Slang, Babs and Limp Dick

Dear Reader

Ignore the date, today is 17/2/06

My daily blog entries have moved to

Irishpoetry blog

This site you are now reading was kept by me for 8 months as a means to explore and bring to the surface the various disparate voices in my head; part of the process called finding your voice. It is the place I left comedy, which I would usually write on other sites in response to a post that got my mind fizzing up creatively and which I would then transfer to here.

The other sites linked to this blog (click view my complete profile on your immediate right) house the other styles of writing. Desmond Swords - Poetics started out as a place to put my avant garde poems, and after a while developed into a place for experimental prose. Desmond Swords is lyric poetry and As/Is is a collaborative blog I still post on and is where I honed my L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry skills under the silent tutelage of the conveyer belt of Post Modern verse, Sheila E Murphy, who is a natural and very generous poet.
The Poetry Assassin site houses a long unfinished piece I started and now don't know what to do with.

I trained for 3 years at writing school in my home town of Ormskirk on the West coast of the UK, (BA Hons Writing Studies and Drama) before decamping to Dublin to chase the dream of becoming a poet, which seems to be what has happened, as all the seperate strands of my imagination are now working as a whole and the voices have joined up as one. I am writing this on 17 Feburary 2006 from my office in Dublin, which is in reality a sweet shop internet cafe in the North inner city.

What I wrote on 15/8/06 was just another comedy piece of writing on my journey to self confirmation as a poet, in the Heaney sense. Heaney reckons you exist and survive as a poet in your own esteem and not because such a person or people say you are, print your work, or allow you access to public subsidies. Ovid Yeats refers to a nom de plum I put stuff out on the Ablemuse site. I won't bore you with the full, essesntially comedic history of how this came about, but it relates to another site where English poets blather, poem.uk. The site owner, Ed Barker (son of Dylan Thomas's mate George) booted me off for posting under this name but I am pleased to report I am happily back there under Scalljah, waffling freely.

I write in all genres of poetry and prose, which is why it's taken a few years for the voice to come through; as if you want to be a poet the first thing you realise is the factionalism and moaning that goes on from all sides and camps, with most of the talk revolving around the question of what is a real poet/poetry? The only point of agreement seems to be that there are lots of people calling themselves poets but only very few actually are. It is a bit like being at school, but it's the adults playing childrens games of name calling and with the bullying being a lot more subtle and pyschologically done through the written word.

I didn't know if my dream of wanting to be a poet was me fooling myself or if the spark of intuition that set it off was based in something real, so I decided to cover my backside by learning to write in all poetical forms, from strict meter to cutting edge avant garde and slam; and to centre my practice in memorisation, just like the Irish Fili, or "bards" who were in existence for about 2000 years up until Cromwell came to Ireland at the start of 17C and this ancient tradition collapsed. My parents are Irish and I instinctively felt more affinity with this tradition than that of England, and since coming to Ireland have discovered a touchstone text from the middle of the Irish tradition in the 7C which lays out in very simple terms exactly what the poetic art is and how it works.

This text effectively negates the need to engage in the what is a real poet/poetry debate and is the reason for my confidence and belief in my own voice. Most poets stick to one or two forms, but usually free verse, and read from the page. Few can write in metrical form such as a sonnet, and many call something a sonnett when it isn't, just because it's got ten or so syllables in the line. This is a sonnet, and I wrote it last year.

ORMSKIRK

I grew up in the womb of West Lancs, where
skinheads dwelt in bushes by train tracks and
cut childrens' heads off if ever they dared
go under the tunnel after the last
light had sunk signalling it was time to
come home. Playtime finished at sunset when
I was seven, and in the darkness spooks
ghosts, ghouls or Father Christmas could descend
into the night depending on what time
of year it was. Gavin Hesketh once said
he had seen Santa ploughing through the sky
with Prancer and Rudolph making his way
to Nigel McLoughlin's on Ravenscroft
and I believed him, though Dad said he made
it up and what had really flown across
the roof of their house was his mum on her
broomstick. That year Gavin got a Chopper
and we started playing Top Trumps together
in the back of Dad's broken down car
which he parked in the garage. This was where
I would listen to the match from Fortress
Anfield, soaking up the statistics like
sapling roots drawing strength from the depths
of a spring laden earth.

