Jelly Babies

Hands up anyone who can eat just one Malteser, one chocolate button or more to the point of this blog – one Jelly Baby. If you have raised that hand then I salute you. Whether I believe you is another matter.

When I started looking at when they first appeared in the shops I thought it would be a fairly straight forward matter of checking a date and a manufacturer. How wrong can you be?

According to the historians of such things Jelly Babies were first being manufactured by Thomas Fryer and his sweet company, based in Nelson, Lancashire. In around 1864 one of Fryer’s employees was an Austrian immigrant named Steinbeck, who is reported to have created the Jelly Baby. When Steinbeck was asked to create a new mould for jelly bears, the end product looked more like babies. The sweets were originally named ‘unclaimed babies’, so-called after babies left on church steps.

I was still recovering from that piece of Victorian humour when I found that by 1918 their popularity had waned before being taken over by Bassett's in Sheffield as "Peace Babies", to mark the end of World War I. Production was suspended during World War II due to wartime shortages. The product was relaunched as ‘Jelly Babies’ in 1953. They now allocate individual name, shape, colour and flavour to different babies (see below).

Three interesting facts:

In October 1963, fans of The Beatles in the United Kingdom pelted the band with jelly babies (or, in the United States, the much harder jelly beans) after it was reported that George Harrison liked eating them.

In Doctor Who jelly babies were frequently featured as a plot device in which the Doctor would attempt to ease an awkward moment or prevent potential conflict with an unfamiliar being by offering, "Would you like a jelly baby?”

In the Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, the country of Djelibeybi, a pun on "jelly baby", is the Discworld's analogue of Ancient Egypt.

Interesting indeed but now comes the crucial question. Do you suck it, nibble round the edges or go straight for the head and bite it off ruthlessly? In a very small sample I was shocked when told, by very nice people, that the head must roll.

Solely in the spirit of academic research it was felt necessary to investigate the taste, texture and visual appeal of this confection. There is no need to thank me, sometimes the job is more important than personal discomfort.

So, let’s see - in this sample 130g packet bought at my local newsagent the bag contained 4 Blackcurrant, 2 Lemon, 3 Orange, 5 Lime, 2 Raspberry and 1 Strawberry.

I was just about to start the randomized testing procedure when I remembered that my friend had told me that they also contain gelatine which is a complete no-no to me as I’m vegetarian.

So that was waste of time and money and I can’t find a poem purely about Jelly Babies so I’m going to try some haiku of my own and I do find writing haiku difficult. So, in order of colour:

tennis on the tv

it must be summer

I prefer apples

cliff path past
fields of yellow
the sound of sneezing

I go to the country
to pick raspberries
is this right?

the third man
hiding in shadows
or son’s well

tangled bushes
couples pick blackberries
sudden rain

bumper crowd
at Bloomfield Road
Keep Right On

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Keyboard

I promise you that I do not do this sort of thing usually. Ever. I have just counted the number of keys on this keyboard. There are 106 and that’s without the stuff that happens when you hold down the up arrow.

I did this in a desperate attempt to find something to say about the subject and it was only when I’d finished counting that I realised that there were quite a few keys that I had never used in the years of using a computer.

 

flexible

And what’s more I had no idea what they were for. So I started with:

F1 – Opens the Help screen for almost every program.
F2 – Allows you to rename a selected file or folder.
F3 – Opens a search feature for an application that is active at the moment.
F4 – Alt + F4 closes the active window.
F5 – Allows you to refresh or reload the page or document window.
F6 – Moves the cursor to the address bar in most Internet browsers.
F7 – Used to spell check and grammar check a document in Microsoft Apps (e.g. Word).
F8 – Used to access the boot menu in Windows when turning on the computer.
F9 – Refreshes a document in Microsoft Word and sends and receives emails in Outlook.
F10 – Activates the menu bar of an open application. Shift + F10 is the same as right clicking.
F11 – Enters and exits full screen mode in Internet browsers.
F12 – Opens the Save As dialog box in Microsoft Word.

