hall, rolling stall, foaling call, who let that thing in here?  (Neighhhh!!) Quick Johnson, stamp on it before the carpet burns? I remembere I was about to make some of my favourite puds! MWAAAERK! Oh my lord Johnson, for fucks sake, I said puds, will you remove your tentacular goose limbs from the ingredients cupboard. I have had enough of this, there is only one thing I am cooking now. Yolanda, pass me an orange!

Published in: on September 11, 2010 at 9:52 am  Leave a Comment  

Morris whacks lyrical (Johnson)

…what is more I shall in fact be there as alchemist in residence, for lo I have distilled the elixir of life. Pass me the test tube Johnson! Mwaaerk! That is not my elixir Johnson, that is in fact a pot noodle, how am I supposed to raise the dead with that? In fact on closer inspection that is not even a pot noodle, rather it is a waterlogged baked potato rather clumsily wedged into an empty carton and smeared with some kind of partially melted no frills margarine substitute.

Is this some kind of ill advised commercial venture Johnson? I will adjudge its potential for I am the final arbiter of fiscal profit projections, lord of all business viability measurement. Much like the man from dragon’s den on the television. And here comes the dragon and that is no longer a baked potato that are tucking into, rather it is her egg,  her precious egg which represented the whole of her race, and there you are with the soft boiled remnants of the last embryo Draco Nobilis dribbled all over the front of your clown suit. What are you wearing a clown suit for Johnson? The dragon is not laughing (WHOOOOOOOSH! (Conflagration noise) Mweeeauuuurgh!) Ho Ho ho! You are fired!

This all reminds me of a song in fact Johnson. You know the one, it is about a dragon and a, hmm oh dearie me, my memory is failing me. Where is Giordano Bruno when you need him. In fact he is there, behind you, armed with large garden shears, poised to strike. A swift blow renders your topiary hedgehog in twain, you will not win first prize in the box tree hedgehog competition now Johnson. Cheers for that Giordano, though that is not what I required you for. What was I saying anyway? A song about a wagon you say Johnson. Well I am feeling a little peckish, pass me a wagon wheel Yolanda? What do you mean you have not been to Tesco yet? Why did you not do the order online as I specifically requested, thus the shopping would have been here by now. You have ruined my evening, and here comes stupid and literally interpretive Johnson with an racing bicycle wheel. This is not what I had in mind. Do we have any of those new water logged baked potato in a pot snacks left? They are my favourite. Eh Smaug and Giordano?

“Ho, h’excuse me h’sir, that’ll be h’two pounds h’fifty for that h’wagon wheel and your h’onion flavour spud pot”

What?! Two pounds fifty? Blue sounds nifty? Very well Johnson two dozen pairs of blue suede shoes it is. Shall I wrap them up or will you eat them now? Or will they eat you now? Two dozen pairs of glue crazed shrews, tearing at your pasty flesh. Burrowing into your thorax, feebly you try to swat them away but this merely enrages them further. Your last conscious thought is one of agony and regret as your crimson blood stains the hitherto immaculate floor of your newsagency. Your adventure ends here. I feel better now. Pass me a wagon wheel Yolanda…

Or should a say Dragon seal! Twenty hit dice, armour class minus five. Attacks with two claws and one bite, the bite is poisonous! Yolanda make your saving throw or you will surely die! The dragon seal has taken all of the wagon wheels. Wait on a moment, that is the title of the song I was trying to remember. Only now it is true thus demonstrating the gossamer thin veil between art and reality. Wagon wheels are to it  what gold pieces are to the seasoned adventurer, granting it experience points to go up in a balloon. I will hitch a ride as I always fancied a go on on, though I still cannot remember the tune. Where is my xylophone? I will endeavour to work it out…

Published in: on September 8, 2010 at 10:57 am  Leave a Comment  

The Wizard of the East.


A tale of fantasie, ancient myth and wonder.

An ancient sage of the Orient, at the dawn of time,
The power that he wielded, a source of great tale and rhyme,

The earth, still unformed in those dark primal hours,
twisted and changed at the behest of his unholy powers,

This inchoate void evolved to his command,
And as the veil cleared shew a desolate land,

The song of this world was all the Wizard’s to tell,
It could be sweet verdant Eden, or a foul boiling Hell?

