London Tube Strike

As each side the other condemns
We're tired of "it's not us it's them"s
To make London go
Let's lock up Bob Crow
And chuck Boris into the Thames

3WW: MTV Attire

When aiming to join pop’s elite
Avoid gowns demure and discrete
But rather offend
Those of volatile trend
By sporting a frock formed of meat

3WW:demure, offend, volatile

Lost in Translation 2: Mildly Astray

Following from my last post, while I'm blogging about Chinese/English mistranslations, I might as well post this photo I took of a notice in the hotel where I stayed in Beijing.


Sometimes, you just don't want to know the reason...

Lost in Translation

So, my supervisor took my whole research group out for a drink in the Student's Union. Talking to him in a noisy setting can be an ordeal, as he's Chinese and his accent is quite strong. Cue a very stilted conversation, and then this happened...

Him: So what’s different now you’re living with your parents again?
Me: Well, I don’t get to do as much cooking as I used to. It’s a shame, I really enjoy it.
Him: What?!
Me: Yes, but now my mother does far more than I do.
Him: Your mother? Well. Wow. I’m shocked. Really?
Me: Oh yes.
Him: And is it a common thing to do in England?
Me: Yes, of course, though not as much as it used to be. And I expect it is in China as well, surely? I take it you don’t do much yourself?
Him: [Splutters into beer]
Me: [Aware there's been a language issue, but not sure where it happened so struggling on] Does your wife cook instead? Does she tend to make Chinese food or more Western dishes?
Him: Cook? Cooking? Wait, you’re talking about cooking? As in, with food?
Me: Well, yes, isn’t that what we were discussing?
Him: Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, that makes more sense.
Me: So, what did you think we were talking about?
Him: Ah, well, you see, when you said cooking, I thought you said cocaine.

Sunday Scribblings: View

On a glorious day at Corfe Castle
We set out to the hills for a hike
When through all of the touristic bustle
Came a butterfly riding a bike

(In the works of mythologic masters
Think of Titian or Watts or Van Dyke
Is there such a surreal disaster
As a butterfly riding a bike?)

So we walked with all Purbeck before us
To the cliffs where the waves pound and strike
And the breakers themselves beat a chorus
Of a butterfly riding a bike

Now in Dorset pubs often they mutter
Of the legend all swear by alike
Maybe one day you too will hear flutters
Of that butterfly riding her bike

The Ballad of the Dispirited Research Student

There was a girl who lost the will
Her research work to do
Although she had the brains and skill
Her apathy just grew

Deep down she loved her project
The science in her bones
Ideas and problems to connect
Find truths about unknowns

There was a time when she would sell
Her soul to get this break
But now her dream has turned to hell
It's all a big mistake

It matters not how hard she tried
She can't debug her code
Her confidence, morale and pride
Continue to erode

She seems to achieve less each day
She's tired all the time
Her thesis stress won't go away
There's such a hill to climb

A mountain that she still must scale
It's peak still lost in mist
Her futile efforts can't prevail
No reason to persist

The funding deadline's just a joke
She's human after all
But missing it would leave her broke
Finances at a stall

And as she hates to ask for aid
Her problems just get worse
But all her troubles she'll evade
By writing foolish verse

Eluded by the Muse

A new blogger's ultimate goal
Is to write posts with talent and soul
But her hopes go astray
And she's sorry to say
That she's stuck in a limerick-shaped hole.

And her writer's block just seems to worsen
For while she sits angry and cursin'
She wastes all her time
On amphibrach rhyme
And refers to herself in third person.

Hmmm... maybe it's all my own fault.

Meetings

Gosh, it's been a long time since I last posted. Lots of reasons for that, none interesting. I've been to a couple of important meeings lately, and in the boring ones came up with some limericks

For the delegates now we are waiting
And stress levels rise unabating
Prepeations are through
Now there's nothing to do
But sit here just procrastinating.

The talks are all thoughtful and deep
Intuition to make Einstein weep
The guy I can see
Just in front of me
Is so thrilled he's fallen asleep.