So after five years hard mental work the dream has become real and I have managed to construct a reality of the mind whereby I firmly believe in my calling, much in the vein of Pierre Currie's quote

"You have to make your life a dream for your dreams to become reality"

So please join me at the Irish Poetry blog by clicking the link above, (Latest topic is a Paul Durcan Lecture I attended on 15/2/06 where the full cadre of Irish greats were in attendance from Famous Seamus the Mossbawn Magus to Kevin the Amatuer Drunk) but also feel free to read the text below, written last November.

-------------------------------------------


On one of the canvases where I leave deposits a man called Mossop wrote -

"In my study of accent and dialect, I have acquired a book that lends itself to the study of 'Scouse English.' Now, whilst my plastic past (ie, fake as in "plastic" scouser) enables me to recognise the majority of dialectical scouserisms in there, some of the words are completely new to me, and I am putting this down to my lack of intellect/knowledge/experience (call it what you will), rather than blaming the book itself. Thus, it is with this in mind that I post some of these words, in the hope that you have definitions that correspond with what the book says. So, the ones I have never heard of before are as follows:

ackers
binnie
bobbin
Bootle buck
boxed
cat
chemicked
choss
college pud
creased
flim
ghost
jarg
jerry
lanny
marmalise
nix
on top!
scuffer
sock robber
togga
trabs
two dogs fight'n
wet nellie

Just interested to see if there is a 'universal Liverpudlian' interpretation of these words. Any ideas?”

------------------------------------

And to which I replied -

Ackers - is a corruption of eckers or E's, tabs, garys, class A's, uppers, downers, poppers, gobstoppers, shoppin trolleys, tweenie shock jock twots talking bollocks and neologism shapeshifters locking cocky robbin bastards out the house till they come down and read the literature about how strobe lights can make you disjointed looking.


Binnie - Is an old danish word with two meanings. One is a person who has run out of flims and the other means to turn down a request to go on a child killing spree in the next village coz you've just joined blockbusters and wanna stay in 'n cop aload of Viking Suckfest, Series 10, How Big's Yor Longboat Bigboy DVD

Bobbin - Is a gay slang term for an act which homesexuals, disinterested singles, bi curious, tri actives, lesbians, enlargement patients, pre op trannies, post chop drag queens, widows, doggers looking through car windows and off duty coppers with vibrating torches do at the Rampton Shoe Pub and Introduction Bereau disco every Wednesday afternoon.

Bootle buck - is someone who has to wear braces to pull in Sullivans, or alternatively, a tall dark man with a hint of mystery emanating from his compact frame, turning his head toward you as your bodies possess the space in which you know the thrust of destiny is about to cascade from the depths of both your existences and reveal itself to all present. His broad shoulders catching the static glow of the tame orange lights, he takes posession of the 2 pints of pina collada and jug of Lick My Member from the thonged and toned lapdancing barman in the VIP chill and Thrill section of Castle Street Suck and Butty Bar, and introduces himself as the dock road dance man, Robbie Rentoy, asking if you would care to accompany him to a business appointment he has with colleagues in the park. The swelling excitement of your physical form is uncurtailable as you feel his thigh brush against regions of an eternal joy, yearning to be free from the restrictive shackle of social form, bursting to spurt out in chase of the gameful endevours the gods of fate have delivered to your prescence. He tells you of the ten cans of dutch gold export which can be yours for the taking should you accept his offer. Without further ado you decide to throw caution to the wind and cancel your engagement with the DSS and the co-ordinator of the job club, and move off to the piece of wasteground at the back of smack alley.

At least I think it's that.

Boxed - means it's all boxed off, as in

"It's all sorted, I'm moving into a premium quality cardboard box where I can start again without that bitch who ruined me life. Why did I put the house in her name and not get paternity tests when the four kids were born. I always thought there was something strange going on with her and Jacko, Dilly, Andy, Retired Ron, Retired Ron Jr, Stephen from the darts team and the lads from the football teams in the Plough, Buck and Lion. We'll, I'll show her I don't need a fancy house on Ruff Lane, Three cars, my own business and a wide social circle to be happy."