In truth it was both, and some days the sun played,
Whilst others bore a blight of darkness and dismay

Peopled now with the guileless, next moment by satyrs so lewd,
Each a reflection of the magus and his strange passing moods,

A forest, dark mountains, a lake and a castle,
All manifest quickly with scarcely no hassle,

He stood, cloak a-billow, and with eyes not quite sane,
From the top of his ramparts surveyed his domain.

His realm was a wonder and his eyes they did feast,
On sublime curving landscape and fantastic beast,

Then the blazing orbs narrowed, for down at the shore,
Where the spume leapt and gambolled a strange creature he saw,

As he gazed down at the being, his curiosity grew,
 So he summoned his carpet ‘pon which he oft flew,

Borne aloft like an eagle, the foreshore grew nearer,
And the strange visitant he escried suddenly clearer,

For there on the beach, with strange white cloth on head,
 Lay a round poultry gentleman, stretched on a sunbed,

The wizard descended with a threatening cry,
Quite calmly the turkey opened a monacled eye,

Yet after this instant the character was gone,
Leaving carpet born sage wondering what was going on?

But try as he might this oriental magician,
Could find not rhyme nor reason for this weird apparition.

In bafflement he decided his excursion to rescind,
But up on his tower he spied a new flag in the wind.

The battlements grim, their lineaments spartan,
Stand disfigured now by this hideous tartan,

And what’s more appalling, his anger it rouses,
It’s less of a flag, more a scottishman’s trousers,

An angry gesture, a bang and a crash,
A bolt from the sky, the trousers are ash!

With a word to the carpet he’s back to the tower,
Now seeking the culprit for consequences dour,

Strides into his keep with curses he’s unable to stifle,
To discover his foot is in a bucket of trifle!

Now what’s that weird squeaking, some mortal might fear,
As with indignant calm manner he removes a mouse from his ear,

Betwixt rodent and turkey he’s feeling quite flustered,
And his wizardly robe is covered in custard.

He decides on a lie down to calm these frustrations,
Now turning his attention to his own machinations,

As to the culprit, he has his opinions,
In a loud ringing voice, he summons his minions,

And now once azure void sees a harsh change of culture,
As from western skies flock the dark turkey vultures,

Blood lust manifest in their hideous shrieks,
saliva a-drooling from their vicious hooked beaks,

They swarm on the ramparts, towers and gate,
Their orders to seal the sorcerers fate,

And if this avian armada was not protection enough,
A whole battalion of geesemen all looking tough!

The sage’s response? He grabs his bowling ball,
Then runs fast as he can down the central great hall,

Headlong he rushes ‘til he gains his skull mounted throne,
With a defiant bellow he summons troops of his own!

First to the scene, Sir Buckland appears,
Yet this seems to do little to allay our Wizards fears,

His armour ill fitting, his boots soaking wet,
And in lieu of a broadsword, a chicken baguette!

A sudden loud gesture, a lurch and a shout,
In a moment of chaos he knocks himself out,

The turkey’s foul creatures look on quite perplexed,

 What lunatic apparition will manifest next?

The wizard sits pensive and looks thought provoking,
Then reaches for his wand to do some invoking,

The onlooking monster’s cruel eyes open wide,
As a harlequin appears, flourishing a pepper, with an expression of

These vulturous fowel think they may be asleep,
As now at the wizards bidding come a dentist and sheep,

They have never seen the like in their avian gehenna,
Now Mr Cutler appears, “Buy these nice gloves for a tenner?”

The Turkey, their leader, believes they’ll cut quite a dash,
Thus steps forth from the ranks to hand over the cash

The transaction completed, and turkey resplendent,
But wait! The magician is grinning with a look almost transcendent.

And who’s this now stirring upon the stone floor,
Why Buckland of course, and he’s back for some more,

“Ho, where ab I?” Cried the knight all enquiring,
Next moment “Ho, what h’lovely gloves!” and he advances, admiring,

From these magical gloves comes a strange energy,
It makes good sense to him, in fact he thought there’d be chi!