Cookies

Sunday Scribblings: Recipe

The first step’s the same in all cultures and lands
When cooking, to start with, you must wash your hands
Then preheat the oven to one-eighty C
(If gas is your thing then mark 4 it should be)
Two baking sheets needed, or one if it’s large
Just grease up the tins with some butter or marg
Then once you’ve completed this basic routine
Next weigh out 6 ounces of soft margarine
The same weight of sugar, a brown one not white,
Then cream them together til fluffy and light
The mixture at this point is yummy to eat
Just fat mixed with sugar, so soft and so sweet
Then into this fusion an egg you should whisk
(Don’t taste it hereafter as raw egg’s a risk)
Cue self-raising flour, 6 ounces you add
This mix now needs flavour, it’s time to go mad
If you can imagine it, try it and see
Try essence- vanilla or almond maybe
Think whisky or brandy, yes, just a wee dram
Or chunks of plain chocolate, use one hundred grams
Perhaps you want walnuts, or coconut shred
Or subtract some flour, use cocoa instead
Some people find currants and raisins ideal
With orange or lemon, the juice and the peel
Whatever concoction your mind can invent
There’s some combinations are true heaven sent
(And if there are some that you really screw up
Then those are the ones you can feed to the pup)
Now once you have added the things you prefer
Then take up your spoon, give it all a good stir
Place spoonfuls of mixture upon your greased tins
And bake in the oven for just 15 mins
If golden, remove them to cool, and you’ve made
Confections to leave shop-bought cakes in the shade
And others will praise them to highest degree
Though you’ll know they’re easy as easy can be

An Important Sunday

The streets are all empty of cars
The church pews today are deserted
The people are packed into bars
Emergency crews all alerted

What business can cause such a fuss?
What issue obsseses the nation?
The question on all lips is thus:
Can Palace avoid relegation?


Written this morning, before the match, but posted afterwards. A very exciting game ended in a 2-2 draw, which was all Crystal Palace needed to avoid relegation. Now all we need is a new owner...

Emily Bronte Cento

A cento is a patchwork poem, in this one every line is from a different poem by Emily Bronte.

Warm and bright on Arden’s lake
How beautiful the earth is still
Tonight there is no wind to wake
And curb my own wild will

Thought followed though, star followed star
I see Heaven’s glories shine
It seemed close by and yet more far
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine

Well, let them fight for honour’s breath
Thy love I will not, will not share
Time stands before the door of Death
To banish joy and welcome care

In life and death a chainless soul
But sorrow withers even the strong
A flood of strange sensations roll
Whispering, “Winter will not linger long”

Leaving Home

Today’s the day I’m moving out
from home. From old, I’ll move away
to freedom, so stand tall and shout:
Today’s the day

Although not meaning to betray
the memories of good times, no doubt
I’m sad to leave, but still won’t stay

The future’s readying to sprout
new wings and I’m keen to survey
fate, seizing what it’s all about:
Today’s the day

Spring Sunshine

For the first time in far too long
The sun beams in the sky
And though its warmth is still not strong
My heart wants to reply

I know its time is fitful still
A prisoner on parole
And yet it starts to thaw the chill
Brings sunshine to my soul

On the Election

a.k.a. Temptation to hibernate til May

The identified date’s been corroborated
And the media’s utterly saturated
But from vague, trite debate
Will not one deviate
So apathy reigns unadulterated

3WW: deviate identify saturate

The ballad of ... dammit, please don't sue me

Now here’s a tale to make you sweat
Which as you sleep may nightmares bring
A drama you won’t soon forget
The trial of Dr Simon Singh

A man who stood his beliefs
Who for science and reason fought
And for those views he came to grief
At the mercy of the libel court

As he researched his latest work
On chiropractor’s health careers
He found diverse, unproven quirks
And some claimed quite bizarre ideas

(If your kids suffer chronic ills
Like earache or asthma attack
Forget those nasty drugs and pills
It’s helped by massaging their back?)

