Screen Crush - Rowdy, Heathcliff and Robert

 

I recently watched the 1940 film, ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ on TV. It’s dark, disturbing and honest of the time, but falls short of John Steinbeck’s excellent book in typical Hollywood style of failing to follow stories to the end. Anyway, what struck me this time – I’ve seen it before – is how good-looking Henry Fonda was. I wouldn’t call him a screen crush, not for me, but he had perfect jaw alignment which gave him a fabulous smile. This gene was inherited by his son, Peter and daughter Jane. All have been screen idols for many fans.

For me, having a screen crush started when I was about five years old. I could stay up on a Friday evening to watch ‘Rawhide’ and fall in love with Rowdy Yates aka Clint Eastwood. It was good to see all the episodes again when the TV channel TCM did a complete run on them. I hadn’t remembered any of the stories but they did take me back in my mind to our cosy sitting-room over the pub, coal fire and a tiny black and white TV screen. This was family time, c.1959/60, priceless. Clint Eastwood has continued to be one of my favourites, but not my one and only.

My head was turned by another. His name was Heathcliff. Again, we had Hollywood spoiling a good book by telling only half a tale, as I discovered in later years when I read, re-read and studied Wuthering Heights, but I was only eleven when I was first smitten. We were in the living-room of the quiet house we had for a while when my mum wasn’t well enough to help run the pub. We still had a tiny black and white TV. I might have missed the very beginning of the film, but I was soon drawn in and as the character Heathcliff emerged, I was star struck. My mum told me the actor was Laurence Olivier. I’ve seen all of his films over and over. Max de Winter in ‘Rebecca’ was another Heathcliff moment. I owe him everything I’ve been able to get to grips with by Shakespeare. His life and his work have been of great interest to me. Returning to ‘Wuthering Heights’, I have seen many TV productions but for me, Laurence Olivier is the definitive Heathcliff.

If you know me, you’ll understand that I couldn’t miss out a certain person who has entertained me on the small screen in recent years. I refer to him as my mid-life crush, my toy-boy fantasy in an innocent way. Robert Peston. I can nearly hear the ‘who, what, why?’ Well, I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. He’s a journalist and writer, currently the political editor for ITV and has his own politics show for ITV on Wednesday nights. It’s been a slow burn over a few years. I used to find him irritating in his TV journalist delivery. One day, driving through Ayrshire, I was listening to him in conversation on the Jeremy Vine radio show. Robert’s wife had died. He was talking about how they met, married, her illness, his feelings, then, he’d had a burglary at their home and jewellery, including his late wife’s wedding ring had been taken. I was upset by everything he’d gone through and began to see him as less irritating and more of a person I’d like to hug and reassure. More recently, he’s been fortunate in
finding love again and I wish him every happiness.

My haiku,

Friday night Rawhide
With my heart throb, Rowdy Yates,
When I was five – ish.
Clint Eastwood, so cool,
And he’s still a handsome man
In his mature years.

Then there was Heathcliff
Who swept me clean off my feet,
Rugged Yorkshire Moors.
I didn’t look back,
Yes, Laurence Olivier,
Screen love of my life.

Wednesday nights I am
Beguiled by Robert Peston,
Late night politics.
I’m not listening,
Not properly, anyway.
Just fascinated.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Games people play - how high are the stakes?

They play a lot of games in politics.  No where in the world are more games played than in the corridors of power. 

They play games with us - the electorate.  They write a comprehensive manifesto - so compelling that we believe in what they promise and we tootle off to the Polling Station at the crack of dawn, on our way to work, to put our cross beside their name. Then when they are elected, they completely ignore reasons for their election, they change the boundaries, to make sure they are re-elected and start jetting off around the world, to promote our wonderful country and our interests, while spending our hard-earned money on luxury hotles, room service and extra-marital affairs.  We used to give them security of tenure for three years and then at least we could kick them out for lying - oops sorry, playing games with us - but the clever buggers changed the law, so now they are in for another five years. 

Meanwhile, our children run up £30k plus student debt trying better themselves; the elderly , who were promised that they could keep more of the savings that they have worked for all their lives are still forced to sell their homes and die virtually penniless in sub-standard, care homes and disabled people are committing suicide  because they are being forced to look for work in a dog- eat-dog world, where the legal requirement to make 'Reasonable Adjustments' is a myth and the reality is that employers will always chose a healthy, young worker over someone with a neck injury who needs an expensive chair, a different mouse and two days a year to rest after spinal injections. Politics is the mother of 'Games People Play.'