I’ve highlighted F7 as it was the only one that I might possibly use in the future. The rest of them are still a mystery to me.

There are four keys on the majority of modern keyboards that are a legacy from the ancient times of computers and, to my surprise, are useless.

inflexible

System Request is often abbreviated SysRq or Sys Req. The origin of this key dates back to 1980, when IBM computers typically ran few operating systems. System Request was designed to switch between them. Since then, the key has no purpose. Today it is rarely used in software testing and programming on Windows system.

Print Screen (usually placed in conjunction with System Request), often abbreviated PrtScr or PrntScrn. It's original purpose was to capture the screen and print it on paper. Today it's used to capture the screen and save it to clipboard.

Pause/Break key has its predecessor in 19th century telegraph, where electrical circuit had to break in certain moment. Today, the key has no real meaning and it's used in keyboard shortcuts and few games. Pause functionality works in terminal environments to pause the execution of command or program, but is rarely used almost exclusively by programmers.

Scroll Lock (abbreviated ScrLk) is the fourth of rather useless keys on modern keyboards, it never really had any particular function. It supposed to lock page scrolling with arrow keys, but since its introduction it never worked that way.

In reading about the interesting, facts above I came across a person who had ordered a 1,200 page, two volume book chronicling the history of keyboards with also a bonus pamphlet about the history of the return and enter keys.

dogmatic

I can’t find any decent poems about keyboards and I haven’t written any. I’ll try a haiku:

doors open
notes from a keyboard
sound like rain

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Cliffhanger

I write as someone who knows about the effects of cliffhangers on a person’s life. I was an Archer’s addict. How many Sunday mornings were ruined by the need to listen to the omnibus edition to find out what was happening in Ambridge. I thought of this immediately when I came to start writing this article. Then I wondered why I would think of the term cliffhanger. Where did the word come from? I think I’ve found out where the term first appeared in print but I’ll leave it until the end of the piece....

Surprisingly, the use of the technique has been around for many years. They were used as literary devices in several works of the Middle Ages. The Arabic literary work One Thousand and One Nights involves Scheherazade narrating a series of stories to King Shahryār for 1,001 nights, with each night ending on a cliffhanger in order to save herself from execution. Some medieval Chinese ballads like the Liu chih-yuan chu-kung-tiao ended each chapter on a cliffhanger to keep the audience in suspense.

Cliffhangers became prominent with the serial publication of narrative fiction, pioneered by Charles Dickens. Printed episodically in magazines, Dickens's cliffhangers triggered desperation in his readers. Writing in the New Yorker, Emily Nussbaum captured the anticipation of those waiting for the next instalment of Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop; in 1841, Dickens fans rioted on the dock of New York Harbour, as they waited for a British ship carrying the next instalment, screaming, "Is little Nell dead?"

On Dickens’ cliffhangers - first seen with The Pickwick Papers in 1836—Leslie Howsam in The Cambridge Companion to the History of the Book (2015) writes, "It inspired a narrative that Dickens would explore and develop throughout his career. The instalments would typically culminate at a point in the plot that created reader anticipation and thus reader demand, generating a plot and sub-plot motif that would come to typify the novel structure."

With each new instalment widely anticipated with its cliffhanger ending, Dickens’ audience was enormous (his instalment format was also much more affordable and accessible to the masses, with the audience more evenly distributed across income levels than previous). The popularity of Dickens's serial publications saw the cliffhanger become a staple part of the sensation serials by the 1860s.

Thomas Hardy's A Pair of Blue Eyes (which was published in Tinsley's Magazine between September 1872 and July 1873) used the term when Henry Knight, one of the protagonists, is left hanging off a cliff.

