Oh come all yea comical, the skiving angels sang, whilst three sun seeker kings decked their beach huts with holly and scurvy. The little town of Blogsville was hoping for a silent knight to clear the snow in the winter wonderland, but the angels from the helms of a ferry had other ideas. They were about to invite the gritters’ to their offshore Christmas party.
O’Tannenbaum, rattled his silver bells at Mary who had brought her toy boy, ruddy red nosed Rudolph, along with a bottle of Ave Maria, which left them both walking in the air.
Less than twelve days to Christmas and Santa Claus is coming to town, not because the lady use to love a certain kind a chocolate, but because a child was born. God arrest all the ding, dong, merrily on high, gentle men and frisky ladies willing to have it away with a manager for the sake of auld lang syne.
Seeing as party season is upon us, I thought I’d drag out an old poem I penned when contemplating a rather inappropriate proposition a couple of years ago.
If I found you in my stocking
It wouldn't be all that shocking
Willing, able and hearty
For the Christmas party
You could be my date
To be a friendly mate
And seeing as you're single
We could even mingle
With a possible proposal
Aimed at your disposal
Here's a little clue
A hotel room for two
It wouldn't be all that shocking
If I found you in my stocking
So that was summit old. Now for summit news.
Since writing this poem, a lot has happened in my personal sphere. I am well and truly sin-saily single, with promising potential, should a rampant stud come sauntering past. Not such a wham bam phishing notion as I was once led to believe. Why, only this week, a rather nice young chap even offered to accompany me to a coastal retreat. Me finks he was coached by the great guys I work with, but who cares. It certainly made my day, even if tasks pending left the unqualified offer dangling somewhere between the fax machine and filing cabinets.
It was, without a doubt, the best articulated and realistically engineered offer I've had in years.
Christmas is coming, and the snow has prematurely been and gone. Well it has down here, beside the sea.
Just in case you been a wondering, I been pretty busy this week. It's taken me the best part of five days to pull out me Christmas decorations, sort ‘em, place ‘em, and discard the excess packaging.
Since moving into me perch, I've had to be very creative with ma storage solutions, which means me yuletide boxes were jammed at the back of the hall cupboard and under me bed. Took some huffing and yanking, I can tell yer, to get them all out. Phew!
Anyhow, due to height restrictions, in a previous residence, me eco friendly, seven foot triffid hasn’t seen the light of day since 1999. Thankfully, ma new perch has a higher ceiling, and it’s a delight to have it up again.
Thanks, Mister Valance. I'd like to thank, erm... Everyone and anyone I've stalked and talked to on the wonder wide web, especially Miss Patsy and the cowboy, himself.
Didn't we have a lov-er-ly day, the day we went cre-ate-ive!
Patsy poodled along to Poole, last Saturday to join me in a series of "Dorset Delights" and "Writing for the Screen" talks and workshops at the town's Lit Fest. Of course prolific Patsy shined, proving that writing every day does account fer summit, and her eye fer detail scooped the biggest piece of Dorset Apple Cake I'd ever seen!
An offer of Marmite chocolate, believe it or not, lured us into a writer's talk. A real eye opener, the talk as well as the sweetie treat. Suck it and see, don't swallow or munch, as the mingling of flavours do separate, if left to melt on the tongue.
Anyway, enough of me connoisseur challenges, here's a little collaborative piece of Ping-Pong-Poetry, by Patsy and Me!
Patsy went out to Poole
To meet a silly fool
For chockie bites and cake
And poetry to make
Shakespeare played live
From dawn until five
Book signing galore
From a literary whore
Was it play or work?
JJ asked with a smirk
Patsy grinned, it’s both
Just then a big sloth
Crept along the floor
And slammed the door
No editing just Patsy and me in the raw. But if you wanna know more about Ping Pong Poetry:
I picked up this Fellini quote, not so long ago, from the back of a theatre programme for a beautiful little play dedicated to: “journey men and women; clowns, poets, actors, musicians, storytellers and magicians who throughout time have often lived on the fringes of society”.
“Dolce Via” led my imagination beyond a studio theatre, and across the open pains of life. The two characters, consumed by their story, made me smile; brought a lump to my croaky throat, and vaporised my sniffles. Can art really fill an empty void? Erm... Me is a pondering…
Whilst the peace and tranquillity of my secluded perch brings a smile to my face, everyday, it’s not enough to fully inspire and motivate my creativity. You see, I truly believe that passion makes the words go round. The unrequited love I still feel for another may just be a dream through a flimsy held connection, but the emptiness is real. I’ve delved deep into the hidden depths of my soul and touched the darkness.
Can art make up for the emptiness?
No!
But self expression and loving yourself can.
In the 1996 film “Loch Ness”, Isabel tells Mr. Dempsey: “you’ve got to believe it before you can see it”.
I am beautiful.
I am beautiful, kind and compassionate.
I am beautiful, and I am who I want to be.
