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?