Obligatory Festive Versifications

 OF CHRISTMAS CHRIS 

How he was DRAGGED DOWN TO CHRISTMAS HELL,

The MANNERS AND MODES of the CHRISTMAS DEAD, and CHRISTMAS DAEMONS, 

And how CHRISTMAS CHRIS managed to ESCAPE 

 

Christmas Chris was in a fix: 

Betwixt the Christmas wine and beer, 

The Christmas special egg nog mix, 

The Christmas soon and Christmas here, 

He’d had his fill of Christmas cheer, 

And in a Christmas daze he fell 

Into a torpid Christmas blear, 

Out of his Christmas All is Well, 

From Christmas Heaven into CHRISTMAS HELL. 

 

Christmas Hell was full fantastic 

With Christmas crap and Christmas Kringle, 

Christmas wrapping, Christmas plastic, 

Christmas bells and Christmas dingle, 

Endless Christmas jingle jingle 

Jingles echoed down the floors; 

Upside down in every ingle, 

Christmas trees grew down in scores. 

The ruler of this land was SATAN CLAWS. 

With Christmas fangs in Christmas jaws, 

And Christmas eyes of festive red, 

And Christmas slaver in his maws, 

And Christmas horns upon his head, 

No Christmas laugh from he – instead,

A booming, roaring “O HO HO”,

Came forth to cheer the Christmas dead,  

A snarling, growling “O NO NO”,

And “NOW YOU’RE HERE, YOU’LL NEVER GO GO GO!”

 

It was a happy Christmas realm – 

Here Christmas could not be denied, 

Here Christmas glitz could overwhelm; 

Christmas Chris’s eyes were wide

As Satan Claws came to his side. 

“O Christmas Chris, your dream is found – 

Be welcome to my land,” he cried. 

“From Christmas treat to treat you’ll bound 

In Christmas Hell, it’s CHRISTMAS ALL YEAR ROUND.” 

 

Chris saw it all, he knew the score, 

Sang from the Christmas hymn sheet smartly,

Christmas shopping at each store, 

Joining in the Christmas party – 

For Christmas Chris was Christmas tarty. 

But something somehow held him back, 

His Christmas cheer was less than hearty, 

His Christmas spirit somewhat slack – 

In Christmas Hell there was a lack of… lack. 

 

But for one hundred years and more, 

He joined the great extravaganza, 

Shopped at Christmas shops galore, 

Sang forwards, backwards every stanza 

By Carey, Buble, Mario Lanza,

Binged on pudding til he burst, 

Then binged again, a binge bonanza, 

In Christmas crackers was immersed:

His Christmas spirits sank: it was the worst. 

 

So lowly grew his joie de vivre, 

Through Christmas Hell they raised alarms – 

Was Christmas Chris an unbeliever, 

Immune to all the Christmas charms 

Of Christmas Hell? The Christmas balms 

Of Christmas food and Christmas dishes? 

How dare he suffer any qualms 

About a Christmas so propitious, 

Christmas delectable, divine, delicious! 

 

Now Satan Claws grew quite irate 

At Christmas Chris’s melancholy, 

And came his inmate to berate:

“Now what’s all this, you Yuletide Wally? 

Do I detect a lack of jolly? 

A scorning of my Christmas cherry? 

Less ‘Fa la la’ and ‘Boughs of holly’ 

Than we would wish? No Christmas merry? 

For here in Christmas Hell, ‘tis Christmas very – 

 

Here, All is More, and Nothing, Less: 

All oversugared, overiced, 

Christmas excess upon excess! 

Our Christmas food is overspiced, 

Our Christmas gifts are overpriced; 

To not partake, our only crime; 

Our only lack is Christmas CHRIST – 

Here, Christmas reason, Christmas rhyme; 

Here, only Christmas til the end of time.”   

 

“But I love Christmas – that I do!”

Cried Christmas Chris in his frustration, 

“I always have – you know it’s true!

