WHERE’S THE MONEY, DIDO?

Where’s the money, Dido?

Where’s the bloody dosh?

You took the cash 

then made a dash – 

corruption is awash.

Where’s the money, Fido?

Where’s the sodding wonga?

Your ‘track and trace’

was a disgrace – 

we’ll take your tosh no longer.

Where’s the money, Dildo?

Where’s the goddamn coin?

You grabbed the haul

and spaffed it all – 

you squander and purloin.

Where’s the money, Lie-do?

The chips, the bucks, the bread?

We’ve paid our tax

so grab that axe

and shout

‘OFF WITH HER HEAD!!’

......................................

(Dido Harding, businessperson and cheat, who is also married to a top level Tory, squandered billions of pounds on a failed 'Track and Trace' system during the pandemic. We still don't know what happened to the moolah. The poem above is about that. It is a very silly poem and in no way condones violence.)

MY WIFE

told me that I was her rock.

I replied, “and you are my hard place.”

I then proceeded to explain

why this was indeed very clever:

firstly, it's a play on the famous saying;

and secondly, the word ‘hard’ carries

obvious connotations.

She sighed and kept driving.

(It can’t be easy,

living with such wit.)

THE PARENTING MANUAL

said that, no matter what,

you can't go in and comfort the baby.

If you go in and comfort the baby

it learns that its cries get rewarded.

If you leave the baby it will cry for a while

before realising no one is coming.

Then – the Parenting Manual said –

the baby will stop crying in the knowledge

its wails are worthless.

Well it didn’t quite unfold like that.

The baby overturned every object

it could get its little hands on.

The chest of drawers ended up on the floor

along with its contents. In paroxysms

of inchoate rage, the tiny walking baby

destroyed everything it could.

The mother, meanwhile, sits sobbing

on the other side of the door.

The father won’t let her go in.

“The Manual”, says the father sternly.

“The Manual says we mustn’t.”

And I guess everything did turn out OK.

The furniture got repaired,

the room tidied and redecorated.

And the baby (36 now)

knows that no one is coming.

LETTER TO CARRIE

I don’t really like you. (I love you.)

I’m not impressed. (I’m in awe.)

You’re not my friend. (You’re my BFF.)

You’ve not made the grade. (You’ve done more.)

I don’t think you’re pretty. (You’re stunning.)

I can’t say you’re good. (You’re elite.)

You’re not very bright. (You’re blinding.)

You’re simply not nice. (You’re a treat.)

I don’t want you. (I need you.)

I don’t think you’re kind. (You’re a saint.)

You’ll never be cool. (You’re on fire.)

You’re my wife. (& I have no complaint.)

.................

[clarification: this is a poem about my wife, Carrie, not Boris Johnson's wife, who is also called Carrie. A couple of people got in touch to express confusion.]

CHOICES, CHOICES, CHOICES

Truss or Sunak, Sunak or Truss

Shot from a cannon, or hit by a bus 

A mug of bile, or a cup of sick

Smacked with a bat, or jabbed with a stick

Death by fire, or suffocation

Mauled by a Pitbull, or a hungry Alsatian

A lava jacuzzi, or an acid shower

Drowned in the sea, or pushed from a tower 

Naked at work, or trapped in a drain

Jump off a bridge, or a moving train

A vest in the snow, or a scarf in the heat

Slapped with a fish, or a slab of meat

Impaled on a spike, or trampled by cows

Lashes cut off, or losing your brows

Internet down, or battery dead

Kicked in the crotch, or bashed on the head 

Sharing a bath with a frisky BoJo, 

or climbing a mountain in just a kimono 

Pubic lice, or a cyst full of pus –  

Truss or Sunak? Sunak or Truss?

LEADERSHIP CONTEST

Your dad, your nan, the guy next door

The bloke who runs the general store

Your best mate’s wife from Ecuador —

Everyone’s going for PM. 

Churchillian manqués spouting crap

Nonentities who like to yap

The girl who’s on the till at Gap —

Everyone’s going for PM.

The slug, the lizard and the snake

The sharp of elbow, on the take 

Your neighbour’s cat, your cousin Jake – 

Everyone’s going for PM.

The chancers in the local boozers

Scammers, spammers, spaffers, schmoozers

Rancid crowds of bloody losers – 

Everyone’s going for PM.

A wink, a smirk and a bit of swag 

Old gammon wrapped in a union flag 

They’re all just rats in a paper bag – 

Everyone’s going for PM.

I won the People's Book Prize

I was really chuffed to win the People's Book Prize a few months ago. It is the only book prize voted for by members of the public. Check out this interview I did:

NOMINATIVE DETERMINISM?

Dominic Raabed us all the wrong way
Liz Trussed us up
Boris got out his Johnson
and Peter got a Bone
Patel did things that weren't Priti
Simon had no Hart
Therese spilt her Coffey

whilst James didn't think too Cleverly
But I can't
just can't
think of any puns
relating to Chris Pincher...

(Tory MP Chris Pincher, accused of multiple gropings)

ORCHARDS JUNIOR SCHOOL POEM

I recently worked with a group of Year 5 pupils ar Orchards Junior School in West Sussex. Throughout the day we wrote poems centred around their wonderful school. I was then tasked with taking the poems home, and using them as a basis to construct a special, bespoke poem for the school. I am delighted to be sharing it on my blog. A huge congratulations to all involved!

Orchards Junior School Poem

Here at Orchards we love to SPARKLE

And this is what we’re made of:

Pride bursting out of happy hearts

Building a future, making a start

Working together and playing our part

Thousands of books, from every perspective

Trying our best to reach our objective

Respecting others, and being respected

Excitement bubbling in the atmosphere

Looking out for each other, giving a cheer

Determination cutting through fear

Sherbet lemons, so fizzy and sweet

Mud covered boots on eager young feet

Needing each other to feel complete

The comforting fragrance of freshly-cut grass

Exploring the world with our teachers in class

Football and dodgeballl, a goal and a pass

Our school always sparkles, fierce and strong

We know that Orchards is where we belong

On this journey we help each other along

Because this is what we’re made of!

by Joshua Seigal, with help from Grace, Imogen, Samrina, Aanya, Bea, Bella, Gracie, Alexie, Elijah, Landon, James, Riley, Freddie, Advik, Jess, Sofia, Darcy, Hollie, Daniel, Jackson, Max, Mrs Jones, Austin, Eric, Uriele, Hannah, Erin, Caden

COLOURS - two beautiful poems from Year 5, Talavera Juniors

I'd like to share two poems written by students in Year 5 at Talavera Junior School in Aldershot. I asked them to think about which colour, or colours, represent them, and to write a poem about it. This activity often tends to produce outstanding work, and these poems are no exception. Hollie-Claire and Ella-Mae should be very proud of themselves!

Amber by Hollie-Claire Year 5

I am orange

and I look like a pile of dead leaves

in autumn

I am orange

and I look like a ginger cat 

I am orange

and I look like a dim candle 

I am orange

and I am not like

my friend black 

He looks like an empty void 

He looks like the midnight sky 

He looks like a dark room 

I am orange

He is black 

We are very different.

Poem by Ella-Mae Year 5 

Blue describes me 

Though I can be black 

Blue is the ocean and the waves 

And black is the rain and thunder 

Blue is innocent like an axolotl 

Black is a raging wolf 

Blue is perfect and happy

Black is dull and sad 

Though black is the rain

That gives way to life 

And blue is the ocean

Deadly and infinite 

Black is possibility

Blue is too 

They’re different

And they’re the same 

Just like me

And you.