They play games with the opposition. We hear them, braying like donkeys across the floor of the house. They don't actually debate the crucial issues affecting our economy, the state of our welfare services, the education and future of our children.  No they mud-sling at each other like kids in the playground, wasting the time we pay them for, on nonsense. 

They play games with other members of their own party too.  It is alleged that these games often take place during 'Conference.'   My poem (slightly changed from the original) was commission by The Imperial Hotel, Blackpool, where many Conservative and Labour Party members have stayed during conference weeks. When I use the inclusive pronoun 'ours' - I speak for the hotel. 

Currie, Egg and Chips
Edwina Currie, friend of Thatcher,
cracked British egg manufacture,

crowing, “ Salmonella’s running rife,”

falling foul of every farmer and his wife.
 

As the Minister for Health,

she caused a plummet in their wealth,
when she was overheard to quip,
'Northerners die of ignorance and chips.'

When winter struck the weak and old,
she said, “Long Johns keep out the cold.”
Soon mass public consternation
forced her into resignation.

A woman scorned is fury’s hell.
Edwina wrote her 'kiss and tell',
revealing shifty shades of Grey:
a no holds barred sex expose.

Affair with married Major John,

Edwina with suspenders on

swept through corridors of power

and may have even crept through ours.

A wily bird, she caught the worm,
she made her former colleagues squirm.
Egg on their face, she licked her lips.
Edwina Currie had her chips!

Now she’s always in the news,
voicing her outspoken views,
She made her game show debut
on 'Have I Got News for You'.

Then she kicked up Strictly heels,
tried sweating over Ramsey's meals. 
Last year she jetted off to be 
a 'Get Me Out of Here’ celebrity.

Edwina just won't go away,
It's just the game she loves to play. 

 

Thanks for reading.  Adele
 

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Maria Miller: Not Known At This Address

There are few things that miff me quite as much as assumed deference and I have never understood the requirement to call court officials 'Your Honour', 'My Lord/Lady' or even (shudder) 'Master'. To me, this smacks of a residual feudalistic error, now corrected broadly across society but clung to, anomalously, in our more archaic institutions. 

I much prefer terms of endearment to terms of address.  Here, in no particular order, is a list of my favourite terms of endearments, as gleaned from a brief Google search:

duck, sweetheart, treacle, babe, sweetie, cocker, petal, honey, darling, chick, chicken, lover, pet, lass, sugar, sweetpea, blossom, poppet, luv, hinny, hen, chuck, mate, guv, son, dearie

Comparing folks to chickens seems to be a popular choice, and why not - it's one of the most useful creatures out there.  I quite like the term 'chickpea' to refer to my daughter.  It combines the best of birds with flowers and houmous which is no bad thing.

When I answer the phone at work it always delights me to have a stranger refer to me as darling, petal, flower, angel etc.  It endears me to them (as the term suggests), creating an immediate sense of camraderie and informality which makes me feel relaxed and warm towards them.  I've been called love by very young people, in shops for example, and that always makes me smile because it's like watching a child walking in a pair of high heels.  It's as if they've borrowed a level of relaxation or familiarity that belongs to their grannie.  

From the lasting frustration at the gendered terms of address (you're all Ms as far as I'm concerned) to the assumption of superiority which perpetuates in certain professions (the honourable... for MPs being the most ridiculous, and often oxymoronic, example) there is a certain desperation in demanding the correct form of address.  It's a societal superiority complex that needs to be, ahem, addressed. 

And so, a short, topical poem.


Maria Miller's Address

Petals and poppets of the jury
Please forgive this ninny
I'm a right muppet when it comes to numbers
Culture's my bag, innit?
Oh, there's numbers in my bag
Ninety grand at last count
But who's counting?

This honourable duckie said she's sorry
And you know the rules
Weren't written for a pet in a pickle
They're for the proles on parole

Look, Your Dishonour, can I call you Guv?
I didn't mean nothin by it
We're all pals here
No harm done eh?

Thanks hen.
You're a babe.
Kisses.

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When enough is enough... Political poetry.