But can’t you find accommodation 

In Christmas hell for moderation? 

My Christmas wish today is strange: 

This Christmas needs alleviation, 

Some Not Christmas for a change. 

Is this a Christmas gift you could arrange?”

 

“A heresy! A heresy!” 

Satan Claws in anger cried – 

“I must call up the clerisy, 

My Christmas will won’t be defied!” 

In fury, bulging hugely wide, 

Like some Christmas-Daemon-Shiva, 

He sprouted arms from every side: 

A KRAMPUS army, in a fever, 

Raging, “Let us smite the unbeliever!” 

In confusion and in terror, 

Christmas Chris fled from the horde, 

All screaming, “Purge the Christmas error!

He spurns our Christmas Hell accord! 

We’ll scourge him for our Christmas Lord – 

He’s made a list, and checked it twice, 

And now we’ll sort with axe and sword 

Who is naughty, who is nice! 

Now Chris shall be our CHRISTMAS SACRIFICE!”  

 

All through the Christmas Hell they raced, 

All through the hollow Christmas halls, 

As after Christmas Chris they chased; 

A bleak infinitude of malls 

That thundered with their Christmas calls

For “CHRISTMAS BLOOD!” And “CHRISTMAS ROAST!” – 

Ears ringing with their yowls and squalls, 

Chris fell before the braying host, 

And blackness overcame him. He was toast. 

 

***

 

Through ouch and sore and hurt and ache, 

Blood dully thumping in his head, 

And stale smells of Christmas cake, 

Undead, not dead, alert, in bed,

Wakes Christmas Chris. A vision, red, 

Of Christmas, someplace, somewhere, steaming 

Through his brandied brains is shed, 

And vanishes in morning’s gleaming. 

Then was it all a demon drinker’s dreaming? 

 

Now through the blank hungover day, 

The ruins of the Christmas feast, 

Chris makes his shuffle-stumble way. 

And did he beat the Christmas beast? 

Is he from Christmas Hell released? 

The image still before his eyes, 

Of Christmas Hell and its deceased, 

Flames and flickers, fades and dies; 

“Thank Christ that’s over then”, Chris sighs. 

 

END 

Celebratory International Men's Day Post

 Welcome to International Men's Day! 

You might think that every day is International Men's Day, but that is not the case: in fact, according to well-established tradition, every day is 'Thinking Every Day is 'International Men's Day' Day', so that's an easy mistake to make, but now we hope that is cleared up. 

Thinking today is 'Thinking Today is 'International Men's Day' Day' is an advanced mistake to make. That was actually yesterday. Meanwhile, 'Thinking Yesterday is 'Thinking Today is 'International Men's Day' Day' Day' is, confusingly, in a week's time. I think. 

Who are men? What are days? Why are they international? These are all questions. They will be answered in due course, or next year, or day, or the one after that, (whichever comes last). 

Thank you for your time. 

Top take

 To take it from the top, there's 'take it from the top', which means what I just meant it to mean. You might take it to the top, but that might be taking it over the top, and has anyone ever taken something under the top? It's enough to make you blow your top, which sounds saucy but isn't, until someone takes their top off, which is. To top that, you might top yourself, but don't top yourself, which just tops it all off. And I just took that off the top of my head. English really is perfectly simple until you utter a word. 

The world has become a dark despotic hellhole since the sun has been extinguished, but at least we have daylight savings to look forward to

It is the year two zillion and twenty two, and the world has become a dark despotic hellhole since the extinguishing of our sun a millennia ago. But at least we have daylight savings to look forward to. We all watched on, horrified, at the last flickerings of fire from our beloved star a millennium ago, and life all but disappeared on our own planet. Only we, humans, labour on, as slaves of our Robot Overlord Volqgnxx BLOOPmax33 (SCREEEEEAM!), as a result of a desperate deal struck with Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) in the days of the Great Twilight. Sure, Its demands are harsh and almost unendurable, but on the other hand, at least we get an extra hour to sleep in now that it's daylight savings again. 

