My Plans for 2013

Any ideas what to give yourself as a resolution this year? You could be highly original, independent of thought and genuinely impress yourself by thinking of something daft; something like, I dunno, reading more. But, as wide of the usual box of tricks when pitted against the usual smoke, drink and eat less brigade of resolution stalwarts, you'd not have thought we'd put it top of our list country-wide, would you?

Put it down to Cameron's Broken Britain (though he seems to be intact), put it down to the BBC's ineptitude (for genuine lack of new ideas), perhaps Santa popped into Amazon for tax advice and brought you a Kindle or maybe your local pub has joined the rest and closed, whatever it is though, I kinda like it.
Brits choosing to read more can only mean one thing for readers- avoid any Waterstones branches tomorrow, they'll be heaving. Seriously though, it is a market driven by demand and I for one love bookshops, we should do all we can to support them. Digitally, as this surge of e-book interest rises, I'm sure poetry can only benefit. There will be allsorts out there and the more people read, the more they will enjoy and as a poetry group, we will in some way be buoyed by that as well.

This New Year's Eve then, as I sit here wondering what amazing blog I'll pull from the hat for next week (in apology, obviously for stubbornly not posting over Christmas), I'm in an optimistic mood. I'll have to think but in the mean time, as a cop out, my list of resolutions:

1. Make a genuine Charitable effort (because every year I start out with a great sponsorship/fundraising idea and never get around to it, and the government won't be helping out soon)

2. Write more. Write something every day (this is my exciting idea to guarantee better blogs, see. I'm always thinking of you guys)

3. Read EVERY day (to not only improve as a writer but to learn as well- I like to learn)

4. Learn a language (I'm trying to think of useful and will be open to suggestions on this)

5. Eat more. (I'm a vegan and a writer, I obviously need to beef up a bit)

And at 5, I think I'll leave it there. I look forward to seeing some of you in 2013, not least at our event THIS FRIDAY. 6pm. 4/1/13. No5 Cafe.

Thanks for reading, and a happy new year
S.

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I don’t want a lot for Christmas

 By Ashley Lister

 Call me a grumpy old sod if you like but I’m relieved that Christmas is over for another six months.

Please don’t misunderstand. I love the idea of giving gifts. I adore the idea of receiving gifts. I enjoy eating to excess. I relish the pleasure of drinking until my liver starts to sob. I live to not work for a fortnight.

But I despise Christmas songs. If I never hear another Christmas song it will be too damned soon. In no particular order I loathe the following songs:

I Wish it Could be Christmas Every Day.

What a stupid f***ing sentiment! All the shops would be shut (apart from Tesco Express, which is only ever used for last minute milk runs). Who the hell could live in a world like that? Society would collapse and anarchy would reign supreme.

Fairytale of New York

How the hell is this meant to represent the spirit of Christmas? A drunken Irishman being verbally abused by his mouthy, ungrateful spouse? Admittedly, Christmas is a time when incidents of spousal abuse increase, but should we really be commemorating this hateful statistic with a bloody song?

Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer

Ostracised by elitist reindeer in Santa’s SS squadron of reindeer (because he doesn’t fit into the template of Aryan/Reindeer perfection) Rudolph is eventually accepted by these snobs because his physical deformity proves useful on a single occasion.

Notice how there is no contrition from the other reindeer. None of them apologise for the emotional hardship, trauma and cruelty they made him endure. Personally, if I’d been Rudolph, I would have told all the reindeer, and Santa, to go and do one.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

This song contains the line, “He sees you when you’re sleeping.” The only people who see you when you’re sleeping are stalkers, serial killers and people who want to touch you inappropriately on public transport. This line horrifies me.

Jingle Bell Rock

This has always struck me as a form of sing-along-autism. I can imagine Dustin Hoffman’s character from Rain Man arbitrarily putting the words ‘Jingle Bell’ in front of a variety of seasonal nouns, (Jingle Bell chime and Jingle Bell time) to create this sort of uncomfortable auditory melange. I can also imagine his counsellor suggesting an increase in his meds to address this sort of behaviour.

Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree

This one terrifies me.

Brenda Lee has tried to paint a picture of benign festive domesticity. There’s mistletoe. There’s music. There’s singing. There’s food.