And so he wrote of what he found
In order to start free debate
Discussion based on data sound
To reason and deliberate

But when this reached the BCA
Instead of defending with grace
They found a way to make him pay
And hit him with a libel case

The High Court Judgment then decreed
His written statements were of fact
He would need firm proof to succeed
This ruling had a huge impact

A verdict that would stifle speech
Allowing quacks to ply their trade
It limits open debate’s reach
No chance to argue, weigh, persuade

And though that’s now been overturned
(A task which cost 200k)
The lessons have not yet been learned
The law on critics still can prey

If libel laws are still so strict
To stifle science in it’s tracks
And don’t allow reasoned conflict
Well, surely then, that law still lacks?

But while there are before the court
More cases lined up, in a string
This verdict gives them some support:
The victory of Simon Singh

Monster

The monster rose up from the crypt
A creature straight from horror tales
From fangs, the caustic venom dripped
It plates its great hunched frame with scales
The slashing tail swung and whipped
And vicious talons stood for nails
Escaping from deep underground
It terrorized all those around

To save from being killed and maimed
The people chose to pay the price
That demon for their safety claimed
Which was a human sacrifice
No other way it could be tamed
(Forgive the hackneyed plot device)
It taxed them, to their great despair
The price of one young maiden, fair.

The girl they chose for this was smart
Could knit and crochet, sew and darn.
She prised the monster’s scales apart
She stabbed, without a hint to warn,
Her knitting needle in its heart.
So here’s the message of my yarn:
(Though clear to those with any wits)
You NEVER mess with girls who knit.

3WW: Sacrifice, caustic, hunch

Swan Lake

Going to see Carlos Acosta in Ballet Nacional De Cuba's Swan Lake at the London Coliseum tonight. Very excited.

A young prince's heart is entwined
With a princess in swan's form confined
But he worsens her plight
Mistakes black swan for white
Now that's what you call colour blind.

3WW: Writers Block

Now, regarding the prompt words, I have to say frankly
Though I hunger for ideas my mind loiters blankly
And I’ve really no way to try solving the puzzle
Of a sensible reason to use the verb “nuzzle”
So I’ve brazened it out, I’m now anxiously waiting
For next week’s muse – hope she’s more accommodating

3WW: Brazen, Hunger, Nuzzle

The Alcoholic

The greatest star in all the land
A huge celeb, so famed and grand
He’s coming to our town, it’s said
The luminary named “Big Ted”

So what demands does he decree?
What satisfies this VIP?
Fine caviar and coats of mink
But most of all, our Ted wants drink

Ten bottles of top French champagne
And best Rioja straight from Spain
Tequila with fresh limes and salt

Plus Scottish whisky, single malt

The moment for his act draws near
They’re waiting for him to appear
The girls are screaming “where’s our hunk?”
He’s passed out on the bed, dead drunk

Sunday Scribblings: Demands

Some people are only happy when they're not...

So now spring has sprung and it’s fab,
Am I just an ungrateful crab
If, melting, I say
I wish there’s a way
To TURN OFF the heat in my lab?

The Pigeon

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe...

One night I studied, weak and weary, over tomes of quantum theory
Trying to decipher what it meant for physics’s laws
While a migraine starting stinging, all at once I heard a pinging
As of someone gently ringing, ringing at my flat’s front door
“’Tis some drunken fool,” I muttered, “Ringing at my flat’s front door
Only this and nothing more”

No clue what was to befall me, how those ideas could enthral me
The breakthroughs and the struggles of researchers gone before
As I sat absorbed in reading, concepts through my head were speeding
Brain on crazy theories feeding, feeding on Einstein and Bohr
Avidly digesting works of Einstein, Planck and Bohr
Craving to learn even more

While my pulse beat ever faster, apprehending much disaster
Through the spell there rang the bell again of my front door
Like a shard cut through my dreaming, through the notions and the scheming
Twisting through my mind and streaming, streaming with chaotic roar
Over the confused abstractions crying with chaotic roar
Loud the doorbell rang once more

