Tuesday, 23 June 2009


Sometimes the Atlantic Ocean is referred to as the pond.
It’s not an expression of which I’m fond.
I don’t usually see eye to eye with people who use that expression.
It could be said that we’re oceans apart.
Talking of oceans, the Pacific to be specific,
Isn’t it amazing how its southern waters share their name with a popular musical?
What an inspiring sea!
None of the others share their names with a smash hit show.
Current thinking among oceanographers suggests that oceans and seas are vast bodies of water and that there’s more liquid on Earth than land.
So why they should be expected to inspire musicals, as well as being big, is hard to understand.
Ocean liners, it strikes me, must create the most fleetingly ephemeral and shallow lines…
We all know how water behaves, moving so fast when it’s displaced that it can’t be traced.
Allegedly, the Red Sea parted for Moses but when it drowned the Egyptians on his tail he didn’t give a damn!

Thursday, 11 June 2009


‘Pick the bones out of that!’ I exclaimed to the defeated palaeontologist.
‘You can’t cut Dinos with a dinosaur.’ He feebly replied.
‘I surmise that you’ll fossilise with fossil eyes.’
This, one of my replies, was met with no surprise.
‘Extinct, your ex-stink, of something old and obsolete, leaves you incomplete—like ankles without feet. You might be neat, but you can’t stand up…’
‘I’ll not stand for this,’ he indignantly sounded.
His mouth agape, his eyes rounded.
‘In your field of expertise you’re sufficiently grounded.’
I decided to concede.
‘I must push on, I’ve mouths to feed.’
Interjected the bankrupt restaurateur who’d retired in Nuneaton, masturbating repeatedly over images of Michelle Heaton.

Thursday, 4 June 2009


To relay the message about the baton, Shirl picks up the phone giving the receiver wire a twirl.
Steamed up, the chiropodist made her toes curl.
‘A sauna,’ said Shauna, was unlikely to straighten things out. ‘But no doubt you’ll give it a whirl!’
‘Hello, Tommy Greenears here,’ Tommy picks up the phone.
‘Hiya, Tommy, it’s Shirley, dear.’ She says as he starts to groan.
Had he upset her putting his foot in it with the chiropodist?
He sighs relieved when, without sounding peeved, she talks about a stick for guiding musicians.
The orchestrated responses of ponces pounce on ounces of his grey matter as they continue to natter.
The patter of little feet passing the premises of dodgy chiropodists provide percussion in the mental soundtrack of the mind affected by concussion—
The result of a blow to the head with a telephone receiver wielded by a malicious deceiver, who’d lied about the results of a relay race that actually had been tied.
The draw having been denied, a line was drawn under the deception by the mastermind of its conception.
Smugly, the liar circulated a flier coupling the false results with ads for dubious foot care, which results—for Shirl—in a scare.
Shirl’s girls inherit mistrust for pedicures and seduce reflexologists and the like, so as to break their hearts and, with those called Mike, impale their feet on a metal spike.
Systematic and cruel, Shirl’s daughters make foot fetishists drool.
Taunting foot masseurs, they play the fool—serving revenge cold, they are both hard and cool.
Getting loudmouths to put a sock in it by putting lead in a sock, for use as a coshing tool, they indirectly and vicariously vent Shirl’s spleen.
Washing their hands of them, former friends—horrified by their acts, so mean—keep clean by steering clear.
Everyone senses about them something that’s queer.
Except for their hapless victims—heel, sole and toe specialists whose special lists list specialties special teas spilled over and stained.