PLATELETS

Platelets sounds like a property management team for items of crockery!

Perhaps it is about time they were catered for,

In general, our treatment of these objects is poor,

Especially in Greek restaurants where plates are smashed on the floor!

Yes, we take plates for granted it’s true,

But what else are we supposed to do?

We’re not exactly going to be bowled over by them, are we?

I’m not suggesting that we should revere them,

Although some people do…

I’ve seen plates hanging on the walls of their houses, like works of art.

That’s going too far in my opinion; still it’s up to them.

What I will suggest is this: Next time you’re served with a plate,

Don’t overlook this item with its helpful eating surface,

Just quietly acknowledge it by saying, ‘Thanks, mate!’

RICKY HATTON

Like many people, I have a high regard for Ricky Hatton. A regard undiminished by recent sensationalised exposés of his cocaine abuse. If the former world champion has a drug problem he has my sympathy, but I cannot share the ‘disgust’ he was quoted as feeling.

  Over snorting cocaine? A snort of derision should greet the media-orchestrated process of apologetic self-abasement now expected from fallen role models.  

  Addressing the specifics, I wonder if even prolonged use of a class A drug is as dangerous to one’s mental health as a career enduring punches to the head.

  More broadly, when are the general public going to stop reacting with disappointment and surprise when individuals who famously excel at one thing prove fallible?

DALEKS

Da-licks—daleks with added tongues,

Daleks that breathe—daleks with lungs,

Daleks accepting bribes—daleks taking bungs.

Daleks in love, a contradiction in terms,

Daleks in curly wigs, daleks with perms?

Dalektric dreams, dialect of screams.

Daleks at Wimbledon,

Eating strawberries and cream,

Brightly polished daleks really shine and gleam.

Incognito daleks are daleks in disguise,

Daleks don’t wear glasses or have what we call eyes.

A slapstick sketch for daleks with lots of custard pies,

Simmer one in cooking oil until the dalek fries.

Daleks in batter don’t matter while they’re crisp,

When it comes to the crunch, daleks form a bunch,

They don’t have a tea break,

Nor do they stop for lunch.

An intuitive dalek, said to have a hunch,

Is afflicted with a speech impediment and sounds like Mr. Punch.

Stammering daleks, daleks with Tourette’s,

Daleks with dementia and daleks with regrets,

Remain the foes of Dr. Who that no one quite forgets.

Daleks distraught, daleks in Wales,

Inspiring fear—no dalek fails.

A dalek with hiccups might need to sip some oil,

Something a dalek is good at is unrelenting toil.

Despite their being logical, you can’t reason with a dalek,

Nor make them laugh or cry,

You can make them soaking wet and then—

You can let them bleeding dry.

Daleks are ridiculously compelling,

Have you ever wondered why?

CHUNG’S CHINESE TAKEAWAY

Outside Chung’s Chinese Takeaway, stands a nutter, To utter at passers-by, ‘Chinese take away what?’
Ignored by most, the madman’s post is tolerated by Mr. Chung,
The proprietor with one lung.
Chung’s wheezes sound like breezes,
He donates a percentage of his profits to charities supporting asthmatics.
Pneumatic drills fill the air with their relentless noise
Outside the takeaway one day,
Making the madman cover his ears with his hands,
Trembling, sweating, he worries about his glands.
Are they letting him down?
He sees Mr. Chung as an Oriental clown.
At the back of the takeaway’s premises,
Boxes of fortune cookies foretell everything under the sun.
Chinese characters, displayed on banners above the counter, form an Asian pun.
Slightly erudite punters,
Interested in Cantonese and calligraphy,
Hazard guesses at the banner’s meaning,
And this impresses Mr. Chung.
Eric Cantona’s knees in Cantonese,
Another linguistic tease for Chung’s poser-punters-hunters—
Constantly seeking a cultural image to veil their shallowness.
A shallow Loch Ness would end speculation about its legendary monster,
Not that Chung cares for that, or any other urban myth.
As a lifelong celibate bachelor, a stranger to the lovers’ tiff,
Never is he lonely, he keeps too busy for that,
Yet sometimes he wonders all the same,
If the grass would be greener with a partner
He could fornicate with and blame.
Now, in his sixties, Chung recalls the ’60s,
And, distortedly, his youth,
His vision is impaired by sentiment,
His faulty memory is the result of decayed synapses,
Presenting symptoms of the onset of Alzheimer’s.
The nutter adopts a silent approach,
Presenting his repetitive query printed on a sandwich board.
Chung’s customers congratulate him on his clever advertising campaign,
He smiles his acknowledgement because he is polite, not vain.
Out in the kitchen, Chung sets fire to himself with his degenerating brain.
At last, the madman gets the answer he’s been awaiting for so long,
As Chinese undertakers take Chung away in a coffin.

THE STRIKE-BREAKING HAEMOPHILIAC

As haemophiliacs at their drop-in centre wondered why they bled,
Taking industrial action filled one haemophiliac with dread.
He was the first to break the strike he pretended he’d led—
To ingratiate himself with his workmates who wished that he was dead.
As he crossed the picket line, cries of, ‘Scab! Scab!’ were heard,
Which struck him as ironic, but not when it occurred.
It struck him as iconic—being struck by an effigy of a celebrity.
When he began to bleed, he knew he should go with the flow.
Leaving, he observed further irony amidst shouts of, ‘Go, clot, go!’