But there’s only one type of food – pumpkin f***ing pie. There’s only one song we’re allowed to sing – Deck the f***ing halls. And we’re meant to sing it in perpetuity – like a purgatory of Christmas where we have to sing it, go carolling so we can sing it some more, and then eat more of that f**k awful pumpkin pie.

Apparently, everyone is dancing with forced merriness in a style that’s described as the “new old fashioned way.” I don’t know what sort of mental mindf**k this “new old fashioned way” thing might be but I do know that The Shining wasn’t this scary.

There are others – so many others – but I’ve said enough for now. I’ll just end for this year by wishing every reader all the best for 2013.

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The bitch hit me with a toaster!

Upon inspection of my kitchen, I found an abundance of spirits of the past (3 year old Advocaat and empty bottles) and spirits of the future (desire for spirits) but only one spirit of the present (Whisky).  Given this sorrowful state of affairs, I have decided to use an imaginary alchemical procedure to conjure up a whimsical collection of Christmas Spirits.  I say whimsical, some of these concoctions are quite terrifying; imagine waking to find the Eggnog Gnome sitting on your pillow.  It's also a possibility that this list is not made up but is in fact an accurate representation of what passes for humanity in Talbot Square on New Year's Eve. 

The only way you will know the truth is by printing this list and taking it to a bar.  Buy a measure of everything on the list and drink your way to the end.  When you get out of hospital, please share your findings using the comments form below.

Festive Spirits

Amaretto Angel

Baileys Banshee

Beer Boggarts 

Benedictine Bugbear

Brandy Brownie

Campari Cockatrice

Cider Siren

Cointreau Cu Sith

Creme de menthe Chimaera

Drambuie Dragon

Eggnog Gnomes

Gin Grim

Grand Marnier Gremlin

Lager Lubber Fiend

Mead Magog

Mezcal Mermaid

Port Poltergeist

Rum Revenant

Tequila Troll

Sake Seko

Sangria Satyr

Stout Cyclops

Ouzo Undead

Unicum Unicorn

Vermouth Valkyrie 

Vodka Vampire

Whisky Will-o'-the-Wisp

Wine Wyrm

Absinthe Fairy

 

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Santa Claus is Coming to Town...

Yesterday, Shaun turned himself into Santa Claus for the benefit of our nephews - and to his relief he wasn't rumbled. Little J took photographs on his new Vtech camera, and truly believed that Santa had descended in  Blackpool to pay him a special visit...

Despite being poorly, Shaun filled our house with the spirit of Christmas - creating a memory that will never be forgotten, by any of us present.

  

Being Santa

He shaved off his diggers

(left hair in the sink)

Pinned ponytail up

before adding a wig.

On went the trousers,

black boots and a hat –

a cushion for padding;

a toy filled sack.

He gathered his nerves

and knocked on the door;

the family all gasped,

it was Santa, for sure.

He dished out the presents,

told the kids to be good

Then made his escape

as fast as he could.


Thank you for reading,
Lara

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I Think Therefore I Am

 As always, readers of this blog are cordially invited to the Dead Good Poets' open mic event. This time we're looking at a theme of "I Think, Therefore I Am."

However, as always, the theme is only there as a guideline and poets and writers can feel free to explore and produce work on any appropriate subject.

As always the evening will be divided into a family-friendly first half and an uncensored second half.

Part of the reason why I'm mentioning this on here is so that readers can update their diaries early and keep the first Friday of every month free in their calendars. From now on the Dead Good Poets are aiming to meet at the No. 5 Cafe on the first Friday of every month - themes to be notified through FaceBook and via email.

We look forward to seeing old faces and new friends.

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Tasting the Glass

 by Ashley Lister

 As part of my job I sometimes teach poetry to people with learning difficulties.

Maybe that’s the wrong way of phrasing it. Teaching sounds like too grand a title for some of those classes. And learning difficulties sounds like a catchall misnomer that borders on being insulting. Also, with poetry, I firmly believe that you can’t teach poetry: you can only facilitate the education of poets.” However, if someone asks me what I do with my Thursday mornings, I usually say I’m teaching poetry to people with learning difficulties.

And the taste of each experience is truly satisfying.

Last week one learner, new to the class, decided he didn’t like me. In any other class, when a learner doesn’t like me, they might smile more with a grin that never touches the eyes. They might scowl when my back is turned. They might make harsh comments to their peers about my lack of professionalism, or my obvious absence of academic competence etc.