Flim is the dyselxi word for film, or going to the pictures, whilst "ghost" is a code word meaning "getting shot" or gshot for short. Jrag has a similar entymology, meaning "jam rag" or jrag in its abbreviated form. "Jerry" means "Terry" but spelt with a J instaed of a T, whilst
lanny is Danny spelt with an L. "Marmalise" me coconuts is an old Lancashire expression meaning fook off and stop flashing yer knob, whilst "nix" means "on top", which is hetro filth talk for a dispicable act involving "scuffers", who are the people I act out my toilet discharge fantasies with at the Barons S&M New Skool Car Robbed Disco in Burscough every Monday month

Unfortunately, due to pressing concerns beyond the control of myself or those in attendance with me at the roughly hewn wooden crate on the canal, which is one of the many open air residences I frequent during the summer months, I have been unable to locate the precise meaning of the term Cat, although there have been a number of suggestions on the matter by more senior members of the Bells swing bridge alfresco pissheads with nowhere to go, who sup Stella with me in locations all along the Rufford to Aintree section of the Leeds – Liverpool canal. A number of distinct titular personages have contributed their opinions, in particular His Bi-active Scallback the Emperor of Lydiate, whose demense lands of Robbins Island is the site of the historic scouse to wool dividing line and language buffer, which maintained good linquistic integrity between both accents up until 2 April 1972 when the first South Aughton plazzies appeared, overnight in year 8 classrooms throughout Ormskrk, eventually stretching as far as Rufford during the course of the next two decades.

He advised that Cat is the name given to dogs by idiots, or those whose manner and bearing strongly suggest the potential for high levels of idiocy. People he said

"like them "che micked" spud munching culchie tossers who are the offspring of state registered loonies with a bit of the begorra in 'em, like that print happy twattin T shirt icon who had a lot of the Lynch in his moustache. Dyers know wharra mean laaah."

To which I replied, by way of nodding thoughtfully and pondering somewhat in a moment of silence as I considered the nuances and deeper meanings, if any, this statement contained; particualrly within a wider context of the mixed post structuralist and neo-platonic thought found in the songwriting of WB "Butch" Gaye, the singer, drummer and van driver of the Pink Witch Bitches from Thompson Avenue who are doing the Cockbeck car park festival tonight supporting the Wall.
And I came to the conclusion that, its essential impulse and register was far from related to those found in the tenor of Butch's rationale on the cat question, and concluded that his words were effectively the product of a mind which a life long addiction to fantasy football activity had turned into a pyscological machine manufacturing dross nonsense of a highly delusional kind, which may well be of a clinical nature that could be treated with regular pills and mind controlling drugs. The sort of language used by the very type of person Bernie, Lydiates imperial leader, was attempting to describe. After withdrawing to think further and at more length on what my colleagues had suggested it occurred to me to consult the definitive guide of scouseology, which a mate of mine has got out on permanant loan from a mobile librarian whose gonna be workin on the door of the las "choss," chippy in Bridge Street when it opens, after its built once he burns down the nursery school and buys the land off the council.

---------------------------------------------------

I then had to leave the forum of that particular studio to take the Dublin air, and when I returned was informed by Guy, the moderator that I had not given a full account of the words listed. I came back with this -

That is correct Sir Guyser, there is still much work left to complete and so little time in which to do it, so I will have to find the energy otherwise I fear the very important topic requring a large amount of scholarly attention will be lost to all those who love the sharing and dissemination of quality knowledge concerning the scouse vernacular and its etymology of made up words.

A fun pastime for all those unlabotomised members of society with a flair for waffling bollocks. Folk such as ourselves Guyster me arl spook kooky buddha of all things scrib literary. I've just been gettin up to speed on the old fenachas system of pre 17C Ireland, basically becoming closer to the knowledge of why and where the poetry genes have been produced in the warehouse of my person. And as a result of slipping in and out of the various browsers on screen the need arose to cut down on me commitments and the scouseology project was the first to feel the wielding of me make ups and what to do decisions as I was hitting the delete and sever on instinct, whilst attempting to maintain the appropriate hint of mystery that yer've gotta have in place if yers wanna be a proper boss plazzy scall like meself laaaah ha ha ha. Only joking geester beaster yer arl squish funky chicken chaser yer.