PICCADILLY

Don’t pick a ninny in Piccadilly to taste piccalilli,
For that would be silly.
As silly as picking knitters to nit pick at a picnic with,
Being too busy knitting jumpers to knit their brows having rows,
They’d hamper the picnic.
Pickpockets nick property; pedants pick holes in things,
Holes in your pockets will sock it to a pickpocket—
Who fleeing, empty-handed, wonders if pedants picked the holes in Swiss cheeses.
In Arctic breezes, a pickpocket freezes,
Wondering whether Gruyere is a Swiss cheese or an Australian feminist.

JULIAN CLORAN—ART EXHIBITION IN THE HANOVER, BRIGHTON

'TIGHT WORK'

Acrylic on canvas 90 cm. x 90 cm. 1992.

Ten of my acrylic paintings (eight on canvas, two on lining paper—mounted and set under glass) are currently on display in The Hanover, Queen’s Park Road, Brighton. The pictures span a twenty-year period, from 1990 to the present, during which time I have regularly exhibited and sold my work. I am a member of the National Acrylic Painters’ Association (NAPA) and have also shown my work with them. Since the year 2000’s edition, I have been an entrant in the Who’s Who in Art and recent years have seen me increasingly active online with Flickr. The prices of work currently on show starts from £50. The Hanover is a popular pub in Brighton’s fashionable quarter of the same name. Renowned for its food, the pub recently attracted attention in connection with the arts as one of the hosts for the May festival’s Open Houses.

'ALEX'

Acrylic on lining paper 45 cm. x 100 cm. 2008-10.

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THE CRESS WARS VETERANS

Macauley Culkin’s sulking,

Skulking in a corner with not so little Jack Warner of Warner Brothers.
Mothers driven to despair, by chauffeurs who don’t care,
En-route to nowhere.
Nowhere Man, Tomorrow’s People,
An ancient building with a modern steeple,
Steeplejack Warner bathing in a sauna has torn a ligament climbing out.
Climbing doubt reaches its peak,
Hiders hide and seekers seek,
Jacob Marley and Jacob’s Creek,
Incoherent references, so to speak.
Marleybone station, the Stations of the Cross,
The revival of Christian values, a revival of interest in Bros,
Moss Bros, Stirling Moss, gloss paint, faint floss—candy and dental,
DVDs and blue ray for sale or rental,
Detrimental, regimental, militants, the military and their artillery,
Capillaries, in a similar vein, connected arterially to the inner brain.
Hemispheres of the brain in the western hemisphere recognise where international, cultural differences appear,
Like saki and beer, football and gear,
Gearing up for a change, changing gears,
Shifts attention from motorised vehicles to outfit changes.
Changing times, time for change—two clichéd phrases from the limited range of politicians.
Statisticians’ traditions include lies, can involve spies and sometimes, even, the consumption of pies.
Thighs riddled with cellulite shake and quiver in the night,
Not gone into gently like a subtle Dylan Thomas allusion,
Maya represents the Hindi vision of illusion,
Whose intrusion clouds our reason.
The mating season, seasonal work,
A job for the summer and the winter to shirk,
The winter of our discontent, winter mixture,
A mixture of snow and sleet,
Making winter complete.
Completed tasks, good jobs well done,
Concreted casks containing diagrams of diaphragms
Disturbed by hiccups and the records of dire prams,
That once got pushed by our ancestors.
Ann’s cess stores stash the slash from those who fought in cress wars,
Now—bores—these vets walk their pets,
Making bets on pointless outcomes.
Out come their old war stories,
They’re like born-again gore-Tories,
These relics reliving their past glories,
Looking back through a rose-tinted haze at the good old days.
Romanticising the backdrop of global warfare and genocide,
With ignorant pride, they confide they’re currently terrified,
Of anonymous, lawless thugs,
Who claim benefits, steal and take drugs,
These mindless yobs should all get jobs,
Whether or not they get paid,
Simply because their predecessors did,
Thankful for each day they stayed.
Despite being poor and fighting the war,
Life was good, like during the blackout—
For that was when, mostly, they got laid.
If life was shit, they didn’t mind a bit,
Atleast they weren’t afraid.
They knew what was what,
They didn’t have a lot,
Still, there was no such thing as a communist plot!

LADDERS AND BLADDERS

Ladders sounds like bladders and full bladders can make you climb the walls without the former, while not being much use for reaching a dormer.
Snakes and Bladders is a piss taker’s game,
Aches and ladders combine arthritis with voyeurism and a window frame.
You can climb ladders but not bladders, which simply squish underfoot.
You can get bladdered—at which point it is inadvisable to climb ladders and tights can get laddered by drunks and when climbing ladders.
Black Adder rhymes with slack bladder, which sufferers from bemoan, can cause them to miss episodes of the former.
There is a gall bladder but no gall ladder.
I wonder if that galled Sandy Gall?
Accidents with ladders can involve a fall.
Walking under ladders is said to be unlucky…
What could walking under a bladder be described as?
Bladders contain various amounts of dispensable liquid,
Ladders don’t—but ladders help firemen and bladders won’t!