This learner simply fixed me with a glower and said, “I don’t like you.”

“You’re not the first person to say that this morning,” I said blithely, trying to make light of the social embarrassment. I gave him a winsome grin to show that I was unoffended by the remark.

“But I really don’t like you,” the learner insisted. “I think you should fuck off.”

It wasn’t particularly pleasant but the honesty was surprisingly refreshing. It was so refreshing I was tempted to do as he asked and simply fuck off.

In another class, as I struggled to explain the concept of considering opposites in poetry, I urged one learner to think of pertinent contrasts that might work for a piece of writing. “Think of extreme opposites,” I said, “such as black and white, night and day or home and…”

I left a pause for him to make a suggestion.

“Home and a gun,” he said obligingly.

In a different class another poet produced a beautiful sonnet called ‘Window Lickers’.

The term window lickers is a cruel pejorative aimed against those with learning difficulties. Because of his condition it was a term with which the learner was painfully familiar. The metre of the poem was flawless. The rhyme scheme was structured and orderly. The sentiment (that the ‘window lickers’ in the poem’s title are treated with scorn and contempt by the rest of society) was stunning in its eloquence and imagery.

In a lot of those classes the most important topics for many learners tend to fluctuate between conspiracy theories and religion. A more cynical writer might try to draw parallels between those two subjects. Personally, I figure that any writer producing material in which they are emotionally invested is a writer writing from the right place.

Conspiracy theories and religion might not fire my interests but as I said at the start of this blog, I’m not telling learners what to write: I’m facilitating the education of poets. And it really does produce the taste of satisfying poetry. 

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Give Me Excess Of It

The taste of a satisfying poem?  I've changed my mind, I want the blue pill please. 

Taste, unless we are suffering from pica, must be a metaphor for the way we sense a poem; the sensation of pleasure or disgust we derive from it.  Satisfaction is an abstract concept which, as poets, we are usually advised to avoid.  Satisfaction assumes that a poem is able to make the reader/listener feel a sense of completeness.  Therefore, the theme's wording suggests we will be discussing poetry which is the literary equivalent of a Christmas dinner.  Am I getting close yet?

So, I'm looking for a poem which delighted me personally, as taste is so subjective, and left me feeling that I didn't need to read another poem; that someone ought to stick a fork in me.

Taste, like the desire for food, is changeable.  There's the sweet/savoury cycle.  There are cravings and emotional eating.  There's the regrettable fast food and the unforgettable romantic dinner.  There's the bit of food you picked up off the floor, quoting the 'ten second rule' and there's the food you eat because you think you should.

Sometimes the food that you think will satisfy you fails to do so.  Sometimes two boiled eggs just aren't enough.  Other times beans on toast hits a spot that you'd forgotten existed.

Rather than trying to pick out a particular poem, however, I'd like to laud the aspect of poetry which I find to be both tasteful and satisfying: sharing.  There is a real, unbridled joy to reading another person's poetry, whether their own or one they've discovered, and discussing its content.  Like the best cuisine, such conversation is constantly reinvented and new combinations of imagery and inquiry present themselves every few minutes.  Aspects of fellow humans' souls are held out in the light like plates full of French patisserie for fellow connoisseurs to nibble. 

Poetry, as with all art, is primarily communication.  As long as we are permitted to express ourselves, there is no end to the combinations of flavour which are possible.  And that, to my mind, is one of the most satisfying activities I have experienced. 

Poetry is sustenance. 

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Gratitude

Last week I dropped my netbook on the floor. Afterwards it made an annoying beeping sound as if it were on a countdown to its own self-destruction. As I’ve now discovered, it had already destroyed itself, and every unsaved document on its unrepairable hard-drive was locked and lost within its broken components. Most of these documents were poetry related: finished poems, drafts of poems, quickly jotted ideas, and new poems that were still trying to find their form and direction. Stupidly, I had forgotten to back these documents up, and with one bump on the floor three years had been forgotten.

Poetry last week didn’t offer the taste of satisfaction that it usually evokes on the taste buds. Instead it was salty from the tears that caught my lips, bitter from anger at my own negligence…

But then, on Monday, something happened to wipe these unpleasant tastes from my taste buds, to remind me that some lost documents wasn’t the end of the world. And you, dear reader, played your part in helping this realisation to surface. As I unpacked boxes of food and toiletries from our Blackpool Foodbank collection, I was overwhelmed by your generosity and kindness. In just over a week we (as a poetry group) managed to fill almost four cardboard boxes with an array of items for those who are struggling and in need.