When at last my door I’d unlocked, when the entrance hall I’d unblocked
What a bizarre creature landed on my parquet floor
Serious as true religion, feathers ruffled up a smidgeon
Into my flat there flew a pigeon, pigeon with much filth and gore
Ugly as a gargoyle’s mother, stinking of trash cans and gore
Difficult, that, to ignore

Once that bird had found a free perch then my mind returned to research
To the world of physics I was longing to explore
“Now this obsession hath befell me, an addiction to enspell me,
bird, I ask you, won’t you tell me, tell me pigeon I implore:
How long will last this compulsion? Tell me pigeon, I implore”
Quoth the pigeon, “Evermore.”

“Though I know that it’s imprudent, I shall become a grad student
A creature that the working world doth distain and abhor
Though it fills me with misgiving that is how I’ll earn my living,
From the research unforgiving, unforgiving and paid poor
Bird, how long shall I be overworked and far too poor?”
Quoth the pigeon “Evermore”

So here I sit at my computer hiding from my college tutor
Trying to do research cutting edge and quite hardcore
Trying not to waste time moping, looking for new ways of coping
And forever I’ll be hoping, hoping that the end’s in store
Hoping that a PhD at last's what lies in store
Else I’ll be here evermore.

3WW: shard, pulse, weary

Sunday Scribblings: The book that changed everything

It was the strangest place to find a book. In fact, it was the strangest place on earth simply to wake up in the morning, a plush, five-star business hotel by a lake in the middle of the Chinese countryside. Its whole purpose was the hosting of conferences and isolated retreats, and the shabby little town that had sprung up next to it was purely to house workers for the sprawling, decadent palace of a hotel. As a new postgrad, I'd thought myself lucky to be invited to a meeting in such an unusual setting, and to be able to travel so far from home, but was beginning to feel like a fish out of water.

There was nothing to read. I was sick to death of research papers with more equations than writing, but they were the only things in a language I understood. The town had no bookstore, almost no shops at all. And then I found it. Tucked away in a corner, apparently abandoned by some previous guest, hidden from the cleaners like some forbidden political treatise.

“The Ode Less Travelled” by Stephen Fry. Guiltily, feeling like some dissident rebel, I tucked it into my bag to read on the plane.

Right from the start, I was hooked. The clear passion of the author for poetry, the encouragement to write, to not be afraid, to not mind the quality of the result, but to revel in the fun of putting pen to paper. And the introduction to technique – despite years of English lessons at school I'd never even heard of metre before. I'd always struggled so much when being presented with a blank page, and here finally was some help.

"However well or badly we were taught English literature, how many of us have ever been shown how to write our own poems?

'Don't worry, it doesn't have to rhyme. Don't bother with metre and verses. Just express yourself. Pour out your feelings'.

Suppose you had never played the piano in your life.

'Don't worry, Just lift the lid and express yourself. Pour out your feelings'.

We have all heard children do just that and we have all wanted to treat them with great violence as a result."

There wasn't time on the short flight from Kunming to Hong Kong to read the whole book, let alone attempt any of the exercises. But just dipping into it put a whole load of ideas into my head.

I'd organised a few days holiday in Hong Kong, a respite after the intellectual rigours of the conference. So the next day, sitting in a park in Kowloon, with flamingos in the foreground, skyscrapers behind, I took out my travel journal. And instead of writing “I see flamingos and skyscrapers, what a strange combination”, I thought for a moment and began.

“There once was a bird called Domingo...”

My notebooks and journals have been filled with poetry in the two years since that trip to China. Now I'm even inflicting it on others, through the blog. Whether the results are any better than the plain old prose I used to produce, I can't say. But it's a hell of a lot more fun to write.

3WW: The kitten's story

By day she hides behind a mask
A veil of domesticity
And modifies her every task
To conceal her duplicity

By night, this image she'll reject
Prowls out to fuel her hunter's thirst
Docility's a dog's defect
Obedient? Never! Tame? Death first!