Moving forward to the start of the film industry during the 1910s, Fort Lee, New Jersey was a centre of production, the cliffs facing New York and the Hudson River were frequently used as locations. For instance films such as The Perils of Pauline were made which would often end suddenly leaving actress Pearl White's Pauline character literally hanging from a cliff. But The Perils of Pauline would have been called a “serial” or “chapter play,” not a cliffhanger.

And here is the big reveal:

The word seems to have been first printed in the January 1931 edition of Variety according to the Oxford English Dictionary. But the Variety article certainly implies that the term cliffhanger was well known at the time. So, I suppose the question is at what point does a word become, well, a word?  I’ll have another look and if you read again next month who knows...

Another attempt at a haiku:

cliff walk past
fields of autumn gold
a gun fires

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Roll Of The Dice

I am not sure what inspired me to choose this weeks’ theme, on which to write a blog post. Being someone who never gambles for money, (out of conviction rather than choice), it’s not really a something you would hear me say during conversation, or even use as a ‘go to’ phrase when waxing lyrical and putting together a series of platitudes to sound clever.

To be honest, when I received the list of themes, for some unknown reason this one triggered my nostalgic sensor in the brain and took me back to the early 80s, and my formative years as a 9-year-old, impressionable child from the West Midlands.

So, before I plough into the main body of this story, I decided to try and find out about the origins of the phrase, with a preconceived expectation of reading something weird and wonderful, of how it came to be. Unfortunately, I was bitterly disappointed. From my linguistic research on the trusted internet, the most common understanding of the phrase ‘Roll of the dice’, originates simply from the advent of gambling using a six-sided die. It’s as simple as that. The chances or risks we take over our lives in the pursuit of gaining something worthwhile. That is all she wrote…

So rather than dwell on this rather anti-climax of what felt like a potentially lifechanging story behind this phrase, lets move on, and take a trip back in time to 1982 where the story starts. Flux capacitors at the ready, let’s go.

Ok… here we are, and hopefully you have all arrived safely, with any travel sickness quick to subside.

“What’s this to do with a roll of the dice?” I hear you say. Please bear with me, I will get to that bit! Being on the cusp of opening ones childhood pandora’s box to take a stroll down memory lane on a journey exploring one of my favourite hobbies which absorbed untold amounts of my free time growing up, is something to be savoured, and not rushed. The best things come to those who wait…

Right, I’m ready now.

Alongside playing with my Star Wars figures, and re-enacting my favourite scenes from A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back, I also spent inordinate amounts of time reading Fighting Fantasy Gamebooks, which for anyone who is too young to remember, or who overlooked this in favour or playing house with Action Man and Cindy. I will now take you on a journey into what you have missed.

Fighting Fantasy was a series of single player roleplaying gamebooks created by Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone, first being published in paperback by Puffin books in 1982. These were a series of stories, of a very much low tech single person ole play game, especially when compared with today’s Massive Multiplayer Online Role Play Games such as World of Warcraft or Final Fantasy.

The books were part of an emerging scene, which distinguished itself from the traditional Choose Your Own Adventure-Style storytelling by added the element of chance into the proceedings, creating a dice-based role-playing element into the stories themselves.

Before embarking on your adventure, you were required to gather some basic equipment. Paper and a Pencil (with a rubber if possible), a couple of dice, somewhere quiet with the minimalist of distractions, and a vividly creative imagination.

At the time, my favourite place was downstairs in the living room, on the bright white faux fur rug in front of the electric fire which had fake glowing embers made of coloured glass stones and a flickering light beneath. This place was the ideal spot, although it only worked, so long as my parents and siblings were otherwise engaged, either out pottering in the garden, or busy doing their next DIY project elsewhere.

If the lounge was occupied, usually with the TV hosting a random set of weekend programmes such as for Saturdays World of Sport with Dickie Davis, (featuring the wrestling with Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks or Mick McManus), or if it was a Sunday, Highway to Heaven, Antiques Roadshow, or Bullseye. Then the next best place was on the top bunk of the bedroom I shared with my older brother.