Truth is I'm not takin me meds so I've gone all wobbly in the head and am havin to rethink what it is I want from life at this point in time. What are the priorities and needs which will best stabalise the hetrodoxical hormonal imbalance I suffer from when I'm attending probation for the textual offence of violating a constables notebook, which I got done for when I was signing the text offenders register in the Croxteth one stop cop shop's comfort eating suite, where those who've been convicted under the molestation of language act have to attend, usually whenever they get the muchies after subjecting themselves to too much ale house and acid grass, mixed with a few cans on the park, which can result in hallucinations of being propositioned by Braless Babs the barmaid from the Brahms and Fisting Funhouse, who's also the legal department cleaner at Cock Industry headquarters in the Cockbeck bogs.

As well as being a well known cleaner, scrubbing the jacks for the hygenic benefit of all, Barb also takes care of members of the public who sup too much and need assistance dropping their kecks. This is an entirely free service by a very kind hearted and warm woman who, in addition to being accomplished at wielding a mop and whipping down strides and undies, is a gifted amatuer actress who has appeared in a number of Gimp Media video productions with many of Aughtons finest youth and adult performers, which are all filmed after lasties when everyone piles back to Babs's home based bedroom studio for some late night camera action. The director of these films is local static athlete, recording impresario and all round musical pub football artist "Limp" Dick Witteringon who works at Dixons, and is the presenter of a twice weekly show about himself on ipod.

These shows are produced entirely by voluntary self promotion work, the contents of which consist of Dick talking about his life and the various projects he's involved with, including the Aughton under fives table football camp he runs in the summer holidays. He has a full coaching badge from subuteo and is an accomplished table footballer in the West Lancs Sunday league, and could have turned pro if his career hadn't been cut short after tragically falling prey to a debilitationg limp wrist condition, which he got through too much practicing signing his autograph and pretending to play musical instruments in front of the mirror during his youth when he was undecided in the choice of a football or music career. Dick eventually chose retail, specialising in customer service operations, practicing as an electrical goods demonstrator; the ideal environment in which to develop and hone supporting skills to the sublime levels Dick eventually attained.

Dick is also a gifted Daily Sport reader of football style management and gives advice on player purchases and how and where to use them on the pitch, usually in the pub and on the train to work in the morning. The years of daily public speaking with Dixons customers means Dick has very strong, clear and fluid modes of verdict delivery, reaching levels of professional sincerity which only those seriously committed to playing at the top of their game in the exchanging of pleasantries are in possession of. His passion for the game means he is not afraid to cause controvosy by saying what he thinks when players aren't performing to his standards, on the big screen in the various local boozers where Dick conducts his work as an adviser of the game.
As a result of this activity, Dick's private life is also considered fair game for non-inclusion in the showbiz columns of the local media and community sport slots on hospital radio. His status as a non-celebrity pub football pundit means there is also a high demand for his absence in many of the large and small screen sports bars throughout the South West Lancs region.

Dick was with Liverpool until 1991 when he transfered to Manchester United to further his career, where he enjoyed many successful years as a fantasy player/manager. When Dick moved to Chelsea at the beginning of last year after a couple of seasons on loan with Aresnal, many saw it as a shrewd move, but their knockout in the European cup by a team whose fans had ridiculed him all his life for putting the acquisition of armchair football silverware before all else, meant Dick suffered severely from an outburst of local jibes in the Fiveways pub when he was celebrating winning the premiership for the 33rd straight year in a row. He has therfore decided to share his huge talent for support amongs all teams in all leagues the globe over, in order to silence his critics and guarantee winning a record breaking uncountable number of titles this season and create the worlds first football monopolist.

Dick hopes that this first for football will bring him the the recognition he deserves and their will be a special series of ipod shows to celebrate this historic occassion, which will follow Dick's season as he goes from game to game dispensing his unique brand of wisdom. Dick has already started minidisc recording his Saturdays and has captured the passion, top class punditry and electric atmosphere of a number of well known centres of football talk, including the Red Welly and The Queens.

This is a test coz I'm having trouble wiv me whatsit in the control room. Please come back in a few hours for some top quality nonsense

CALL TO THE WILD

It all started off as a bit of a giggle, d'yer know wharra mean?

It was all about puttin' the poems in one place

but then things changed

got different

after I realised that I'd gone through the transition

and cum out t'other end of me

self confirmation.

So now it's all about sumat else.

The comedy doesn't have to be in one place anymore,

and neither does the deep down uber straight faced

serious stuff like thee used to spiel on poem.uk

before George & Co decided to close the chat

room coz it wasn't bein'taken serious enough

by certain individuals.