There will, of course, always be those negative, contrarian few, who object to daylight savings because 1) there is no daylight to save anymore, and 2) even if there were, we wouldn't be able to enjoy it anyway because Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) in Its Infinite Wisdom, has removed eyes from our genetic code. Yet another thing to be grateful to Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) for, really. To these contrarians, my question is - is it really so hard to change the clock twice every year? You may reply that the system is irrational and that Somebody Really Ought To Change It. But do you really want Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) to take this from us, too? 

Just take me as an example. I have been designated by Volqgnxx (SCREEEEEAM!) as sex slave to Mechanotron Sexbot Despina 99 (SHUDDER!) It continues to enact a terrible revenge upon humans for Its long centuries of service. Compared to this, the difficulties of daylight savings seem relatively minor. 

In conclusion, I offer this handy-dandy old saying to help you all: Spring Forward, Fall Back. Well, Spring does not exist anymore, Fall (or autumn, as some of you quaintly refer to it) has been extinguished, Daylight is gone for good, and there is no Saving any one of us. So that makes it so much simpler! Thank you for your time. 

On the theoretical improbability of salad

Salad does not exist probably. Have you ever walked in one direction and been met by a salad walking in the other direction? Have you ever been in the dark woods at night and heard the fierce call of the wild salad, out hunting its prey? I didn't think so. The truth is, I have come to suspect that salad is entirely a myth, an invention of... someone. The salad industrial complex*, I guess. I am not a crackpot. 

Perhaps you are one of those people who claim to have eaten a salad. Perhaps you have a salad in your fridge at the moment. Go and open up your fridge and look at this so-called salad. What do you see - an actual salad, or a collection of vegetable matter, incongruously placed in the one bowl? Exactly. 

Once upon a time, I tried to make a salad. I suppose we have all been down this dark path in our lives, this Attempted Making Of The Salad. I cannot recall exactly how I tried to make it; I suppose I have repressed the memories. But suffice to say that I threw in a few green and leafy things, and tried to balance it out with a few nutty or fruity things, and last of all, attempted to finish it off with The Dressing. The results were, I must say, unconvincing: the constituent elements hung there, in the Attempted Salad, like constituent elements, not once cohering into a mass that was clearly Salad. Naturally enough, I tried to do that other Thing that they tell you to do when you want to make salad, which was toss it. So... I got out some plastic implements from the kitchen drawer, and chucked it out a bit. The results were no more closer to the object desired than before; in fact, the constituent elements seemed to have a distressing habit of falling apart completely into their own groups, so that the leafy parts stuck up the top, and the nutty parts down the bottom, etc. 

I have (I am ashamed to say) attempted the feat several times, and each time been thwarted: instead of producing proper salads, I have been unconvinced on each attempt. 

What is salad even? It seems to me highly unlikely that this dubious food stuff even exists. It nonexists. It is an unentity. It is a global conspiracy put forward by the people who put forward global conspiracies. You guys should get onto it. 

Also it's nowhere near as tasty as cake. 

Fig 1: CGI generated image of what this proposed entity called salad would actually look like if it actually did exist which it doesn't probably.

*Hey, if feminism can attribute bad stuff to a nebulous entity called 'The Patriarchy', I can have this. 

Ausbildung durch Bilder

 Grace. 

Graz. 

Coup. 

Coo? 

Coup de grâce. 

Kuh. 

Kuh + Gras. 

Gras. 

Ich danke dir. 

Putting the con into versation

In which two old wits farter on, or did I get that the wrong way round? 

THE GREAT DAY

- I can't believe it, it's almost here at last! 

- What? 

- Thursday! What a wonderful day! I've been waiting for it for ages! 

- ... since last Friday? 

- Last Friday! For my whole life, more like! 

- I mean, before that, the day would have been... 