Once I was ensconced in the quiet spot, with all essential equipment safely to hand, then the fun could begin.

Firstly, before starting the quest, each Fighting Fantasy gamebook requires the reader to create their character, using the element of chance, to randomly assign scores to three qualities (skill, stamina, and luck).

These were determined with the roll of the dice, where the higher number you got, the more skill, stamina, or luck you had at the stary of the game. Then as the story evolved, you would gain or loose points on these three qualities depending on how well the adventure was going.

The main text of each gamebook was set out in a delineated fashion. Each story was divided into a series of numbered passages (with an average around 400 in each book). Starting at no 1, you would be given a lead in to the story, offering some background information before being offered you the first of a series of choices of what you wanted to do next.

For example, if a story started with your character having taken a short stroll down a dark path, you may reach a bridge which spans a fast-flowing river. You would then be given an option of either choosing to cross the bridge (which would direct you to another passage buried somewhere in the pages of the book under the assigned a number). Alternatively, you may decide to try and cross the river by wading across using a series of stepping-stones, this would take you to another passage somewhere else. You then continued reading through the story following each set of options in turn.

Like most good quests, dangers were lurking around most corners, and sometimes you were faced with having to combat a whole array of adversaries. From witches, and demons, to trolls, space zombies and even evil ghost warriors being thrown in for good measure.

You would then be required to roll the dice further to help with battle these creatures. In the story you would be given the creatures skill and stamina scores. First you would need to roll the dice, and whatever the score was, you would add this to the creature’s skill score. Having done this you would then roll the dice again, and add this to your skill score. Whoever had the higher total won that round, and you had to delete two points from the stamina score of the loser. The contest then continued until the loser’s stamina score reached zero which meant they were dead.

So long as you survive each duel, the story would continue, until your character either perishes after one too many skirmishes’ and is killed in combat, or hopefully being successful and completing the quest.

Each of the Gamebooks had numerous twists and turns embedded into the story, where the main character may live or die based on the decisions made, or the roll of the dice. With each book offering numerous storylines, each adventure would be different, So, if at first go you didn’t succeed, you could always try and try again.

One element I enjoyed with the stories, was being able to imagine landscapes, scenes and characters in my mind 9therefore the vivid creative imagination being required). Not wanting to do things by half, I tended to develop a rich and varied tapestry of sights and sounds with which to explore.

Alongside your imagination, the Gamebook also had various illustrations including full-page drawings, or smaller, repeated images scattered throughout the book which helped to shape some of my creations. Anything that wasn’t covered in these illustrations I tended to fill in as I went along.

Most of the titles followed a fantasy theme, although science fiction, post-apocalyptic, superhero, and contemporary horror were also published. From all the books which were available, my top 5 spanned most of the genres:

1 The Warlock of Firetop Mountain
2 The Forest of Doom
3 Starship Traveller
4 Deathtrap Dungeon
5 Sword of the Samurai

My personal favourite was Sword of the Samurai, which as the title suggests, took place in japan in the endo period (1850s), and involve ghosts, warriors, shogun and evil emperors I must read this one hundreds of time to the point of being dog eared, and lose leafed.

Right Back to the Future now… Looking back as we do over our life experiences, these moments from my childhood provide fond memories for me to reminisce. To this day I still have a few of these books in my library, which although have been gathering dust for a little while since my kids have outgrown them, I am sure one day, I will revisit them once more taking another jaunt to strange lands or galaxies far, far away, and who knows, reliving a quest or two I have undertaken before, or if I am lucky, a completely new adventure for the first time. Only the pages of the book, and a role of the dice will know which it is to be.

So to the poem, you may be aware of my fondness for Haiku’s, and seems my favourite book was set in Japan, and with Star Wars having a tenuous link to the Seven Samurai, it would be remiss of me not to offer a new Haiku to finish.

Will I live or die?