Now a terrible smile the wizard reveals,
“Not so much gloves, in fact, as terrible eels!”

They bite to his paws and he screams like an owl,
Now flailing his limbs like some tentacled fowel,

The poor turkey’s frustrated screams turn the castle’s air blue,
“And here comes ‘extremely sympathetic to mistreated eels’ Johnson, and
he’s not keen on you!” (mwaaaerk!)

Now Pete and his peppers takes careful aim,
A well angled red fruit sends Clancy quite lame,

A right hook from Johnson sends the Turkey a – sprawling,
Just as some more of the old gang come a- calling!

A gateway wide opens and in they all fall,
Bikle and Simon, Peter and Paul

Morris chortles aloud at his foul necromancy,
Bikle sidles up to the Turkey “O,O,O,O, Ball right there Clancy!”

Simon  pipes up “about this  I did  read,
Toborrow’s dewspaper reported the deed.”

The sheep of the dentist, around they all mill,
While Carl shouts in vain “You woolly blighters! why won’t you stand still?”

And who can help herd them, to teach them the rules?
Why of course Peter and Paul, uhuhuhuh with their tools,

The avian army sneak away quite embarrassed,
As their leader is poked at, badgered and generally harassed.

Whilst Buckland ask’s Bikle as he picks up a sheep,
“Ho its so cute don’t you think it, we bight keep?”

Bikle looks across at Buckland’s mismatched apparel,
“Dot bloody likely! you don’t even feed your precious toad and barrel!”

And as if by magic as its name is made good,
In through the window crashes that amphibian wood,

“Bllblpbblp!” cries the Turkey, “This is terribly bad!”
“It bears no resemblance to the plan which I had!”

“Oh really” says Morris as by Johnson’s he’s seized,
And as he’s ledaway shout’s “I thought you’d be pleased!”

The turkey’s desperate plight is in no way improved,
When by a mysterious gust are his trousers removed,

So down to the dungeon he would escape so dearly,
His final cry in the darkness can be heard: “Reallly….!!!”

Morris surveys the circus of gits and the mess that they’ve made,
And almost regrets invoking them to rush to his aid.

They gather round the sorcerer as Bikle quietly escapes,
“Ho, what’s wrong there h’morris don’t you like our japes?”

“No” he replies, “I find them annoying,
Trombones and tools and incessant ‘eh boying,
“Cheese and horses and newspapers and seed,
When a flamethrower in truth is what you all need!”

He makes a quick gesture and in less than a trice,
Here comes Johnson bearing just such a device!

” Right  you b ** tards prepare your last breath,
-aside- “thanks for that Johnson”
“Now, I will burn you to death!!”

“Uh huuh huh hhuh hu no we’ll burn you to death, with our tools”
This threat is not carried out as Morris fries these two fools!

Simon:”Ho by dewspaper’s will burn on dat burning flesh pyre!!”
Morris: “And soon so will you as I engulf you in fire!! (wooosh!!)

“Ze peppair?” cries Pete in a last plea for salvation?
But he too must perish, by means of incineration.

So chuckling is Morris as he has the last say,
But who’s this he’s missed? Why Buckland!! And he thinks Morris wants to play…

“Ho fireworks! I’ll help””I do not require your assistance!”
Morris quite wisely keeps the clown at a distance.

In attempt to oblige Buckland rests back on his heels,
But now a crash and lunge forward as he slips on the eels!!

“Boohhh!” The inevitable collision transpires as it must,
The Wizard cries out in rage and disgust.

But Buckland’s inertia the sage cannot stop,
As the pair both go down, the Wizard’s head receives a terrible ‘bop!’

Dazed and confused as a result of his fall, he cries out to Johnson:
“Where is my bowling ball, rolling hall, strolling crawl?”

And the shape of the world is the Wizard’s consciousness,
In his trance like unease it now becomes rather a mess,

The very sky darkens as down thunderclouds swoop,
A terrible voice cries out for soooooooooup!

“Oh dear, what is happening, this is all thanks to that clown”,
The Wizard seems distraught and thinks it’s time for a lie down,

Buckland sees the Wizard’s mood is far from improving, and thinks
“Ho, a little trombone might well prove to be soothing!”