All the food collected by the Dead Good Poets

The salty, bitter taste was replaced by something as warm as cinnamon and as beautiful as snow tumbling in the headlights at night. I was filled with gratitude, because one solitary blog post had spoken to many people, because we’d made a difference to our community and given something back, because I’d asked and so many of you were willing to help. So to all of you, I would like to personally say thank you for your beautiful generosity (which I’m sure will mean the world to a few families this Christmas – and which certainly made my week a better one).

May each of your Christmases be filled with the same love you’ve shown.

Lara 

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And the winner is...

Winners for the mammoth giveaway from December 2nd are: 

* Phoenix Tempest (Poets Guide to Blackpool), 

* Michael Turnbull (Haunted Blaclpool) 

* Louise Barklam (Mathamagical) 

* Colin Davies (Poetry Rivals).

Winners, please send an email to deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk and I’ll organise getting you your book.

Thanks to all who took part.

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Deck the Halls

 by Ashley Lister

It's always been a Christmas tradition in our household to put up the decorations on December 1st.

December 1st is our wedding anniversary. (It's also World AIDS Day, which is a nice thing to think about each year when we're celebrating). As a way of celebrating another year of marital bliss we murder a tree and desecrate its corpse with empty decorative balls. If I were a poet I'd probably perceive a metaphor in that paragraph.

This year we almost let the tradition slip past.

As some of you may know, Tracy has been under the weather recently and recovering from a bout of pneumonia. She's just about recovered but even something as banal as decorating a tree proved too tiring - yet she still wanted to be a part of the tradition.

So we waited.

We waited so long that the Muslim family over the road from us managed to get there decorations up ahead of us this year. But, with the impetus of family coming for Christmas dinner and stricken by the terror of having a year without the decorations being in place, we finally got round to making the house look festive this week.

I've already shared my Christmas poem on the blog earlier this week. All I can think to write here is a very short verse that does have a festive subtext.

No one ties knots better 

than a sailor on a yacht

(the monkey's paw, the lark's head 

and the ligature knot).

No one ties more knots 

than a cub scout for his badge

(save for maybe Christian Grey 

whilst he gets at Anna's vadge).

No one ties them tighter 

to stop things from coming loose:

The bowline and the figure eight - 

the cat's paw and the noose.

The granny and the reef knot 

and the famous henchman's splice: 

But no one can tie all these knots

Except my string of Christmas lights. 

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Your face is a mess

This week we're enjoying Christmas poems?  Really?  Here's a list of what I've actually been enjoying this week.  I say enjoying, what I mean is these are the things that I've done this week that, in retrospect, seem like they were worth doing.

This week I:

• Refused to try to win at Monopoly because I'm usually a Socialist and it feels like something I ought to do, at least when playing a board game with my family who actually know my leftist leanings and neither agree with them nor care.
• Found a parking space across the road from the dentist while transporting my daughter to an emergency appointment.  It was bitterly cold and town was very busy.  She left her scarf in the car, however, after I specifically told her to wear it as it gives the appearance of good mothering when she's all wrapped up.  In the waiting room there was a very small girl with tinsel in her hair.  We agreed she looked like a cyborg.  The small girl took her coat off without being asked as soon as her name was called.  I don't know if that's a helpful talent in this weather.
• Drove home down the promenade after dark, distracted by the twinkly lights.  I remembered that I love Blackpool out of season and made a mental note to go on North Pier this weekend. Two ideas for poems occurred to me during Wednesday's drive.  By Wednesday night they'd grown into first drafts. One is short and riddlish, the other inspired by Carol Ann Duffy and Malcolm Tucker. I'm anticipating editing them at some point.
• Prayed to any deity listening to let me write for jezebel.com before thanking the aforementioned supernatural beings for the euphemism 'vampire teabags' and sharing the new phrase with my sisters, thus making myself seem both hilarious and brave, or so I assume.
• Snuggled under my duvet with the electric blanket on its highest setting while sipping an Irish Redbush tea and reading.  I read a little more of The End of Mr Y by Scarlett Thomas (as recommended by Lisa) and I read a few poems on the Poetry Foundation App.  One of these was Dirty Face by Shel Silverstein.  
• Ate brussel sprouts and I'd do it again because farts are supposed to smell like that.
• Rebelled on the Dead Good Blog.  Tell people I'm enjoying Christmas poems will you?  We'll see about that.