That was around the time of the big Astley hoo ha

when certain parties woz gettin all hot 'n bovered

'bout who said wot and wether it was illegal.

Coz reputations woz at stake.

People like Dr Dim Candle, who is a very

serious man of sound.

He woz finkin' others may have bin tryin

to say he had bin rejected by Neil,

and he was gettin upset wiv Rod, who

used to set the agenda and dish out

the last word on all things poem

coz he was the man wiv a way of

convincin hiself he knew the score

more than anyone else did.

I'd just cracked that gig. I'd sussed out a way

of bein the biggest gobby twit of the lot of 'em,

lettin me word count do the talkin

by seizin the moment and shuttin

'em all up whilst I explored me ideas.

But it was all to no avail coz George booted me off

when I called meself Ovid.

He didn't giv a reason

coz I don't fink he had one

which he could put into the words he imagined

was befittin of a man in his boat

so that was that 'n here I am

callin inter the wilderness and playing wiv meself.

Cum on poet pals

lets make art togever.

EDUCATION

A market townland
is where his intellect was sharpened

A flat body of farmland
fringed by Liverpool’s urban cloak
tinging the Lancashire twang

which can be thickened in an instant,
the voice tweaked for the speaker to sound
like a spud tame lame brained div
trained from birth to be a fully labotamised
half cocked bog trotting dick head
or knob who sounds like a tit

gifted at carrot plucking and
swede, leek and beetroot munching
in mud covered rust bucket caravans

where dreams of getting bladdered
in the plough, the Shoe, the Lion,
the Queens or the Cricks
play on a loop until pay day
when the wages are blown
on ale and Ethel Austin wellies
worn in the rakish manner
of a hip Wigan pig shit shovellor
out on the piss.

But living in this linguistaically
liminal hinterland isn't all spuds
and dunderheads.
The liquid nature of the lingo
means scouse tones can also be
freely spouted
and the slow baked brain vacant
bleat of a sheep fiddling field lover
instantly switch to the city witted
jive talk of a street slick
trackie clad bling king giving it
the big one about buying a knock
of helicopter to go clubbing in
London with

ON THE WAGON

Being an alcoholic
is like being a poker playing cowboy;
eventually you have to listen to Kenny Rogers
and know when to fold and walk away
from the drink laden table
that's really just a crutch
disguised as a white knuckle fun fair ride
which is overdue an accident.

I have come to this conclusion because
in the past
I've had a few too many scoops.

Occasionally I've had a couple,
but not often
coz
usually
when I drink
I get rotten
locked
loaded, blotto, comatose
brahms and liszt, twisted, pissed as a newt
and drunk as a skunk or a monkey's uncle
who's red eyed and pie eyed sky high as a kite
that's spaced out and untraceable for days
when on the ale
and dashed on the rocks of a ten day bender.

I've been smashed
trashed
bladdered, tanked up, lashed up
staggering hammered and wankered so bad
I've got monged off my trolley
and had to go to hospital unconscious to have my stomach pumped
and then jump out the window when they've asked how I'm gonna pay.

I've lost coats
bikes
cash, cards, hats, gloves, books, shoes, shirts, tops
and woken up in cupboards
cop shops, hotel rooms, skips
tips, bins, trains, benches, fields, gutters and bus stops.

I've been a high flying down and out dosser
who could pass for a crack head tramp
on a cocktail of smack, methylated spirits and methadone.

Not that I'm boasting
or condoning being a life long pisshead;
far from it.
When you start vomiting
over the person you're calling a tit,
like I did at a literary gathering in Galway,
you know it's time to reappraise your drinking habits
and take stock of whether or not it's time
to lay off the gargle for a bit, or even
stop for good
before you end up falling in the river
getting shot
or knocked over by a bus
and crushed under the wheels of oncoming human traffic
who point out and laugh at the casualties
splattered on the tarmac of life

Sir Alan Bognot

If I were eligible to vote, I would do so only on the understanding that I was a sovereign person, who was the repository of power in the state.
Anything less than this, I could not tolerate, as the feeling of power is very important to me, for I am His Most Holy Highness, Sir Alan Bognot, Earl of the Tooting Broadway Public Toilets and the Lord and Master of all the toilet cleaners who work in Wandsworth area. I have created a document which sets out the structural changes to state I wish to be implemented after the election.