As the Wizard drifts off to dream of calm content,
Buckland prepares for a tune on his favorite instrument,

Morris’ slumbers are soon interrupted,
As from the mangled trombone a foul noise has erupted!    

The very castle walls seem to shimmer and become bent,
As ancient bastion transforms to equine instrument,

The wizard splutters with rage as his calm meditation,
Is ruined by the appearance of this bad combination  

The neighing castle walls, the spilling milky towers,
A terrible uproar as johnson runs and cowers,

“My stronghold! ruined!” he cries as he falls to his knees,
Buckland, quite hurt, says “I thought you’d be pleased!”

Thanks to Buckle  infinite  aeons of hard work, toil and trouble ,
Has now been reduced to tool horse and rubble,  

The wizard stares with disgust at the bumbling wretch,
“Johnson, Call me a taxi I’m leaving this sketch”

Published in: on September 8, 2010 at 10:48 am  Comments (1)  

The Tragick and Frightful Poeme of thee Goose de Berrsinou.

A Tale Rich in Horror and Unease
Yonder three bridges o’ gooseberry cairn,
Abides that goose that forr gooseberries yearns

And cast all around him, in ranks all unserried,
lie the whitening bones of souls long unburied,

For ‘berry goose home is cold as is the tomb,
Where ice breaketh the axe of the gooseberry gnome,

The wild dancing wind that cuts like a knife,
as it skirls round the skirts of the goose’s poor wife,

The creature unfurled from his wintery lair,
And sniffed to the gale for that gooseberry air,

He lifts his cruel beak, so wicked and keen,
black eyes blazing with greed as he scents that sweet green,

With a hiss and flap that rends the air black,
He screams to the goose wife to go fetch the sack,

His helpmeet so haggard his satchel doth bring,
with a screech and a curse he takes to the wing,

In his wake through the aether the clouds fail and part,
And distant fruit tremble and awake with a start,

On through the skies that are marbled with grey,
Screams the dread goose in pursuit of his prey,

His honk on the still of the sky is a blight,
His wing sullies dour on day’s longing for light,

Some savage distemper the very grasses doth blast,
The scant verdure withers where e’er the grim shadow is cast,

The other bird folk flee aghast from this beast,
For he murders his kinsfolk on wing ‘fore his feast,

A feathered maelstrom of sin, of rapine and slaughter,
He deflowered, devoured, his own fledgling daughter,

This happening now a fond notion long past,
The memory urges the goose break his fast,

The urge grows strong, his bleak hooded eyes,
searching, searching, through the wintry skies,

Now far in the distance, the dark land abates,
A fair verdant world is drawn by the fates,

The beast plunges down through clouds rent asunder,
hellbent on mayhem, and gooseberry plunder,

The emerging vista, so bountiful green,
So quiet unsuspecting gooseberry obscene,

The frond bedecked palm, pale fragrant mimosa,
unaware that the doom laden goose yet draws ever closer,

From out of his bill comes a poisonous steam,
Those webbed feet of ill from some nightmarish dream,

hark! through the grass two children come skipping,
little dreaming in moments they’re in for a ripping.

The sedge that they play in, one moment so still,
Now roiling dark goose mass in chaos brings ill,

A dark bloody outrage, a sanguinary scene,
on the rags of their clothing he wipes his bill clean,

But human lamb flesh though sweet, is not sought,
And gooseberry green to be stolen not bought,

For this is but murder most foul, a mere instinct to slay,
the berry’s the thing! and death’s an entree,

Yet now once more again he puts to the wing,
A fever, his mind, the sweet gooseberry sings,

Scant distance hence, a poor yeoman toils hard,
to nurture and husband his gooseberry orchard,

A waft of the air and the goose has this scent,
With a gooseberry fervor the fiend is hell bent!!

The farmer rests from his labours and surveys with pleasure,
the well tended bushes and their sweet globular treasure,

Now soon comes the doom, alas and all woe,
Inexorable terror and gooseberry foe,

All the good gooseberryman’s travails shall soon be as naught,
as the gooseberry goose prepares for the final onslaught,

Some yards still away the farmer heard a great thump,
As he turned his gaze round in his throat stuck a lump,

Struck by horror, the farmer’s bones turned to water,
is this the end? no more to see his poor wife and daughter?