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An Apology for Absence

 By Ashley Lister

 For those of you who tune into this blog for Lara’s wise Wednesday words – you’re going to be severely disappointed today. Lara is currently indisposed after spending the early part of this week diligently caring for family members. I’m filling in for her today and I know, most regular readers will wish her well.

I can imagine this turn of events is a crushing disappointment to regular readers because Lara and I are complete opposites in so many regards. It would be like tuning in to watch Question Time and finding the show had been replaced by a repeat of TOWIE.

To illustrate the difference:

Last week Lara provided a suggestion for how followers of the Dead Good Blog could help to benefit some of the 9,000 children living below the poverty line in Blackpool by contributing to the Blackpool Food Bank.

It was a supremely worthy blog post and there’s still time to make your contribution by following the details laid out here.

It was far more worthy than my own contribution last week which was a jaunty piece of cam-corded doggerel written by me and performed by my son as he hid behind a mask of our prime minister and practised his evil laugh.

So, this week, with our theme being Christmas, I believe Lara might have written something intelligent and thought-provoking in her own distinctive voice. If Lara had written a Christmas poem here it might possibly have sounded something like this:

Tinsel pine needles litter the carpet

Fallen from the stiffly stilted arms of

Last year’s artificial tree.

No longer as shiny as the childhood memories

From when it once stood proud

It too has grown up.

However, because I’m writing this post, and not Lara, my Christmas poem is slightly different:

There was an old fellow called Santa

Who only ever wanted to please

But authorities insist

He should be on a list

Cos he empties his sack beneath trees!

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500. Baubles

Good evening readers,

This week on the Dead Good Blog we'll be looking at Christmas Poems. I'm interested to see where everyone goes with this theme, and as such have opted against picking out my favourites online. Instead, as this is our 500th blog post, I thought it would be nice to write a poem.
Christmas, statistically, is great at breaking couples up. This hasn't happened, I must stress and whilst one of my ill-timed comments (after a dentist trip) wasn't wise, it did provide me with some inspiration. I've passed it by the girlfriend- she knows that whilst fictional it is our tree, our snow stuff and my initial comment, but was happy to see me (love of her life and all that) write something, I'm sure.
Thanks for reading, S.



Baubles

When I said too many baubles, something changed
Her eyes pulled away like slow-fade Christmas lights
The times we had collected, moved to shade
As winter nights drew in, Christmas went shite.

At first the Angels she brought had to go,
So too the tatty relics I'd collected
and made, one of my Mum's and one she found
Soon enough all our memories were ejected.

The tree looked bare without the tat, I'd say
The silver bells on strings looked over tacky
The tinsel barely dressed the plastic spruce
The rags of cotton snow kept the cat happy.

But without baubles, we aren't building forward
This tree will never look like it once did
I'm putting them back on, forget I said it
It's Christmas, we're stressed enough as it is.

Shaun Brookes.

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Editing the Great Writers

Also this week, don't forget to leave a comment about our Mammoth Book give-away if you want to be in with a chance of winning. The draw takes places next Saturday and results will be announced on Sunday.

And please take the time today to re-read what Lara has said about Blackpool Food Bank. If there's anything you can share with this truly worthwhile charity I don't bout it will be wholly appreciated.

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A Christmas Message from David Camoron

 by Ashley Lister 

 This week I've written a poem on the theme of 'Bah Humbug!' and I got someone very special to perform it for me. The results are below.

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Ding Dong Merrily on High

Just as the gobby child is correct to point and laugh at the naked emporer, so it is only right that Charlie Brooker, Ebenezer Scrooge and I should hammer nails into the tyres of the big red holiday truck, boycott the grotesqueries of the fat brands and punch in the mouth anyone (no matter how old) who dares present us with a 'wishlist' this December.

And I've got news for you.  I've been eating turkey all year.  It's pretty cheap and the dark meat's tasty in a casserole.  Sorry birds.  You lucked out.  Not that it would have helped if you'd been pretty; bullocks have those big brown eyes and we have no qualms about hacking them to pieces around their first birthday.

Christmas is:
A naked, power-crazed old man. 
Stalin in a onesie. 
Savile in a bathing suit. 