The first change is my title. After the election I will become the King, Prime minister and lone person Ruler of our fair and lovely lands, which will also transer into my sole ownership. These changes are to bring about the peace, prosperity and economic growth we, as an English race, have come to expect.

I will also take over the running of a number of various newspaper blogs in order to co-ordinate the high profile internet marketing strategies relating to a take over bid which would see our nation buy out other European countries and float them on the worlds stock exchange in order to raise capital for a sustained effort to purchase our former colonies and restore good old Great British pride to those in other lands.

The changes to our United Kingdom will be for the benifit of all races and peoples the world over, as I will be introducing fairer methods of taxation which will apply to every individual on the planet, once the new legislation is fully implemented and the changes have occured.
This process will began on the morning I take office at the Number 10 white house on the corner of Clapham Common, where I am currently writing from, annonomously, with a chip in my forehead transmitting directly back to the Tooting branch turnstiles. I need to write undercover, other wise a large swathe of the public toilet system in South London would collapse when my boss, the Duke of Hyde Park and Shepards Market, discovered I wasn't wielding the brush and mop and slopping out the bogs, which is currently my main area of responsibility as a repository of power in the state.

I also have a number of duties relating to accidental spillage of bodily fluids when citizens unsuccessfully engage with our services when undertaking, or attempting to undertake ablutions. This area of responisibilty has given me an incredible insight into (and allowed me to acquire) power.

As leader of our Great Britain I will also be implementing name change legislation which will retitle the Kingdom to Fantastically Super New and Improved Kingsize Queenland UK Britain, in order to launch ourselves as a new brand with something different to offer the consumers of planet earth and in diverse and exciting new market places on other planets, whose leaders have been communicating with me via the ghost of my dear, dear late friend, Adolf Einstein, who held 1268 various titles during his rein of Camden Public Toilets during the turbulent post war years and up until his retirement from public life in 1999, when he was called to serve in outer space as planet earth's representitive on the Intergalictic Toilet Commission.
Adolf has instructed me to prepare for a position in outer space myself, when I have restructured the Kingdom and taken the country forward.

ROYAL WEDDING

I posted this on the Guardian Blog.

Unfortunately I will be unable to attend the wedding in person, but my very best wishes will be with this stunningly beautifull and wonderful couple, who exude class and poise with a rare grace, which clearly proves that good taste is genetic, as well as bad taste. Basically it's all down to breeding. English people want to serve and work to make our better's lives easier than our own. It is our nature, because the compelling desire to know our place and defer to our masters has been bred into us over thousands of years's.

If I was legally allowed to stand for parliament, I would do so on the platform that would bring in legislation which would allow every man, woman and child on the island the opportunity to pledge personal allegiance to the superbly selectively bred head of our state and all their immediate family. This pledge would basically be a legally binding contract between us and them, whereby we would promise to voluntarily offer all our goods and services, and also, die on request, if requred to do so by any member within the royal derbfine.

Obviously, if we were lucky enough to have this law come in, the various tasks and responsibilities of the pledge would be enormous, but would unite us as never before and we would be sending a very strong message to the planet that we are building on and consolidating our traditional way of life.

A way of life which means our higher ups, and those who know what is good for us, can live their lives without having to worry about anything what so ever. That is what we are here for. Every single subject of this land, in my opinion, should be proud and honoured to help carry a tiny piece of the immense burden the royal family have gifted us. How much more fulfilling and hugely rewarded can one person feel, knowing that they are a contributing part of something as beneficial to society as the aristocracy?

My father, and my father's father, did not sweat and break their backs as manual labourers for 12 hours a day to see the immensley more worthy, intelligent, and wonderful members ogf the leisured class being the object of trivialisations and attackes in the media. What true English person would wish that to their betters? I hang my head in shame every time I see this behaviour, as I am a true Englishman who would gladly amputate any part of my own body, and kill others, for any member of the aristocracy who asked me to do so. I would press the button in the Whitehouse if my master requested, because I have that rare quality, which Fleet Street sadly lacks, loyalty to the crown.

The law of pledging, (which I have fully drafted and is available to any politician to implement) is very flexible and allows non-nationals in other countries to pledge and enter into contract with our royal family.