He picked up a goose-fork as goose-fiend approached,
A vain and hapless effort as death near encroached,

With his terrible eyes on the gooseberry patch,
the creature rolled forward with dreadful despatch,

Those webbed feet of hades crash down like the thunder,
A swish of his beak and the fork flies asunder,

The farmer begged mercy! But the goose will not be stayed,
on the cusp of success in his gooseberry raid,

As the scythe beak is raised on the farmers cold fear,
The farmer can screams from his family hear,

Stricken with terror, the yeoman sought an escape,
then he espied a tall clumsy fellow in a badly made cape,

As this fellow bumbles over the goose is distracted,
By the farmers lunch the man seems attracted,

Now who is this other fellow who has strangely appeared?
with half mast green pantaloons and a stubbly beard?

In his hand is a bottle and his manner quite drunk,
From some hand stones strike him with a painful ‘thunk!’

“Ho what h’gooseberries? I don’t h’see any h’gooseberries!” cries a
voice oh so risible,
when the fact of the matter is little else is visible,

Two more clowns appeared behind goose oh so cruel,
They suggest that they’ll move him away with their tools,

An old man in brown trousers, a turkey in tweeds,
all babbling and shouting amongst the tall weeds,

The gangly man reaches the plowmans with ease,
And thusly announces ‘I thought there’d be cheese!’

But one of his laces has somehow worked loose,
a stumble, a cry, and he lands on the goose!

A terrible noise, a honk and a clatter,
Yet cloaked gentleman cannot tell what’s the matter,

Enmeshed in the cape, the goose is half strangled,
the others rush over and soon all are entangled,

Cheese in his hand the buffoon somehow emerges,
But straight away into the farmer now surges,

Somehow from the clutches of Buckle the farmer breaks free,
but fleeing in haste into the goose crashes he!

Now Buckland is blowing his trombone with force,
That monstrous goose becomes a tool and a horse,

The Circus De Bonus lives on in these fools,
“eh? what?” “frole!” “uh huh huh huh with our tools!”

The goose may be buckled but saved are not fruits,
For Buckland is wearing some awfullly big boots,

And the bad combination, whilst searching for snatch,
has wrought merry hell on the gooseberry patch,

The bald one seems prescient of the miserable caper,
Apparently he read it in tomorrows dewspaper!!

The farmer surveys all this wretched business, then crumples and sobs,
at which the poor fellow’s trousers, the turkey deftly then robs,

“Really!!” says Turkey, and turns not to see,
Before filling a bowl of gooseberries for tea,

To make matters worse, buckled goose be now merry,
having stumbled across the Comte’s crate of cheap sherry,

The trouserless farmer the tool-horse doth spy,
In sherry struck fervour its luck it doth try,

In the midst of it’s grappling, buckle once more blows his horn,
the once-was-goose becomes now a prawn!

‘Frole!’ cries the bald Simon ‘A h’miracle odd,
‘now he’s prawn again, h’I h’believe h’I’ve found Cod!’

“Ho by god” cries the farmer,”you’ll drive be deranged!”
then his simple appearance starts to shimmer and change,

Cloak, hair and pincers, in turn all appear,
It’s Bikle all right, is he pleased to be here?

Not bloody likely, to escape from this joke,
he’d fled to this farm and a labourer’s yoke,

One cries ‘Ho, what’s wrong Bikle?’ amongst other sounds,
As about the poor fellow the fools gather round,

His prize gooseberies ruined, of his trousers relieved,
no wonder our old friend is looking aggrieved,

Now Buckland comes forward from out of the crowd,
With a consoling air he announces quite loud:

“What’s wrong Bikle I thought you’d be pleased!”
At which the erstwhile farmer goes weak at the knees,

“Ho by lord!” Bikle cries and continues by screaming
“Wake be up someone I bust just be dreaming!!”

Published in: on September 8, 2010 at 10:22 am  Leave a Comment