Good afternoon readers,

When I discovered that the theme this week was politics, I nearly danced. I have long been an admirer of those who don't shy away from it but stand up and deliver their messages in poetry. It must be tough, having climbed the ladder to break through only to then be labelled as a leftie, a feminist, a commie, a liberal, a soft touch or whatever else you choose to speak about. I like the old adage write what you know, so you can rest assured you'll never get the Tory manifesto in my poems... I'm a leftie, a vegan and getting ever more offensively socialist every time I watch the news. 
Well what do you know that we don't, Shaun? I know I've had enough. I've had enough of the pandering to the one percent, of the hikes in living costs and flatlining wage packets, of the ridiculous way our elected (hmppph) Prime Minister has stood at his box for three years now blaming Labour for the downturn of the world economy, and that he continues to get away with it. We're peddled half-truths and shortcomings instead of credit where it is due. I know we're being told nothing, absolutely nothing, is the fault of the bungling twerps in the Conservative party and if you don't agree with that view, well the leader of the opposition's dead father was a socialist, so don't vote for them, he could never do any good. 
Don't get my back up. My parents met at a young socialist meeting long enough ago to have played a part getting Jack Straw elected and I'm not a bad person. My family aren't bad people and my friends aren't either. None of us rob, cheat or fiddle our way through life and none of us, not a single one, is taking the piss out of the state. 
It is a shame the same can't be said for Dave and George. They've been dragged up, silver spooned in the washrooms of elite public school and turned out as near hateful wannabe Thatcherites. It isn't their fault that their parents weren't socialists. They can't be blamed for not understanding why people were striking in Grangemouth. Rather, they took Maggie's view that it must be the dirty poor workers taking the piss. When they failed to back the workers last week, I wasn't surprised. They've never really known people that work to live and feed their families- no, in their world you work to get free shares and favours and if the job isn't a good one, there'll always be the dividends to fall back on. Don't get me wrong though- I don't and can't speak for Dave here- he hasn't had a real job in his life.
Yes, people are political. Yes, poets can be political. Yes, poets should write to be heard and then shout it from the rafters. There is a voice of reason to be controlled at the end of the day, and I'd much rather it came from the arty, understanding side!
Here's one I prepared earlier.


Enough is enough

It may not seem right demonstrating with rats
outside family homes to start a spat
but newsworthy? It seems funny that
when the country can see their pain.

With a government war against the 'shirkers',
backing bosses that cull jobs to flood their own purses
show me, what is the bloody purpose
ask yourself- can you trust them again?

For the unions represent the workers
they're a blessing against the owner's curses
standing up for their rights when staff feel worthless
the blame isn't theirs, nor the shame.

So someone tell the great PM
that we've had enough of this us and them
and we'd all rather be Len McClusky's friend
for at least he can understand us.

He gets that the country is getting hacked off
and that most normal people don't give a toss
were it not for being dealt such a savage loss
on the pensions, careers and lifestyles

So now is the time to stop battering people
regardless of class, regardless of steeple
if there's war to be had then until we're all equal
there will always be room to unite.

For despite what we're told about needing a pay squeeze
The company bosses don their holiday skis,
we've a chancellor claiming we're not on our knees
and that Britain is hiring, not firing.

Tell that to the hard working fuel poor
who bring less back in real terms now through the door
than they would have done every year before
show them where the salaries are rising.

Yes, it may be so for the top fat cats;
the ones still evading their super tax,
stocking up on their margins whilst wages lapse
I say all hands to pumps, get the rats out.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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Dead Good Poetry Show - LIVE ON AIR

 on air now!


Just a reminder that tonight's edition of the Dead Good Poetry Show will be playing for the next two hours on Fylde Coast Community Radio.

Tonight's show will be following a theme of politics. Or ice cream. Or dreams. I'm delighted to announce that I have a live interview with local writer and all round wonderful lady - Adele Robinson.

Poetry will come from Goethe, Zepphaniah, Joyce, Longfellow, Neruda and many, many others.

And, as always, there will be some great music, related poetry and lots and lots of fun.

If you want to participate can tweet poems to @deadgoodpoets  on Twitter, or share poems through the Lancashire Dead Good Poets FaceBook page, or send mail direct to deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk.

As always, we'll read the best stuff out live on air.

To be a part of the experience find Fylde Coast Community Radio on any one of the links below.