The 3WW words are modify, obedient and veil

Crossword clue

I liked this clue on today's crossword so much that it gets its own blog post.

"Cloth that crossed bridge?"

Five letters, starting with "T".

3WW: Enough Moping Already

The winter blues can leave us bowed
And daily life seems sad and stale
But sun still shines above the cloud
Just hiding high behind a veil
We wait for warmer days to hail
But though we dream of summer’s blaze
Why wait til then for moods to sail?
Forget tomorrows, live todays

The city’s filled with goal-gripped crowd
Who rush to climb career’s iced rail
But one day all will wear a shroud
Their sacred quest’s to no avail
For death comes fast and life is frail
The world seems racing through a maze
But urgency hides all detail,
Forget tomorrows, live todays

Ambitions won may please the proud
But turn obsessive should they fail
Beyond all wisdom, on they’ve ploughed
Still chasing down their great white whale
They struggle further up the trail
And aim for power, money, praise
Against these, how can joy prevail?
Forget tomorrows, live todays

Prince, cease attempts all heights to scale
Eternal striving never pays
So pause, relax, de-stress, exhale,
Forget tomorrows, live todays.

The 3WW words are amaze, frail and sacred. Not sure I entirely agree with the sentiment of my refrain, however “Plan for tomorrow but don’t get so overwhelmed by it that you forget to live today” isn’t really well suited to iambic tetrameter.

3WW: A Roundel of February Promise

The landscapes tease with harbingers of spring
Their subtle clues a sign of thawing freeze
And rich regeneration new warmth brings
          The landscapes tease

While yet we suffer winter’s piercing breeze
Enduring life within its icy sting,
In melancholy dark’s firm grip we’re seized,

To meagre hope of better times we cling
And dream of summer’s merriment and ease.
With vibrant thoughts of nature on the wing
          The landscapes tease

The words this week are generate, meagre, tease


Ok, I'll admit that my very first though on seeing the prompt was "ooh, tease, that rhymes with fleas", and seriously considered writing about a lice-ridden werewolf to go with last week's dentally-challenged vampire. But that would just be overkill.

3WW: A Calamitous Saga of Misfortune and Failure

So here’s a sad thing to occur
A tale of great catastrophe
And tender souls may just prefer
To skip this blog entirely.
Those readers this does not deter
I hope you all will quite agree
That nowhere else on earth exists
A story so forlorn as this.

The drama starts one stormy night
Within a castle far away
A flash of lightning, clear and bright
Reveals a scene of old cliché:
A vampire, veiled as bat in flight
Intrudes in search of easy prey
Evading guards in dark and gloom
He enters a damsel’s bedroom.

So, there she lies, quite fast asleep
The type on whom brave heroes dote
Her blonde locks elegantly sweep
About a diamond at her throat
The sight of her could make men weep
And of her beauty much is wrote
But while she dreams in comfort fine
That vampire bold prepares to dine.

What tragedy was to ensue!
(I pray, forgive the Sturm und Drang)
He tried the lady’s neck to chew
But with a most emphatic twang
He bit her diamond pendant true
And thus was broke a sharpened fang.
Where tidy teeth once were aligned
A ragged hole now was defined.

With that awoke the sleeping dame
Who laughed in our poor hero's face.
His sorry ailment drew great fame
And all made fun of his disgrace
Unable to live with the shame
He disappeared without a trace.
For the saddest thing, and that’s the truth
Is a vampire with a broken tooth.

The 3WW words are occur, ragged and tidy

One for the Palace fans

Now, Warnock’s composure’s not sunny
He thinks the ref’s lapses aren’t funny
But win, lose or draw
Who cares ‘bout the score,
As long as it brings in the money?

Valentine: A Timid Triolet

As I'm too shy to talk to you
Instead I write this triolet
It's all this introvert can do
As I'm too shy to talk to you
I'm tongue-tied, don't know what to say
You simply take my breath away
As I'm too shy to talk to you
Instead I write this triolet

3WW: Trust Me

The 3WW words are righteous, salvage and lucid.
If anyone hasn't seen the original, it's here. And there's loads of spoofs here.