The law is also designed to be completely inclusive as animals can freely enter into pledging, as can all other life forms, up to and including molecular matter and macro matter such as black holes, other universes and basically all stella and interstella material.

TITTLE TATTLER

Hi

You're through to me and this is my life today. There are lots of people around me and I have an empty plastic coca cola bottle just to the left of my little finger. There is a piece of paper in front of me, bearing the script

fohiggins,

written with a broad sloping stroke?

Yes, with the exact same cliched description.

Don't worry, this text is going places and will start to funny up shortly.

"There is a lot of postcards outside....vot time ees it..maybe half maybe one vhour"

is a couple of lines just drifted in from the bloke in front of me, which can only mean one thing. It's laugh time.

I have been focusing on the Observer's tittle tattle hackette as the "reader" I have in mind when composing certain satirical poems. These are quite enjoyable to write as it's all about being funny and so are a giggle to create. I have not checked on this journo's name, but I read a comment on the blog that questioned whether the writer who posts under the monicker of "Cocktail Girl" is the same hack who writes about cooking and is called Mimi, which sounds like a perfect name for a gossip writer writing of herself. Cocktail Girl writes about boozing, shopping, what she wears and who she sees when she's boozing and shopping, and about getting her hair washed, which is OK by me coz I do all of the above too, so can't complain or moan, unless I have too of course. And as it's only Friday I can't whinge coz I save that for the weekend when I'm in the car stuck in traffic with the ball and chain and bin lids on the way to IKEA.So the story so far is. I've written two poems to Cocktail Girl, placing myself (as the narrator) in the mind of a schizophrenic stalker who has been sectioned into the mental hospital in Highgate. St Luke's I think is the name. I have never been in there myself, although I did once get seriously concerned about my mental wellbeing one time in Highgate Wood, which is a short story I will recount another time. Until then, this is my correspondence to Mimi concerning the statement she made about cooking being the new rock 'n roll.

Hi Mimi.
I think you were absolutely right in your predictions that cooking would become the new rock 'n roll and I think you should be suitably honoured and rewarded for your incredible foresight as a pundit within this highly important and valuable area of modern day life.

I also think that the readers will agree that your posting is the ideal platform to talk about the art of Boredom.

Boredom Grimsey is a wonderfully talented chef working in the East Ham Blood Pressure Tan Eaterie and Sunbed Launder Shop, but somewhat unfortunately for him, suffers much discrimination, due to the fact that he is daring to be different with food and is questioning the whole idea of what it means to be a celebrity cook. Boredom is basically ignored by the 20-30 something uber cool media movers and shakers, in a conspiracy aimed to keep his gift and vision under wraps, as he exposes the shallow emptiness of their posturings on food related matters.
He is actively challenging the East London fashionistas resposible for setting trends in breakfasting culture, and who are currently promoting other establishments in the Brick Lane area at the expense of East Ham, based purely on (possibly illegal) discrimination and predjudice.

Boredom trained with Jamie in Essex where he became a pot washer-as-artist and used this grounding to fully educate himself when he ended up in the secure unit, which is where we met. He now creates sandwiches and superbly wonderful works of edible art at the above mentioned establishment. The predominant food genre through which Boredom expresses his sublime artistry and honest passion, (which many men and women find incredibly sexy) is the medium of the "breakfast."

His no nonsense approach to the full English is revolutionising eating habits in the High Road and leaving customers breathless. A clientelle consisting of down to earth Cockney cab drivers, shop girls, wide boy wheeler dealers and the general flotsam and jetsom who populate that part of our incredibley exciting capital. As for decor, he has gone for an authentic late 60's retro feel, with every item of furniture in the place original 60's wood, plastic and glass, right down to the cruets, cutlery and delph. The furnishings also reflect this strive for a perfect positioning of time and place, with pictures of the Krays, Jack Spot and Mad Frankie shaking hand with Boredom on the walls, still covered in the original chip paper, now smoked stained, cracked and peeling, which add to the overall authentic feel. Obviously these are mock ups, but the frames are original ex-gangster stock, sourced from a fence that fell of the back of a lorry.