My fate is decided by

A roll of the dice…

Thanks for reading, 

Steve McCarthy-Grunwald

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Social Distancing - Stay Away

I'm away from home, in my 'happy place' and I can't imagine a better place to be isolated. We travelled before the current restrictions and hope we can get home again as planned. We are taking our situation one day at a time.

Social distancing is taken very seriously. Streets are quiet as people stay in more than usual. Shops are allowing only two customers inside at a time and floor markings are in place to remind us what safe spacing is. People are half-hidden behind scarves or medical face masks. I'm reassured by all measures being taken and, of course, include myself.  Staff remain friendly and helpful. No one is offended by requests to pay 'contactless' or by staff sanitizing their hands after taking cash. Necessary safe-guards, in place and working well.

It wasn't like this at home before we left, at least not in town. It may be different now, but not everyone was taking notice of social distancing which made it a wasted effort for those like me trying to maintain space. Stock-piling had created shortages and made shopping for essentials harder for everyone. Tempers were frayed. I hope it isn't the same when we return.

At work, a member of the public shouted at me and accused me of not listening when I was doing my best to hear him across a two metre distance,  with a telephone ringing and a patient being called over the Tannoy.

The situation is bringing out the best and the worst in people. I hope that there is more of the best and social distancing has the desired effect to keep us safe.

Here's a haiku:

Keep your distance, please.
I'm in my personal space,
You must stay in yours.

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Oops! Damage

 

The whole of my adult life seems to have revolved around damage limitation. When you’re married to a man who doesn't know one end of a hammer from the other then damage limitation is always lurking in the back of your mind.  

These days, I refuse to let the husband near any of his rusty old tools. He can’t be trusted, that’s the top and bottom of it - although he doesn’t take much persuading to steer clear of them, to be honest. There are two big boxes under our stairs. One contains assorted bent and rusting screwdrivers. The cross thread ones are worn smooth and blunt at the end, rendering them useless.  The other box seems to a be a receptacle for more bent and rusting tools, many of them totally unidentifiable, at least to the husband.

I’ve written before about the damage done by the husband’s early attempts at DIY. Coming from a family of pretty practical men (and women), who could change plugs, put up a shelf or wallpaper a room it took a while for me to decide whether the husband was playing the avoidance card or was actually totally and utterly incompetent. In fact, when I say it took me a while it probably didn’t take me that long. It soon became clear that it was the latter - I had just lived in desperate hope. We were young marrieds, three children under three, very little money. The only way we’d get anything done was to do it ourselves. 

I made allowances for the blowtorch incident where the husband was let loose with a borrowed tool and a lot of old paint to remove.  There wasn’t too much damage done, just a little scorching between floors, a few puddles and a frightened four year old, muttering ‘daddy needed water.’  

The attic incident was rather more traumatic, involving, as it did, a shocked passerby, a husband stranded on the flat roof below the attic window and his wife with a severely strained back from leaning out of said window and pulling the husband back in. The main casualty was the paintwork which never did get patched up.

By the time it got to the curtain rail incident I knew I had to admit defeat. Having successfully attached five curtain rails without assistance, I decided help was needed with number six, which was above a particularly awkward square bay. The husband was reluctantly employed with hammer, screwdriver, and very bendy curtain rail. I stood by with the screws, knuckles white against the windowsill, nerves in tatters. Carefully, the husband climbed onto the table, pulled the unwieldy rail as high as possible...... and promptly achieved the treble: straight through the window, still clutching the rusty screwdriver, as the table buckled on its flimsy legs and the curtain rail pinged back into my face. 

It was at this point that my future life flashed before my eyes. If we were to remain married - and this was looking highly unlikely right now, as we hurled swear words back and forth through the smashed glass and the children huddled together in a corner of the room, unsure whether to laugh or cry - IF we were to remain married then all future DIY was going to be down to me - and I was no expert. The husband would remain at least 10 metres away at all times, preferably doing something useful, like looking up the number for the local plumber/decorator/builder. 