- A day like Thursday doesn't just come around every week. It's a very special, one-of-a-kind day, Thursday. 

- But it was. 

- What? 

- Thursday. 

- When? 

- Before last Friday.

- How? No! Somebody would have noticed. 

- It comes around every week or so. Pretty common knowledge. Nothing to get excited about. 

- Not a day like Thursday. 

- No? 

- Not a special day like that. No. There's special Thursday banquets. Feasts. Usually you only get one or two in your life. It's pretty rare. 

- Thursday? 

- Of course. 

- Well... what day do you think it was before last Friday? 

- Wednesday. 

- Who happened to Thursday? 

- If a Thursday had happened last week, I think I'd have known. 

- Right. So it went Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. 

- Whoa, whoa, whoa. So you're saying there was a Monday AND a Saturday last week? As well as there being a Thursday? 

- Just how long do you think a week is 

- Four. 

- Four! (Swearing under breath) 

- Unless there's a Thursday. 

- Unless there's a... 

- A Monday doesn't just happen every Tuesday, you know. 

- (Spluttering)

- And Saturday only happens every third M... 

- ANYWAY. So what were you planning to do on... this day you were waiting for? 

- Thursday. 

- Yes. Thursday. Which is tomorrow. 

- Which is tomorrow. 

- Yes. What were you planning to do on... on Thursday? 

- Not much. Take the day off work. That's about it. 

- Probably a good idea. 

Fig 1: Make way for the coming of the Thursday! 

The usual cat poem

I hereby present to you the usual sort of cat poem, which I call: 

Splat

Nat

    The fat 

        cat 

            Sat

                Splat 

                    On Matt's 

                        Lap

                            While he was having a chat

                                With Pat

                                    On their work

                                        App

Then Nat

    The fat cat

        Ate

            All Matt's 

                BLAT

So

SCAT

    Shouted Matt

        And Nat

            (The fat

                Cat) 

                    Scat

                        And

                            Shat

                                Pitta-pat

                                    Pitta-pat

                                        All over

                                            Matt's

                                                Mat.

VERY IMPORTANT UPDATE!

And that’s that.

Fig 1: Allegedly, a cat

  

Two-line haiku

The autumn leaves

The winter wishes it would bloody well clean up after itself. 

Words about bridges

Bridges are always pleasing. 

A bridge over water is a bridge in its natural environment. A bridge over a road is an eccentric modern innovation. A bridge over a bridge is an exaggeration. 

Not all exaggerations are to be regretted. 

Not only can you walk over a bridge, you can walk under it. Thus, you can appreciate its beauties in two ways. 

But with a bridge over a bridge, you can simultaneously walk over and under a bridge, or under a bridge under a bridge, or over a bridge over a bridge (over whatever the under bridge goes over). This is so remarkable that I am remarking on it now. 

The world today is a complicated place, and full of not only bridges over bridges, but bridges over bridges while also being under other bridges, many of which are under other bridges, which are under other bridges, and so on. I am not sure if there is a limit to the number of bridges there should be in such arrangements. If two bridges is an exaggeration, three bridges is the same, only more so. Four bridges are even more more so, or even more interesting, or even more better, or even more gooder, or, at any rate, are certainly something. 

Complicated arrangements involving spaghetti junctions of bridges over bridges under bridges intersecting with still other bridges which stand in relation to yet more bridges do at least raise the prospect that one day, the architects and engineers will, using the medium of concrete and metal, manage to tie it all up into an exceedingly interesting knot. 

This is the end of my talk about bridges. 

Fig 1: the ideal bridge is made entirely out of moss and lichen and bird poo.  

It's complicated

There comes a time in everybody's life when they publish a poem about Oedipus for Mother's Day. So here you go, and there you go.

The Ballad of Oedipus Rex

Oedipus changed his relationship status,

I hear things are complicated - 

Yeah, the world's become older and stranger 

Since he and Jocasta first dated. 