Please allow me to prove my point via poetry.

e.e. cummings wrote a festive poem which I think backs up my deep suspicion of all things Christmassy.  General analysis seems to consider little tree a delightful, innocent ode to Christmas joy.  Look more closely.  little tree is a dark picture of forced cheer and the abuse of innocents.  The image of the 2 children holding hands and singing 'Noel' at the end is particularly disturbing.  There's something fraudulent and deceitful about Christmas and it took the specialist fuckuppery of e.e. cummings to lay the festering corpse out for what it is; a dangerous farce, shitting glitter and fake snow over malingering wounds which will not be healed on 25th December but will decay and putrefy into a stagnant, black, pus-filled sore.


little tree

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel" 

 

 

 

(I have underlined the most disturbing parts of the poem for your convenience)

 

 

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The Gift of Giving

This evening my boyfriend and I will sit down to eat a home-cooked meal. Later, we’ll settle in a warm lounge – full and satisfied.

I am guilty of taking food and warmth for granted, of not remembering that many are left to go without.

In our own seaside town, our community struggles as many families are forced to choose between feeding themselves or heating their homes – no one should have to make this choice.

It was recently published that in Blackpool alone 9,000 children are living below the poverty line – a statistic that I find shocking, saddening and truly disgusting.

I could use this post to accuse, to criticise the coalition government, to blame those that have allowed this all to happen, but I will do none of these things. Because a post which merely points fingers will not place food in the cupboards or nourish a hungry family. Because I’d like to make a difference to those living and struggling within my community. Because I don’t want to turn a blind eye. Because I believe that we are better than those that try to control us. Because our humanity and generosity has the ability to place a lighted candle in even the darkest of rooms.

*          *          *

Within a modern and materialistic world, the true meaning of Christmas is often lost beneath piles of expensive gifts and lavish food. TV advertisements convince us that the perfect Christmas is only achieved through the act of spending, when in fact, all you need for a perfect Christmas is love (which costs nothing).

“The value of a man resides in what he gives and not in what he is capable of receiving.”

Albert Einstein

This Christmas I want to give a meal rather than receive a gift, I’d  like to give something back to my community, to help those less fortunate than I am – and I hope you’ll join me...

The Blackpool Dead Good Poets will be supporting the fantastic work of Blackpool Food Bank (please take the time to ‘Like’ their Facebook page). Since January, they have been working with other front-line agencies, such as Sure Start Children’s Centres across Blackpool and Citizens Advice Bureau who are able to assess each individual case and distribute the Food Bank’s emergency food parcels.

On average, Blackpool Food Bank give out between 15-25 of these parcels per week (each one supplies a family of four for three days).

*          *          *

Our idea is simple: as a group, we will collect non-perishable food, which can then be delivered to the Food Bank on behalf of the DGPS.

I am not asking you, dear reader, to spend what you can’t afford, but I am asking if you could search your kitchen cupboards for a forgotten tin, or maybe add an extra bag of pasta to your shopping trolley.

I am also asking you to spread the word about our collection, as well as the hard work undertaken by Blackpool Food Bank.

How and Where?

If you would like to donate non-perishable food, then you can take your donations to the No. 5 Cafe, Cedar Square, Blackpool (near the Winter Gardens and opposite St. John’s Church) from today until Saturday 15^th  December. Alternatively, if you are unable to get into town but have food you’d like to donate then I might be able to collect – please contact me via Facebook for further discussion.

What food is needed most?

I’m sure all non-perishable food would be grateful received, but the Food Bank has a list of items that they need more urgently. So, if you are planning on adding something to your trolley, please check the list below to find which items would be of most use.

Longlife Milk (UHT)

Tinned Meat

Tinned Vegetables

Tinned Puddings

Tinned Fish

Cereal

Teabags

Pasta

Rice

Diluting Squash (1ltr maximum)

Tinned Pies

Pasta Sauces

Toothpaste

Toothbrushes

Soap

   
All that is left for me to say is thank you for taking the time to read this post, and to wish you all a very perfect Christmas.

Lara

As individual’s we may just give a little, but as group let’s hope we can give a lot.

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Bah Humbug.

When I opened up our online calendar this week and found the theme set as Bah Humbug, I must admit I felt a little saddened.