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The Ghazal

 by Ashley Lister

 Rather than force my political opinions on everyone, I thought I would take this opportunity to look at a poetic form from outside the gamut of traditional western culture. This is a ghazal from the poet Zahhar:

Offering – (ghazal #61)

Zahhar

I trudge now back through this grime for you

Because it may ease the climb for you.

Because you just might learn from my pain,

I re-walk that bitter rime for you.

I’m told there are riches deep within,

So I search this fetid slime for you.

I seek rubies in the cave of loss,

Yet I’m glad to spend the time for you.

The earth and stars all could have been mine,

But I’ve passed these chances prime for you.

I’ll peel the rind and my soul expose,

Then wait as a silent mime for you.

Pearls were buried with my heart, you see,

So I dig back through the lime for you.

If in your depths these words resonate,

Zahhar is sounding a chime for you.

Eric Folsom says: “The ghazal, many will tell you, is an ancient Persian form of verse. The OED notes that it is generally erotic in nature, limited in the number of stanzas, and uses a recurring rhyme. The western impression, dating back to the last century and earlier, is that ghazals celebrate love and wine, but it is interesting to discover that ghazals can be found today in modern pop music. The Indo-British singer known as Najma for instance, uses a number of ghazals (in Hindi if my memory is correct) as the lyrics of her songs. They are quite haunting, long soft syllables with tabla and saxophone solos, and gist of the words amounts to no more than the usual hyperbole of love song lyrics.”

So here we have it: a poetic form from outside our typical culture.

The ghazal is a short lyric poem composed of a series of about 5 to 15 couplets.  Each couplet stands independently on its own as a poetic thought. The meter is not strictly determined but the lines of the couplets should be of similar length. Aside from the refrains and couplet structure the ghazal could also include the poet’s name or a meta-reference to the poet. To find out more I would strongly urge you to visit Gene Doty’s ghazal page and possibly enter one of the ghazal challenges.

Or, if you don’t fancy being so adventurous, we could have our own ghazal challenge here. I’ve written my own ghazal below. We have themes of politics and ice cream and dreams to play with this week. If you’re up for the challenge, why not write your own ghazal and post it in the comments box?

Stick another jumper on your grandma

Rub a tub of Ralgex on your grandpa

Heating costs are going through the roof

The Big Six act like they’re all gangstah

Winter is-a-coming. The bills are getting high.

The Tories kill more old folks than the cancer

Do I starve this year or maybe freeze?

I must beg advice from a financer

God, how did our country come to this?

I don’t think God has got an answer.

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Bang goes that idea ...

This week my greatest fears have been realised.  The subject is Politics.

I hate Politics!  I know, I know. It pretty much affects every single thing in our daily lives, right from Office Politics or Playground Politics,  but still, when it comes to Politicians, I have very little tolerance. 

When it comes around to Election time, be it local or national, I hide.  My fingers hover over the remote just in case a Party Political Broadcast interrupts my TV viewing.  I barely leave the house to avoid them, but should they come knocking at my door, I don't answer it.  I bin their leaflets without a second glance.  Yes, I vote.  I am already aware of which Political Party represents my interests, I do not need it ramming down my throat at every opportunity.

Politicians have a language all their own. A way of speaking that can give a response to a question without actually giving a proper answer.  That REALLY annoys me!!  A simple Yes or No  would have sufficed, but then if they did that, it would be an absolute admission to something wouldn't it!

When things go wrong, they blame everyone except themselves.  Fellow Politicians end up taking the blame for something which had nothing at all to do with them. It makes my blood boil!

It is because of my passionate feelings for Politics (or lack thereof) that I have some understanding why people go to extremes (I would like to point out at this juncture that I DO NOT condone any kind of Extremism).  Look at Guy Fawkes as an example.  Although he wasn't a Politician, but in a gang determined to blow up King James I when he sat in the Houses of Parliament, he ended up being the fall guy for the whole group and is still being demonised all these years later.  Was he the leader of this gang?  No. Just a small cog in the organisation.  Do we demonise the Leader of said group or any of the other members?  No.  They are largely forgotten.  He was in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing!  THAT'S why Mr Guido Fawkes became the scape goat for the entire group.  Arrrrgggghhh, Politics!!