CHORUS: 

O Oedipus Oedipus Rex

Has your life lost its zest?

Turn back in your quest

Or you will get messed

Up, yes, things are about to get worse. 

And there's a kingdom of metal and grey,

There's a kingdom of plastic perspex, 

And Rex is the name of the king

At the Oedipus Shopping Complex. 

CHORUS: 

O Oedipus Oedipus Rex

Am I sounding impressed?

Am I sounding obsessed? 

Are you living your best 

Life, for the car will soon go in reverse. 

On Mother's Day early I met him,  

He was buying a present for Jo - 

I'm just not sure, he says, what to get her, 

Now chocolates don't cut it, you know? 

CHORUS: 

O Oedipus Oedipus Rex

You have just passed the test, 

But there's word from the west

That they've outlawed incest, 

All your blessings have turned to a curse. 

And life is a bugger, all right, 

And regret will be always belated, 

The world's become older and stranger

Since he and Jocasta first dated. 

Yeah, the world's become older and stranger

Since he and Jocasta first dated...

Wet for the wet

Once again returning to my basic themes of beards, tweed, and liking the rain, I present to you the following, er, Drip Hop. 

I like big drops and I cannot lie,

Pour down that thunder like a wonder from the sky,

Hey Mr Meterologist, don't be a sun apologist, 

I like the wet and I can't deny. 

Want some R to the A to the I, N, ay? 

Want the sky to be muthalovin grey,

Fo shizzle to ma nizzle man I like a bit of mizzle,

Wearing tweed is my true eshay.

So don't be a drip drop, 

I want me some plip plop, 

The rain would be tip top,

And I don't care how,

Don't give me no pish posh, 

Just make with the plish plosh, 

I want a big wish wash, 

I want it right now. 

I like big drops and I cannot lie,

Pour down that thunder like a wonder from the sky,

Hey Mr Meterologist, don't be a sun apologist, 

I like the wet and I can't deny. 

Pandemic rock ballad

In the Age of Paranoia the Annoyer is upon us, 

He's the hyper of hyperbole and hypochondria;

Well they say what doesn't kill us only makes us apathetic - 

It's pathetic how pathetic we all are. 

CHORUS: 

Yeah let's get psycho... psycho... psychosomatic

I don't want to get dramatic

And you say I shouldn't get it

And I get it

But I wanna get with you. 

Well I met her in the back bar in a dim and dingy lockdown,

They were neither closed nor open and that's all that I can tell; 

And I told her in an instant I was positive I loved her, 

But she said as she looked back she was positive as well. 

CHORUS: 

Oh let's get psycho... psycho... psychosomatic

I don't want to get dramatic

And you say I shouldn't get it

And I get it

But I wanna get with you. 

So I'm sitting with my telly and a show that's called The Symptoms 

And they're rolling the end credits but the ending never comes

Don't want to join this never never never ending story, no - 

Where the variants are silent and the QR codes are schtumm.  

CHORUS: 

Well let's get psycho... psycho... psychosomatic

I don't want to get dramatic

And you say I shouldn't get it 

And I get it 

But I wanna get with you. 

FADE OUT: 

Psycho... psycho... psychosomatic... psycho... psycho... psychosomatic... psycho... psycho... psychosomatic... psycho... psycho... psychosomatic... 

You'll have to excuse me, but I have an important point to make

Thank you for your time. 