The aquisition of food is also meticulously kept within Boredom's overall artistic operational method, and comes extorted, direct from a farm in the Essex area. The farmer himself makes all the sausages and cures the bacon to a specific recipie Boredom and his associates have stipulated must be followed to the letter. And the consequences for crossing Boredom's threshold make great television viewing, as he is basically like Gordon Ramsey, only incredibly more commited to the art of cooking, as he has absolutely no compulsion about incorporating violence into his quest to create brilliant nosh. (again which a lot of men and women find an incredibly sexy component of Boredom's amazingly complicated and poweful makeup)

I am Boredom's UK promoter and am already in serious discussions with a major television network about making the art of Boredom more widely available. We already have hours and hours of high quality video footage of Boredom going about his daily business and it makes compulsive viewing, exquisitely entertaining and raw adult themed filmaking, which clearly shows that Boredom has managed to bridge the divide between reality tv cook and celebrity gangster with consumate ease.

I have been informed by a highly placed executive within this major television network that Boredom has acheived a unique position within modern media, and should do very well in the ratings, as boredom with Ramsey styled TV cook shows has set in and viewers now want to see the next logical development of this genre of broadcasting. My impromptu canvassing among my friends and associate patients here on F ward of the secure unit bear this out, as the consensus is overwhelmingly in favour of full screen violence involving members of the general public.

Are TV formatt therapy group has loads of ideas for shows, including an interactive Ant and Dec style cooking combo show, but with the twist that those Geordie conveyor belts of talent get to have their legs amputated over the course of the series; a small bit each week off either leg, with viewers phoning in to decide which presenters leg comes off that week.
Obviously that thought comes under the violence reality TV development ideas banner of artistic thought. We in the hospital also have plenty of more traditional formatts in the talk stage.

Nuns having Fun is a show we actually have in pre-production. This is a farming/dating show involving tasty sisters riding around the countryside in Devon and Cornwall, testing their vocation to God by going on dates with farmers.

The Ablution: One or Two Show is also nearing it's final stages. This show is about watching celebrities shaking drops and wiping what's left from the cheek squeeze and should be a big hit because it is addressing some pretty fundamental issues, plus we get to see our favourite celebrities in their most intimate moments, stripped of their usual masks and defences. A truly groundbreaking show.

Celebrity Shaggle is a late night saucy bit of fluff. Basically we gave Jock Lislie and Sam Cauliflower a video camera and asked them to keep a diary of their wood and clubland habits. Obviously this one won't win the BAFTA but it could do well in viewers choice.

Sincerely

Scalljah

O
Cocktail Princess
let me come with you
to where our class can meet
and be as one.

I know a place in Highgate Wood
where you can
sheath me with gossamer
fine fashion gossip
and let me wallow in the jangle of your big wig prattle
about dresses, handbag etiquette
and the time you spend hungover
in coffee shops
waiting for decaffe Mocca light
to form a solid base for the ale you will sup later on that night.

Now you have responded
the voices are becoming louder
and my dosage has increased,
but the tablets can not silencethe truth of how I feel or
the ache I have to read your words,
sent it seems from the God of language
Ogham;
who advises me
through the oracle of anti-pyschotic drugs.

And to those who say you're pointless
I reply

"No,
the Cocktail hack is here for occupational therapy needs.
She does not care about my mental illness
the ASBO orders
or the stretch I got for stalkingPolly Toynbee.
She only cares for taste
breeding and getting bladderedin a classy way."

And when they cry

"But Cocktail girl's justa lame duchess
and fake lightweight plassy poshster
with no discernable talent
for anything other than being purely filler,"

I say

"Cocktail girl's from cyberspace
she functions as a cypher
in an equation so complex
even Einstein could not fathom
it's value or truth of impact.
Her literary worth cannot be written off
because the subject of her storiesis her life.
She has assisted me in times of need
and given me spiritual succour
which I intend to repay
by following her round town
at a discreet and unobtrusive
distance, making sure she's safe
as she trawls through bars
where footballers in search of depravity lurk
along with hunky boy band geezers
and celebrity chefs
gardeners,
decoraters
and other such folk
with mesmerising personalities
and squalid desires."

Then
my Cocktail newsmonkey
I pledge to direct all my energies
into improving my covert surveillance skills
and keeping a watch on you
once I am released from the secure unit
of this North London nuthouse;
where the air is oiled thick with chatter
of what's on telly
and the celebrities we want to meet
to make our friends jealous.