Of course, as time passed, I sometimes forgot the extent of the incompetence and casually put in a request for a touch of paint on a scuffed skirting board or a drop of paste on some flapping wallpaper. Each request only happened once. The whole skirting board had to be repainted after the ‘This’ll Do’ tin from the garage deposited a thick skin (in the wrong colour) across the small section that needed doing.  And the attic wallpaper that I was told triumphantly ‘was sorted,’ was found, on inspection, to have been sealed down each join with unevenly spaced two inch masonry nails. 

As for the incident of the seriously  spurting radiator, the lost end key, the washer that had dropped down between two floorboards and the pair of us (one of us naked - don’t ask) desperately holding soggy towels to the leak whilst simultaneously trying to phone a plumber - the least said about that the better. 

One day I’ll write a book.  

But for now, just a haiku. I think it says enough. 

The Husband

Grabs a screwdriver

Moves towards positioned screw 

Damage is looming 

Thanks for reading - Jill 

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Oriental - turning Japanese.

Japan is still on my list of places to visit. I find Japanese art fascinating and was very fortunate to see an exhibition of work by Katsushika Hokusai at Lancaster University when I was a student there. The striking inked images, printed from carved wood blocks are delightful. I bought a notebook with a print on the front and delighted in using it to write my first serious poetry and also some cards, intending to send them to special friends, that I confess still sit in my dresser drawer.  These have become treasures, like favourite books that I am unable to part with.

Other aspects of Japanese culture fascinate me and whenever I encounter a book about Japan, I am quickly engaged, wanting to learn as much as I can. Twenty five years ago, I rescued a very small bonsai tree from a local garden centre.  It had been clipped straight across by someone who either didn't read or had never seen a picture of a miniature tree. It was a Chinese Elm.  I researched, read as much as I could, visualising the magnificent tree it could become. I left it undisturbed in fresh compost, in a large deep pot, in my mother's walled garden, for twelve years and was not disappointed.  I designed, threw and glazed a pot for it myself and then took both items to Southport Flower Show, along with my Mum and daughter.

There were bonsai experts showing and I sought their advice.  One expert was keen to help, lifted the plant from the pot and began cutting the root ball, then he helped to wire it into the pot I had made.  I came away more than a little upset, (he was very pushy) I really only wanted advice - not intervention.  The following Spring, my beautiful tree died. I made myself a promise that day. Trust no-one. Especially not someone calling themselves an expert. I still mourn the passing of that beautiful tree. Fortunately, I have 12 year old bay-tree in my front garden that I have nurtured and kept miniature. I love it so much that when considering whether to move house recently, I resolved that I must find a place with the right south-facing aspect or gift the tree to an arboretum. I am very proud that I have shaped it from a twig into a magnificent ornamental tree.

One of my other favourite Japanese things is an animated film. My Neighbour Totoro, by award winning magna artist Hayao Miyazaki, is a magical story, beautifully drawn and told.  Please get a copy and share it with your children, grandchildren, friends and neighbours. It will make you laugh and cry (possibly at the same time). Another favourite with Japanese connections is a book: The Hare with Amber Eyes, a biographic novel written by potter, Edmund de Waal, about a collection of Japanese netsuke, (tiny carved ornaments that were fastened to the ends of belts in Japan). De Waal traces the journey of the collection, a bequest from an uncle. The story straddles three centuries and is a wonderful epic (soon to be made into a movie).  Please read the book.  I have a copy but of course, I couldn't possibly part with it... the poem below, |I| have written as a Tanka, a poetic form originating in Japan in the eighth century.

 

Bonsai

 

Tiny, perfect leaves

trim ev'ry miniature bough.

Impersonation

scaled to perfection

and patience, by loving hands.


 

Happy New Year and thanks for reading, as always.  Adele  

 

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Bring me the head of Dr Schadenfreude!