So, as we are approaching Bonfire night, I thought I would share one of the poems that was originally written to be read out at Poulton Rotary Club's Bonfire Display at Cottam Hall Playing Fields next Tuesday 5th November.  We decided to use a different one to this, so I know I can share it with you.

..
Bonfire Blazing
(For Poulton Rotary Club)

 

A ritual observed year upon year
A gathering of people who without any fear
Can celebrate something so beautiful and fun
With dark undertones of Treason come undone
Every year millions of Bonfires burn
Effigies of a Man who against Parliament turned
Warning all those who amass nearby
In the chill of November we all know the Guy
Then brilliance bursts across the night sky
A spectrum of hues delighting the eye
Under a blanket of black those fireworks glimmer
With every explosion of light stunning patterns shimmer
Bejewelling the darkness with glittering gems
Decorative adornment we hope never ends
The “Oooooooh’s” and the “Aaaaaaah’s” a satisfying sign
Of an impressive display planned by design
Woolley hats, coat’s, mittens and boots we must wear
As sparklers dance and trace lines through the air
So, join with me won’t you in reciting a rhyme
We’ve known it since Childhood remembered through time
As we stand here commemorating justice over intent evil
This date in November, with this crowd of people:
 
“Remember, remember, the 5^th of November,
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot,
I see no reason, why Gunpowder and Treason,
Should ever be forgot!”
 
 
 
 
Feel free to join us on Tuesday, it would be great to see you.  You could even get some nice refreshments.  Hmm, I wonder if there will be any ice cream on sale?
 
 

 

 

 

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Politics and ice cream. Really?

Politics and ice cream. Erm.


My favourite ice cream is Notarannis ice cream from South Shore in Blackpool. It's rich but not too rich, unlike the Conservatives and their buddies. It never compromises on it's standards, unlike the Liberal Democrats. Its sometimes served with a flake, pretty much like our coalition government.  It never leaves an unpleasant aftertaste, unlike most politicians. It's always better with a bit of red on it. Like all politics. Oh god don't let them get in again in the next election. Do try Notarannis though, it's lovely.

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Utopia.

I never took much interest in politics until the last few years. The mysteries of the world didn’t appeal to me as I was enthralled with the worlds I could create in my head. You could seethe about the ignorance of this, the fact I was a writer and yet had no real knowledge of what happened beyond the four walls of my bedroom. That changed though. It had to eventually. The phrase “ignorance is bliss” had never made more sense to me than in the last few years and particularly in the current state of our political world. I didn’t suddenly decide to engage in the affairs of our world (past and present) on a whim, of course it takes far more than a whim to kick a teenager up the arse and motivate them.

Studying Shakespeare’s ‘Measure for Measure’ at A level was what kicked me up the arse. It is, succinctly, a play criticising King James 1sts ruling, the puritan beliefs that dominated at the time it was written (1603-04), the way the lower classes were controlled, the presentation of marriage and lots more but the way the society in the play was presented as being engineered by a corrupt ruler and a set of beliefs swaying how we live and stringently behave actually frightened and disturbed me. I had always loved literature, but that play started my passionate exploration into texts old and modern, which then started my interests in philosophy, history, religion, politics and psychology. It was then that I realised, to be quite frank, how fucked our modern world is everywhere and not just in this country.

Recently I’ve been reading Thomas More’s ‘Utopia’ which nicely coincides for this blog. A lot of the ways in which this fictional island work I agree with.  For example, and this will come as no surprise to those who know me, their treatment of the natural land is with preference to cultivate instead of exploit. They reap the full potential of what the earth provides without destroying it. Their society works with no particular hierarchy; all Utopians work and wear simple clothing of undyed wool or linen over practical working clothes. There is no need for individual display. Nothing is private; the Utopians have evaded private interest and civil law. Money does not exist. The Utopians have an intense but healthy appetite for knowledge with lectures lasting throughout the day with a heavy focus on Greek studies. There are slaves in Utopia, but their slavery is imposed as a crime not inherited. Foreigners, or prisoners of war, also become slaves often willingly as it is better than to be subject to poverty which would be the alternative. This is a penal system that rehabilitates prisoners rather than merely provides a labour force. When Utopians population rises, they establish colonies on the mainland wherever there is unused or neglected land.