The woes of the Prius

When you’re driving the car that’s in front
Your brakes like to show off brave stunts
You're so hip and green
Like the stars of the screen
Who cares ‘bout the odd little shunt?

To the Woman Beside Me on the Train

Sitting next to a woman on a busy commuter train on Friday, this is the message I wanted to give her. Sadly, being English, I didn't like to make a scene, so I seethed in silence instead.

To the woman beside me on the train:
Yes, I know that this trip is an utter pain
That these seats are designed for a smallish sparrow
With the leg room short and the width so narrow
But you're wriggling and kicking as you twist about the place
Do you even know the meaning of the words "personal space"?
It's so crowded and noisy that like cattle we feel
And your actions make it worse, therefore I propose this deal:
If you 'accidentally' poke me with your elbow where I'm sitting
'Unwittingly' I'll jab you with the needle from my knitting.

Spleen vented. Thank you.

Moving down the train

Through Clapham Junction's rush hour crowd
The tannoy broadcasts clear and loud.
As they pile on, in pouring rain
They're asked to please move down the train.

There's one who doesn't hear the cry
His i-pod volume's much to high
He's lost in his own world, it's plain
"Excuse me - please move down the train."

He's still completely unaware
And blocks their way, still standing there
They ask once more, though it's in vain
"Oh come on, PLEASE move down the train!"

Those in the doorway cannot breathe
And those left on the platform seethe
The crowding's getting quite insane
"LOOK, JUST MOVE DOWN THE FUCKING TRAIN!!!"

To all their cries he's deaf and blind
Until the mob are left behind
But once he's on the move again
Then that's when he moves down the train

3WW: Ghost story

Here’s a tale that’s quite unique
Never have you heard this freak
An adventure strange and weird
Dreadful exploits to be feared

Typically began the day
On a morning wet and gray
When at dawn I lurched downstairs
For a new day to prepare

Stepping through the kitchen door
What a chilling scene I saw
Just beside the breakfast bar
Sat a creature so bizarre

Quite transparent, freezing cold
Odours of decay and mould
Yes, a phantom rested there
Sitting in my kitchen chair

Frantically, my heart beat loud
Here’s a spectre in a shroud!
Why’s it here, and apropos
How do I get it to go?

I tried not to swoon or shriek
As that ghoul began to speak
It perused my cupboard shelf
Muttering unto itself:

“Peanut butter, chocolate spread
What should I put on my bread?
Bramble jelly, lemon curd
So much choice is quite absurd”

Clearly, I had gone insane
Seeing apparitions plain.
In the early morning gloom
Common sense had left the room

“Sir, excuse me please,” I said,
“Won’t you tell me, aren’t you dead?
Why are you (at my expense)
Eating in my residence?”

“Don’t mind me,” replied the ghost,
“I’m just here as I need toast
And if you hoard all the bread
I’ll feast on your flesh instead.”

“But why toast,” I tried once more,
Wanting occult to explore,
“And why me, why my abode,
Why this city, why this road?”

“Look, shut up,” it screamed at me,
“Some things mortals should not see.
If you ask me any more
Well then, I’ll eat you for sure.”

Then I really did pass out
Terrified beyond all doubt
Waking, it had left my den
Never to be seen again

The words are frantic, lurch and odour (ignoring the peculiar American obsession with avoiding the letter “u”)

Ballad for a Sleepy Sunday

This won't make much sense without having read Part 1. Actually it probably won't make much sense anyway. Basically, Miss Marple has discovered that The Joker is in fact a cat in disguise, a realisation which lead to his arrest.

Part II: In which the felines take their dreadful revenge

The world was so glad the detective
Had captured the villain deranged
To broadcast the lady’s perspective
Was a press conference swiftly arranged

One asked, “In the great press corps sewer
I never saw magic like that
How is it a master wrongdoer
Can actually be a small cat?”