It's late in the day. I'm in London having watched Blackpool lose at Millwall - five games, five defeats - the worst start to a league campaign in 116 years. [Oh, and the drive down yesterday took me a staggering 8.5 hours.] Millwall supporters are not renowned for their generosity of spirit but they showed not the slightest trace of schadenfreude today. They had only sympathy for the plight of Blackpool fans and the shambles that is our football club at the moment.

I sometimes think that football matches are the civilised substitute for the spectacle of public executions. I'm sure we've all been shocked by the spate of beheadings in Syria and Iraq in recent days, but it's only a couple of hundred years ago that such events were standard entertainment in the cities of the west. Crowds were intrigued to see how many swipes of sword or axe it would take to sever a condemned head - the more it took, the more excited they became; and the mightier the head that was falling, the more pleasure they derived from the event.

Hacku
Laughter
in face of misfortune.
Blood smeared in a smile

Thanks for reading, Steve Rowland ;-)

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Springs

Drooling from stone lips
a cold trickle emerged, cleansed
by layers of dirt

Slither of sapwood

silk string wrenches nock to nock

breath waits while head wanders

Basboosa's barrow
tumbled: 'No permit, no work.'
He burned in the street.

Vernal equinox

crocuses in purple pools

that warm day in March

Draw a circle in
the air.  Move your hand forward.
Slowly.  Close enough.

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Jokes of the week.

Good Afternoon readers,

This week on the Dead Good Blog we've been looking at jokes, being April 1st and all that.
In the week we've had the benefits system change, politicians protesting their ability to get by on a pittence and the chancellor wading in to a matter that frankly didn't concern him, you could say we've had our fair share of fools.
Speaking of which, I've just returned from a major supermarket petrol station- where I must warn you the thirteenth pump has a twitch. It twitched over the ten pound mark when I first replaced it. I thought, what the hell, I'll make it fifteen. It twitched again, after me checking the bloody thing had definitely stopped. Anyway, I wasn't having it and promptly explained this to the cashier. Apparently, I wouldn't get away with it in the big store- they'd call security. She didn't call security, despite my insistence that they should come and have a go on the pump, but there you go. As a result of their incredible customer satisfaction policy, I've dedicated them a haiku below. There is also one for IDS, Philpott, the puppet from Team America's lad and of course, George.
That about sums the week up, doesn't it?

Please scan your clubcard
Expand customer knowledge
We spy... milk you dry. 


Poor old IDS
Said "Wheels came off the wagon"
History repeats. 

Icarus Philpott
Did you even consider
Light six candles, think. 


Funny little man
Toddler with trigger finger
Perhaps try to talk. 


Chancellor, desist
Spurring on the Daily Mail
Vile product indeed.

Thanks for reading,
Shaun.

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A pedant may look at a poet

Guest post by David Riley.

The pedant sat beside me. I didn’t know he was a pedant at the time but forgive me for jumping ahead. I drank my beer, tried to watch the sports channel.

“Tell me what you know on poetry about comic strips.” I knew it was him wheezing the question; I tried to stay calm, didn’t blurt out denials about being involved in that dirty poetry habit. All in all I thought I’d taken it kinda well.

“Who wants to know?” I didn’t take my eyes off the screen.

“Let’s start with me.” Then I noticed he was wearing winklepickers. Anyone who’d get his own toes to cosy up to each other was no man to trifle with. “Poems and comic strips have a lot in common,” I began to waffle. “Comic strips are sorta like Haiku, compressed poems. Also, you got maybe four panes to tell your story. Pictures and words.” Out of the corner of his eye I could see him using a toothpick. I drank some beer, played for time.

“Or no words at all. People have to interpret the pictures. Like poetry, see?” I was pleased with that one. He began playing with the toothpick, running it finger to finger like a silver dollar.

“Or if they use words in strips, the drawer – writer – has to decide where to put them on the page. Like poets have to decide how to put their words in lines.” That should hold the old guy. I felt smug, took my beer. He snapped the toothpick.