These are all wonderful ideas, and portray my own ideas of a perfect society but what it doesn’t do is consider the raw ugliness of human nature. Ownership and greed has always streaked through human nature like the skid marks on a toilet. Property and cash has nearly always been a problem. So has the fact that those two aspects are only consistent for a select group of people in society. The penal system, religion, clothing, education have always been at the mercy of that select group in society.

Perhaps, instead of taking the political ideas of “Utopia” and questioning its ability to function in our real society and likewise with other political ideas such as communism, we should instead ask what the hell is wrong with ours and why (maybe not for us all) Utopia seems so glories, and so out of reach. Dreams tie hand in hand with politics. The changes, good or bad, within society start with a dream. My dream is to live in a world where you don’t have to pay disgusting amounts to be educated (and I want to me a teacher) or to be fed or to have shelter or to receive healthcare, where the forests and oceans still flourish and stand in all their glory, where a hierarchy doesn’t set a cruel status quo, clothes don’t determine who we are, the media doesn’t manipulate how we receive the news of the world, music and art and literature are as necessary as breathing,  people don’t kill each other over theory and fancy…. And ice-cream should be 100% completely free.

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Politics, Ice creams and Dreams

Politics, Ice creams and Dreams

I had a dream

And in that dream there was trust

And that trust was justified

And that trust was gratified

And that trust was unified

With all my brothers and sister

I had a dream

And in that dream politicians cared

And that caring led to happiness

And that caring rid us of hopelessness

And that caring gave us wholesomeness

For all my brothers and sister

I had a dream

And in that dream love conquered all

And that love put an end to hunger

And that love stopped the warmongers

And the love silenced the guns of thunder

Between all my brothers and sisters

Then I woke from this dream

And I spoke of this dream

Told my MP about this dream

To make reality this dream.

But I might as well have been driving

A car made or ice cream

For the good it did me.

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THE BIBLE ACCORDING TO RUPERT MURDOCH

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was GOTCHA! And the Lord Rupert said let there be a Royal Family, and let enormous quantities of trivia and drivel be written about them, yeah even unto the point where a lobotomised amoeba couldn’t find it interesting any more, and let babies be born unto this Royal Family, and let the huge swathes of sycophantic, nauseating sludge written about them surpass even that written about their parents, even though these babies and their parents are about as interesting as a wet afternoon watching an endless slow motion loop tape of Phil Collins live at Selhurst Park.

And the Lord Rupert said let there be soap operas, and reality TV shows, and let each and every one be so mind-numbingly moronic as to make a wet afternoon watching an endless slow motion loop tape of Phil Collins live at Selhurst Park seem a truly uplifting experience, and let entire forests be destroyed and the very existence of our planet jeopardised in the endless vistas of retarded outpourings about these unspeakable transmissions.

And let there be enormous breasts, and endless bonking, and days and weeks and months and years of chauvinistic right wing propaganda, so that the people who like the bonking and the soap operas and the breasts and the royal stories get the politics as well.

And let any journalist who tries to stand up to the proprietor and editor in the name of truth, and integrity, and intelligence, and journalistic standards, be summarily dismissed, and cast into a bottomless pit of decomposing chimpanzee smegma, and let those journalists who suffer this fate rejoice at the great career move they have just made.

And the Lord Rupert looked at his work, and even he saw that it was a load of crap, but this was the enterprise culture and it sold millions so it was good. And on the same basis he decided to buy the whole world, and the earth itself wept, and little robins vomited, and cuddly furry animals threw themselves under trains, and the whole thing was filmed by Sky Channel for a horror nature programme, and the most awful thing was that this was just the beginning……

ATTILA THE STOCKBROKER



This guest post by Attila the Stockbroker came with the following introduction which is being placed at the end to avoid interrupting the joy of the work above:

I wrote this some years ago after one of Murdoch's subsidiaries took over publishing firm William Collins, which among other things has the rights to the New International version of the English Bible. Given Mr Murdoch's track record in journalism and publishing - he is like Midas in reverse, all that he touches turns to shit - I thought it was time for a New Revised Version.

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Tits Up

There's a discrepancy between what I write about in my poetry and what I write about to friends and family, via social media, email etc.  I recently had cause to trawl through some old emails and I quickly discovered a theme which I don't think I was aware of at the time the emails were written.  Looking at the messages from 2005, I can see that I was struggling financially.  There were sleepless nights and there was jaw clenching and gnashing of teeth, not to mention swearing and moaning at a calamity of call centres.