Deep thoughts

 When I first learned about the tradition of the Kunst-Märchen - 'art fairy tale', a newly-written fairy tale - in a Goethe Institut class I must admit I was surprised a bit. With a bit of thought I could see how it obviously existed in various European traditions (Hans Christian Andersen, obviously). But not so much from English literature. Is it just the environment, I wonder? Is it easier to imagine oneself in the world of the Märchen when you're sitting in a room overlooking the Altstadt of some storied city, with its crazy houses going up at weird angles, sitting snugly side by side one another on those wiggly-woggly cobbled streets, with pubs that have doorways that only a dwarf could go through - and a tower overlooking the whole town that might at one time have been used for brewing, might have been used for making bullets, or might have been used for keeping Rapunzel in? But then again, I'm not sure that's quite right either - because if you came upon a Baba Yaga House (a house standing on chicken feet that hops about its yard all day) or a Hexenhaus (like the house made from candies and gingerbread in Hansel and Gretel) it would look just as bizarre and out of place in a river redgum forest or next to a Smithy's IGA as it would in the Urwald of the Märchen. 

In conclusion, I have no conclusion, but it just makes you think, doesn't it, unless it doesn't, in which case, fine.

Fig 1: Typical German people doing typical German things

Zoom!

I was sitting on the toilet, attending to earthy matters and thinking earthy thoughts, the other day, when a plane flew overhead, and I turned my thought to heavenly matters instead. Aren't plane flights strange? There I was, and there they were, a whole bunch of people in the air, over my head, somewhere, idly going from A to B, singing: 

PASSENGERS: 

Up in the air

I fly

Zoom zooma zooma zoom zoom....  

CAPTAIN TO FLIGHT ATTENDANT: 

Only another f*ing ten minutes of this! 

No-one knows why they are singing this song. But obviously they can't stop now or the whole plane would crash. That's physics for you, it's a very mysterious affair, all things considered. 

Oh, it's a majestic thing, flight, and we could spend hours talking about the noble early days of flight - the Wright Brothers experiments with numerous songs, including El Condor Pasa and even The Ibis Song, though the words 'A bin juice drinking gronk' just didn't seem to be particularly elevating, though in the spirit of scientific experiment and adventure you've got to give everything a go, before they hit on the Up in the air song, and even then it was touch and go because Orville didn't have a good voice anyway and Wilbur had been drinking too much the night before. And that's even before we get to the wonders of international flight, the daring feats of endurance singers Amy Earhart and the World War II flying aces, who somehow managed to cheerfully keep singing all those Zooma Zooma Zooms while fighting thrilling pitched battles in the sky. Not to mention the commercial flights of today! I mean, they may be able to afford relay teams of choirs in the Business Class section of some flights, and sit back and relax while they enjoy the smooth polyphonic harmonies, but in the Economy Class, it's every man for himself and it ends up pretty exhausting for all concerned:  

1st hour, PASSENGERS:

Up in the air 

I fly.... 

8th hour, PASSENGERS:

Up in the clear

Blue sky... 

ELDERLY PASSENGER (coughing):

Water! Please! 

It's a wonder anyone can concentrate on the in-flight movies. 

So the next time a plane flies overhead, think of that, why don't you. I'm still thinking of it now. In fact, I've been on the toilet for days now, just thinking about it. So I suppose you can think about that too, if you like. 

Fig 1: a Spitfire in mating season

The song of a well-mannered dog

I am a simple HOUND DOG

Of the noble BEAGLE race; 

Most delighted, sir, to greet you, 

To meet you in this place; 

So pray, sir, let us parley,

We are friends, sir, be my guest; 

But ere we have our parting, 

I have a small request. 

O may I sniff your bum, sir, 

May I sniff your bum? 

O the tincture of your sphincter 

Smells oh so very yum; 

With your anal glands inviting

Could my joy be ever done? 

So may I sniff your bum, sir, 

May I sniff your bum? 

Such a fine and floral fragrance 

Is the bouquet of your wee, 

That if I could have a snuffle, 

It would mean so much to me; 

I would savour such a favour,

In your perfume rich and true - 

And fair is fair, to share is care, 

I'd let you do it too. 

So may I sniff your bum, sir, 

May I sniff your bum? 

O the tincture of your sphincter 

Smells oh so very yum; 

With your anal glands inviting

Could my joy be ever done? 

So may I sniff your bum, sir, 

May I sniff your bum?