She said, “My job’s catching the killer
I did that eight blog posts ago
My genre’s not magical thriller
I’m not Harry Potter, you know”

Just then they were all interrupted
By felines with claws out in threat
While all was completely disrupted
They kidnapped our star from the set

When litters of cats so malignant
Had snatched her from under their nose
The public grew highly indignant
At the cunning revenge of their foes

The Joker’s release was demanded-
A ransom that couldn’t be paid
The FBI chief then commanded
Their best man should go to her aid

Thus just as Miss Marple, so nervous,
Quite thought that she’d seen her last hour
A shot rang out loud, and with purpose
There stormed in her saviour, Jack Bauer

And while she sat tied-up and useless
The agent got on with the fight
With trademark revenge truly ruthless
He shot every kitty in sight

Coming soon- Part III: In which Jack Bauer is cruelly persecuted by the RSPCA

In Memoriam Kitty's Comment

I tried posting a comment on the 3WW blog yesterday but it never appeared, presumably diverted to the great MacBook in the sky. It wasn't a very interesting comment, something about misreading "beacon" as "bacon", but it somehow seems sad that it's gone forever. So I wrote a verse of ottava rima in its memory.

The wifi casts it to the open air
It leaves reality for cyberspace
A different world, who knows what happens there?
We’ll never get to visit such a place
A virtual maze to baffle and ensnare.
It drifts new paths and leaves no crumb, no trace
It wanders always through the web’s domain
And never is that message seen again

In Search of Adventure

Inspired by 3 word wednesday: beacon, grieve, kindred.

The dawn breaks, spilling soft gray light
We’ve left Southampton’s hectic docks
And now sail under cliffs so white
The Needles' constant, steadfast rocks

The lighthouse shines at ocean’s side
A beacon casting out its beam
It flings its message far and wide
And sends me to follow my dream

But tell my kindred not to grieve
For though I journey far away
Deep in my heart I do believe
That I will return home one day

The Ballad of the Coventry Ring Road

Visiting relatives in Coventry this weekend. The city is home to what one survivor calls "the road equivalent of a fairground ride - frightening but an awful lot of fun"

One morning Lucifer awoke
To a new day in hell
"I had a dream last night," he spoke,
"An idea for a spell
It's time I had some depraved fun
For I'd become quite bored
This new plan's such a wicked one
It has to be explored."

On well-aged rage he based the brew
Then stirred in conc. despair
And extract of confusion, too
Was whisked in with a flair
Five metric tonnes of distilled stress
The potion mixed and flowed
The sum of all this fiendishness?
The Coventry Ring Road.

Now, some minds less innovative
May think this story junk.
The realists alternative:
The road planners were drunk.
Whichever way it came about,
I hope you will agree,
The ring road is, without a doubt,
A scary place to be.

You'd have to be gazelle-like deft
To stop at each red light
And when that sign back there said "left"
It really meant "turn right".
You think you're in the fastest lane
That much, at least, you know
But once you've turned the bend it's plain
You're really in the slow.

The roundabouts all intersect,
A dainty looping chain
You think you know what to expect
But then you're lost again.
This great ouroboros-like snake
Defies logic or plan,
You realise with a double take
You're back where you began.

The final word on this subject has to go to h2g2 "One of the features of the Coventry Ring Road that appeals to a great many people...is that it provides access to high speed roads that lead away from Coventry"

Grouches, hypocrites and Keira

The world's a mess. Absolutely. We've fucked it.
So why not just sit back and deconstruct it?
Martin Crimp- The Misanthrope

I went to see Moliere's The Misanthrope at the Comedy Theatre this week, starring Damien Lewis (that guy from The Forsyte Saga) and Keira Knightly. The acting was fine, there was nothing wrong with it, but it was the script that blew me away. I'm going to confess that I'm not entirely familiar with the original, my seventeenth century French being not all that it should be, but Martin Crimp's translation was a rhymers delight. Two solid hours of rhyme! I was in heaven...