It's 2013 and I find myself, once more, gnashing and swearing about money.  The slippery eel has squirmed from my grasp again.  Take your eyes off it and it's away.  My income dropped considerably after finishing the degree (the grant and student loan had bolstered my income while I studied) but I'd signed financial contracts back then that continue now, when the income has fallen.  Basically, I didn't do the math. 

And so I feel guilty, a feeling backed up by the folks at Nat West.  One customer disservice agent in particular seemed to take great pleasure in patronising me, asking how I got into this mess.  Fuckwit.  But this guilt I feel, where does it come from?  Because I was on top of the debt until June, when I was a couple of days late with a payment and suddenly - bam!  Charges put me over a limit and then - bam!  Fees for being over the limit.  So a monthly budget which was precariously balanced, and we'd been tightening our belts for months to keep on top of it, is tipped into the zone where you have to talk to fuckwits on the phone and feel the guilt and explain where you spend every penny of your income. 

I seem to remember a news story about large financial institutions fucking up their finances, taking risks with money that didn't pay off and winding up with trillions of pounds worth of debt.  Do the people who made those decisions feel guilt?  Or did they take home their hundreds of thousands of pounds and sleep on a pillow stuffed with the cash taken from our national coffers?  When I'm late with a payment to the bank I get charged.  When someone is late paying me (and as someone who relies on self-employment for part of her income this is a regular occurrence) I get to squirm uncomfortably and hope they get round to paying me in the near future.  Across the country, people continue tightening their belts.  The cost of everything keeps rising and incomes remain stagnant or fall.  Life at the bottom continues, as it always has, to be a little bit shit.    

This is a familiar theme in many households. It's not a theme I usually bring to my poetry because political poetry is really hard to get right.  So I'll not try for anything fancy, just a short rhyming verse that tells it like I think it is.   

Tits Up

We whine about paying for butter and eggs

Fuel prices creep up by the day

We used to go out now we stay home in bed

Portillo's alone on the train

It costs more to live in a buy to rent flat

Than the mortgage you'd pay on a house

And luxuries now include food for the cat

That skiver should work; catch a mouse.

No wonder pyjamas are worn in the streets

Don't need formal clobber where we live

We're workers, indebted, meat for the elite

Forbidden to tweet and forbidden to meet

Eternally fed on the chaff, not the wheat

A step out of line is an invite to beat

The status quo scoffs while our welfare depletes

And they're timing our shits while they sip from the teat

We are legion.  We do not, we will not, we cannot forgive.

 

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Saving Christmas Spirit

Last year Blackpool's Dead Good Poets held an event themed 'Propaganda'. The event took place in December, so life was starting to get festive, and I'd been reading How the Grinch Stole Christmas to my little nephew. As is usually the case with poetry - what you read influences what you write - I found myself rewriting Dr. Seuss' popular Christmas poem. Deciding to place the BNP leader Nick Griffin as the Grinch and attempting to write something that was both political and satirical (two things that I rarely write about in poetry). The poem was a challenge - I'm not a rhyming poet - but it was fun, therefore, I thought I would share the resulting poem with you. I hope you enjoy it.

    

How The Griffin Nicked Christmas

Every kid

down in England

liked Santa a lot...

                                               

                                                 But the man,

                                                snarling English from England,

                                                did NOT!

The man hated Santa and not caring who knew

he told Paxman, Blue Peter; his message soon grew.

He screamed, “I am Griffin and this is my plan:

“We’ll hold an election, get rid of that man.”

The vote it was simple, pick Griffin or Claus

and soon all the Santas were gone from the stores.

But not everyone fell for the Griff’s evil lies,

the children had sackfuls of questioning whys.

“Why’s Santa so bad?” they asked with a cheer.

“Does Griff not like Santa’s elves and reindeer?”

The Griffin pondered their questions, then gave his reply,

a ten minute advert that would make them comply.

“Santa’s not British,” the Griffin roared with disgust.

“We’ll get him, gift wrap him, send him back to the Dutch.”

Now, maybe the Griff’s heart was too cold to hold joy,

or perhaps he was dropped on his head as a boy.

But the truest, most plausible, reason of all

was that Griffin’s brain was six sizes too small.