“You’re making me tense, kid.”

“Surely that’s right,” I said in a rush, “there’s a lot of overlap between poems and comic strips…” His right winklepicker began to tap. In overdrive. “What did I ask you?”

I whimpered.

“I asked what you know on poetry about comic strips. You got an F kid.”

“But…but…”

“You’ve told me how they might be alike. Poems and comic strips. I know one about them. Liz Lockhead, Scotch guy. Look it up why dontcha?”

“I will. I’ll do that.”

“One poem. One measly poem. What does that tell ya son?”

I bibbled.

“Think there’s any more? Maybe your friends know? Answers on a post card. Or in a comments box near you.” I don’t think I’ve seen the last of the pedant.

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Twas the night before Christmas

By Ashley Lister


It must be the linguist in me because I’ve just spent the last ten minutes researching the word ‘twas’. At first I wasn’t sure if twas is a word. Turns out twas. The definition, that it’s an old-fashioned poetic contraction of it + was makes so much sense I’ve convinced myself that I knew this before I bothered to look it up.

But if you’re reading this on December 24th then twis the night before Christmas, and this is probably the most convenient way for me to extend Season’s Greetings to everyone.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Now, I’m aware that most people will be doing things other than reading poetry blogs on this Christmas Eve, so I’m going to keep this short.

The theme for the last poetry event was Yuletide. It was a spectacular event that included some outstanding poetry, some wonderful humour and even some carol singing.

At the event, the wonderful Colin Davies rightly pointed out that there was an element of cynicism in our collective approaches to Christmas. And, keeping in mind that cynicism is not really appropriate for a time of year that is meant to be magical for children, I’d like to know what you like best about this time of year.

Admittedly, there’s a lot to dislike. There’s cold weather, there’s the nuisance of having to smile at family members, and there’s an emphasis on commercialism.

But there are also many good things at this time of year and sharing them is one of the benefits to Christmas. There are smiling children. There are carols. There are Christmas crackers and turkey leftovers.

So, in the comments box below please, tell us what makes Christmas special for you. Bonus points for anyone who can write them into a Christmas haiku.

Wearing paper hats.

Clementines and satsumas

Between huge meals.

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Bad Things Will Happen...

I probably wouldn’t describe myself as superstitious. I don’t mind walking underneath ladders. I always scuttle past the gypsy in Blackpool town centre when she tries to sell me lucky heather. I don’t mind if I only see one magpie, and I frequently pass people on stairs However, there are certain things that I do – but I feel that they are more learnt; little ticks, that have been passed on by a parent without me realising the significance. They’re ingrained, unconscious and followed – not because I believe something bad will happen, but because they are habit. They are idioms that creep into my speech: Touch wood, and without thinking I tap a table, door, head. I occasionally cross my fingers, I never open umbrellas inside (why would you need to) and I carry my Great Gramps’ Saint Christopher card in my purse, because I was told it would keep me safe when I was driving. I even used to believe that a pen – that had been used by a quite a few Coventry players: Robbie Keane, Darren Huckerby, Dion Dublin, John Eustace, Chris Kirkland – had magical powers and would secure my club’s return to the Premiership; but after four seasons in the Championship, I realised it actually wasn’t very special.

However, thinking about superstition dragged a memory from the depths of my mind. One of those memories you forgot ever existed, because it has been untouched and dormant for so long. But there it was: fresh, clear and intact – as real as when it originally occurred in 1992. It is a memory that includes my younger sister, a mirror and blame – and instantly I thought, It could be a POEM. Therefore, I set myself the challenge to write the poem and this is the result:

Mirror

You broke it. Then tried
to blame me; but bad luck knew
the real culprit.

Apologies for a brief blog post and an even briefer poem; I’ve had a hectic week of online conferencing and my creativity is feeling a little battered.

Thank you for reading,

Lar

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