People will speak highly of a pile of shit
if they've dressed up and spent fifty quid just to see it
Martin Crimp- The Misanthrope

Dire news

The protest’s spreading far and wide
There’s workers marching in the street
The press inflame the angry tide
And twitterers in outrage tweet

What’s put the public in a spin?
What’s sent the politicians daft?
Is World War III soon to begin?
No, Cadbury’s been sold to Kraft

Overheard in the college lift

"Research groups are not democracies. They're more like benevolent dictatorships. Usually without the benevolence"

The Ballad of the Cambridge Alumna

No more punting after sunset
In the moonlight soft and cool
Snuggle warmly under blankets
Up to Byron’s silent pool

No more all night long debating
Arguing of high ideals
Until dawn ideas creating
Limping home in kitten heels

Reading Homer in the meadows
Sipping wine beside the Cam
Where the willows cast their shadows
Where the yellow ducklings swam

No more parties in pyjamas
No more parties in ball gowns
No more plays and no more dramas
Acting fools around the town

Though the sun’s still brightly shining
Though the cold east wind still blows
Though the punts are still reclining
Where the river Cam still flows

We are finished with our learning
Notes lie on the rubbish heap
Now we use our days for earning
We must use our nights to sleep

Inspired by Sunday Scribbling: The good old days

Ballad for a sleepy saturday

Part I: In which an unlikely superhero saves the day

One evening from dark Gotham City
A message was sent, short and tense
“The Joker’s returned." What a pity
And now let the mayhem commence

It was sent to the UN headquarters
Whose president, wise Ban Ki-Moon
Announced to the gathered reporters
He’d sort out this problem quite soon

“Now Batman’s got early retirement,
Does nothing but lie on a beach,
Who else is there meets our requirement
Of ridding the world of this leach?

Although we are quite apprehensive
Our ‘maniac’ budget’s been shred
Now Spiderman’s too damn expensive
We’ll send in Miss Marple instead”

They flew in the nosy old biddy
She interviewed Jokers old gang
Including the rap star P Diddy
Who once with the villain had sang

Her break came when Joker’s old crony
First mentioned his fondness for trout
“I knew that the fiend was a phony
His secret at last is found out

In a twist that’s not unmediocre
(I know this is quite a surprise)
The creature we know as ‘The Joker’
Is Blofeld’s white cat in disguise”

And with that fact, later or sooner
The criminal now could be found
They baited a trap with tinned tuna
And sent that cat back to the pound

Coming Soon~ Part II: In which the tabbies take their dreadful revenge

Snowed in some more

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday. Yes, it’s more whinging about the weather. Spot who’s English.

At once, the best and worst of times
An age to spend whole days in bed
To while the hours composing rhymes
As we can’t get to work instead

A time to criticise the trains
(They’ve cancelled all for three days straight)
To whinge about the icy lanes
Where stinking bins unemptied wait

When rumoured sightings of a gritter
Turn out to be a wishful thought
We try to treat paths with cat litter
But all our efforts come to naught

The Council’s left us all to rot
They can’t help, no, the snow’s too deep
The best way to deal with our lot?
Turn over and go back to sleep

Incidentally, A Tale of Two Cities is the only novel I can think of where both the first and last lines have become famous quotes. Can anyone think of any others?

Snowed in

The guy from ATOC said on the news that "if they're patient, travellers can get where they're going". Clearly he hasn't tried travelling from my local station. Meanwhile, local radio advises train passengers to "check before you travel". Fair enough, but with the National Rail website, special severe weather helpline and regular helplines all inaccessible due to the sheer amount of traffic, quite tricky to achieve unless you're psychic.

Think travelling by road would be better? Well, some bright spark had the idea of ploughing them without gritting, so the roads are sheets of ice, with nice high snow banks either side for the cars to skid into and get stuck. I didn't like to take any pictures of people digging themselves out (some photo-journalist I make), but here's my favourite set of skid marks, beautifully slaloming into the distance

The lights are flickering now, so it's anyone's guess how long we have before the electricity goes...