On the first of December a newsman said,

“The poll has Griff losing and Santa ahead.”

By the second the Griff stood cocky and tall,

he’d won was the verdict, the final call.

It was clear he had cheated, brought many a vote,

but he wore a white beard and stole Santa’s coat.

“There’s a new Santa in town,” he said with a grin.

“It would seem that we English know how to win.”

His BNP members soon gathered and sung,

We’ll rewrite the rules in our pure mother tongue.

The ‘Naughty’ and ‘Nice’ were swept quickly away

as he hatched his new plan with little delay.

The Griffin’s two lists now read Black and White,

he checked birth records into the night.

When done, he admired, looked his lists up and down,

chuckled and danced to see white not near brown.

“This is the way that Christmas should work,”

said sinful Nick with a big yellow smirk.

As Christmas Eve came he got ready to leave –

with British-made toys, as a way to deceive,

all prettily packaged and filling his sleigh –

it was time for Griffin to hunt out his prey.

With a ho! and a yo! he took to the skies,

eager to deliver his unmerry goodbyes.

The Griffin descended upon every house

and crept around like an overweight mouse.

He tore pages from books so the history was English,

painted the Wise Men ‘til their skin was more pinkish.

He took all the Sony: the Playstation; the telly,

and posted each item to a landfill in Delhi.

The worst treatment of all was saved for one list;

the houses with people he despised and dismissed,

but he braved the chimneys and entered his hell,

leaving gifts that rang with a countdown bell.

He left lumps of coal with plane tickets attached,

and graffitied their walls with Time to Dispatch!

Yes,

the Griffin was bad, the meanest you’ll meet,

and no poet or poem can make him all sweet.

But justice was served on that starry night...

Something big and red came into sight,

it fell from the sleigh and plummeted down,

heading towards a small coastal town.

And as it tumbled closer, hit the street with a bang

“The Griffin. Nick Griffin is dead,” children sang.

Thank you for reading and wishing you all a wonderful Christmas,

Lar.

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The Joy of Pets

Last Sunday I found myself in the peculiar situation of dog sitting. Going about my working day, a little after ten, I heard the scampering of claws on hard floor. I should tell you now; I'm not really a dog person. I have always had cats and rest soundly in the knowledge they rarely attack small children in parks, run off and lose their way back or savage their owners. This Staffy Bitch then, made me weary.

Cut a long story short, it dug up the back garden, went to the pound, returned from the pound, ate a fist full of treats and, over the next three hours, became lovely and obedient- heeling with a mere whistle. I enjoyed the experience and, rather than see it put down, I was right up for keeping it. Alas, the owner turned out to be some prat down the way who didn't so much as thank me for feeding and returning his beloved pregnant pet. I'd forgotten all about it until yesterday, as customer after customer asked if I still had that lovely dog. I've been too busy to even consider it- which probably says a thing or two.

On with the point then, I guess politicians are a bit like pets. We adopt them for a while, pick up after them and, over time, get a little bit sick of paying for the bleeding things and want something new: Gordon Brown for example- the tired old dog, was never really going to hold the adoration of the public with the idealist bouncing puppies Dave and Nick vying for love.

What has this got to do with poetry I hear you cry. Well, in short, I think this anecdote translates nicely into how I tend to write. I love an idea- tame, feed and nurture it, cuddle it, clean up the mess, deliver to my notebook a whole litter of kittens and get so sick of the concept, metaphorically speaking, it winds up in Fleetwood Docks.

With two Blackpool DGPS meets in quick succession (last Friday and a week this Friday (7/10) @ No.5 Cafe, Cedar Square, Blackpool. 6pm+), I think for the next event I'll drag up a sack of drowned kittens and have a jumble. The writing in so many of my notebooks is as much as dead to me in terms of 'I wouldn't use it now' or 'needs improvement' being the first things I'd probably scrawl over them.

The theme for the next event though is Favourite Poems and so, I'm going to have to pick out some old favourites and have a think why I liked them so much (opinions welcome, as always). With a bit of luck, an oxygen starved little beauty will jump out at me. If not, and I doubt it will in honesty, I'll maybe have something from later today. I'm off to this Diversions library thing (the 2pm one) and interested to see just how it is going to work. See, I’ve rambled on this week- no wonder the bloody ideas fizz out for me!

Thanks for reading,
S.

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