I know who this miser is. I know he will have relished the idea of making me, Mr Christmas (who has somehow been roped into a Santa role on Christmas Day) write something anti festive but I’m not going to do it.

Today opened on a negative. I had the humbug news, got to work (late) in the rain and promptly got the news a paper round needed covering. I’d no sooner started tutting at the headline “2000 ten year olds arrested”, which I would say excessive and mostly if not completely avoidable, when the hailstone came. This was not a great start to the day.

From nowhere, something changed. As I re-entered the shop a familiar tune rang out from the counter. Bells. A tin whistle. A credible Irish singer. That’s right readers, the Pogues were playing out- shamelessly spreading the Christmas spirit. For a while it didn’t matter that the Israelis were tearing up strips of Jerusalem, for a while it didn’t matter that England’s own green hills were being divided amongst the coalition’s various business associates. For three minutes Margaret Thatcher could have walked in there, iron lung on a trolley behind, and I’d have tried to do a bit of a jig.

I’m sorry Ash. The theme this week is Bah Humbug but with the tree up, the twinkling fairy lights and the film fest I’ve already started (4 and counting), you’ve got no chance. Instead, have a Christmas ditty.

Christmas Chores.

This Christmas, I'm dressing as Santa

I've been tied in, with no escape clause

I was told of the task by the other

She who must be obeyed, her indoors.

So I'll Ho Ho Ho in with a beard on

Spreading joy with the goods in my sack

I'm planning on not being rumbled

For I'd never hear the end of that.

So itchy or not I'll be wearing that suit

with a cushion for stuffing, polished black boots

the family are in, we're all playing cahoots

convincing me it's for the children.

Thanks for reading, Shaun. 

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Desert Island Kindle

 By Ashley Lister

 This week’s theme of desert island discs genuinely scares me. One of the things I savour about reading is the excitement of discovering something new each time I approach the unfamiliar (and familiar) pages of any given title. Imagine the horror of only being able to read the same paltry handful of books again and again and again. I believe, no matter how good the book, the joy of reading a favourite tome would quickly be bleached to the ennui of monotonous repetition.

Also, desert islands give me the willies. From what I’ve seen in documentaries they’re filled with dangerous pirates, man-eating spiders and a rather disturbing lack of lavatories and KFCs. Faced with these levels of deprivation, I think it would be facile for me to start worrying about which books I might fancy taking so I could be choked on the boredom of words I once loved.

So, instead of discussing the literary merits of various titles, I’m going to talk about the books I’d take for more practical purposes.

 

Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler

Soft, strong and thoroughly absorbing. I have no intention of reading the inanities of the twentieth century’s most hateful monoflorid nutjob. But, even on a desert island, I suspect I’d need something with which to wipe and Mein Kampf looks like a thoroughly Charmin’ alternative to regular toilet paper.

(NB – if I can’t find a copy of Mein Kampf, I’ll happily take the manifesto of the BNP).

Lord of the Rings

Whilst desert islands are renowned for being sunny, night time eventually falls on every piece of land. With night comes the need for fire. And with fire comes the need for something that should be burnt.

This is where the Lord of the Rings stories would prove useful. Admittedly, there are some passages that are so dull they’d be likely to extinguish the flames. But, overall, I think this is the only way this book will ever honestly be described as “…a scorching hot read…”

 

Fifty Shades of Grey (the trilogy)

I don’t particularly care for seagulls. One of them once pooped on me. I believe there are lots of seagulls on most desert islands. And I think it would be handy to have something disposable that could be hurled at the seagulls. If my aim is good enough, I could knock fifty shades of grey out of the little bastards.

There is only one book that I would want to take on a desert island for reading purposes. This is a book that I’ve read repeatedly over the past forty plus years. To me the content never grows wearisome. It’s called Five on a Treasure Island by Enid Blyton and this is the final passage of that book:

Then, with a bound he was on the bed, and snuggled himself down into the crook of her legs. He gave a sigh, and shut his eyes. The four children might be happy – but Tim was happiest of all.

‘Oh, Tim,’ murmured George, half waking up as she felt him against her. ‘Oh, Tim, you mustn’t – but you do feel so nice. Tim – we’ll have other adventures together, the five of us – won’t we?’

They will – but that’s another story!

For anyone reading that passage with a knowing smirk on their lips, perhaps you’ll understand why, even if I was suffering the austerity of a desert island, I could enjoy reading this title again and again and again.

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