“Who looks outside dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
When I moved into me new bachelorette pad, I thought I’d better invest in some rubber, for health and safety purposes only. I mean, it is a hap-hazard world we live in, and every gal has the right, and duty, to be safe in all her endeavours.
To be perfectly honest, when doing me initial market research, I was taken in by silicon, and went colour coordinated, utensil mad trying it out in a not so hot and steamy kitchen, but that's another story.
Thankfully, that phase soon passed, and I went back to good old faithful rubber for me wet and wild side.
Yes...
I do have a very wet and wild side…
And I didn't want any little,
or shockingly bump-ti-ous accidents, for that matter.
So, I invested in this, not so quackers, rubber footage for me bathroom:
Yup, ma Dad was one of the finest bakers ever. Nothing compares to what his hands could knead and slap on a baking tray. A master of rolls, bread and the odd buttery.
As fer me mother… She has a 101 recipes containing mince meat, and yep… you got it, they all taste the same. I guess I’m no better at cooking, these days, but I am trying. Tonight, it’s dead animal (lamb) casserole, but I can’t find any mint sauce. If I popped in an extra strong mint or a dash of mouthwash, would that suffice?
Well that’s what the plaque in a shop said, and it got me a-pondering. Not about all the good, bad and iron girdled ladies in history, but on me own personal code of conduct.
What is considered to be “well behaved” can be a matter of personal opinion, of course, but the notion gives a valid argument to me rebellious and occasional forthright nature. When it comes down to it, historically or current standing, I’m not one for following life’s lemons. Never have been, never will be. Me skin may have taken more than its lifetime recommendation of grating, but I’ve earned me pips and me zest is never less than half full.
So, when summit has to go down, summit must’ve have come up, first. If it’s important enough, don’t take it lying down, is my honourable advice.
Anyway… the real splash of enlightenment came when wandering back home, via the scenic route. A pre-pubescent lad uttered an amazing, some would say out-dated, wise admission to his senior chaperones:
Today I opened a fortune cookie that said: “You long to see the Great Pyramids in Egypt”.
Well, I’ve been there, seen them, and got the galabeya. It was my dream holiday, and the wonder of the temples and historic sites certainly took my breath away.
Looking back on all the places I’ve lived and visited, I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter where you go, or what you do, it’s who you’re with that really counts. I do have another dream holiday, in mind, but it requires a companion to complete the experience. So, until I can find a suitable person, to fulfil the role, I’d rather not even think about holidays.
Remembering a former colleague, Wayne, who passed away at the end of August 2009. A cantankerous, bloody minded, stubborn son of a gun who wouldn’t take no for an answer. God bless him.
The beach is where I like to sit and ponder best, engaging with the inner me that still believes in Father Christmas, the tooth fairy and fairytales with a happy twist. I sit, I dream, I write, and one day my dreams will come true, but first…
Just thinking back to when Mister Valance picked me up on me spelling, many moons ago.
If I remember rightly, it was all about a leather clad vision who uttered a few simple words of flattery. Sadly, my fantasy knight didn't stick around long enough for me to regain my senses, and a dream was lost forever. Yep… Just like real life, off he rode and took solace, not solice, elsewhere.
I still find it difficult going into a handbag shop, even though I just lurrrrrrrve the smell, but the painful memories still linger… So, I’m now a pondering, just like I do… Should I try to re-educate me sniffer towards latex and rubber?
Miss Cecile has got me a pondering, and pondering is what I like to do around here. Putting aside the gorgeous delights flexing their gelled hairlines over on her uncensored pages, if you could have a fanciful wish, or two, what would you wish for?
Ho hum, I know, it’s a real toughie not asking for world peace, at times like this, but that would require all the politicians in the world to go on an advanced intensive diplomatic training course. The cost couldn’t be justified against their qualifications and experience, anyway, but I was thinking of summit nice. The cream on the scone, so to speak, more than the baked necessities of life that never seem to turn out quite right.
So, seeing as I can’t turn the clock back, and I have to put up with me older and less agile self, me thinks I’d wish for someone inappropriate and agile to help me with the little things I hate doing on me own.
Patsy’s latest story about diets got me thinking. Is all the pain and anguish really worth a slim line vision in a mirror? You see, I’m not so sure I like the idea of being denied a little of what I fancy.
Not so long back, a skin and bone, possibly modified female, had the sheer audacity to warn me about the calorific intake of a designer, made to my very own personal specification, chocolate milkshake. Flamin’ cheek!
My reply to the sun bed veteran, who should have known better, was simple… Inside every size eight, six foot blue eyed, leggy blonde, there’s gotta be one helluva hungry bitch inside.
Yeah, right… I don’t fink so! But that’s what the arrogant twat, who shunted me in the rear, had the audacity to proclaim without so much of a cursory: “are you ok”. I can only assume the anticipated apology never even crossed his mind. After all, if he had been paying attention, to what was in front of him, he would have been able to coordinate the necessary actions in order to stop before hitting me.
As for me… Well, what can I say? The scuff marks are not visible on me, either, but the outlook for the rest of the summer about no swimming, especially in the sea, is devastating.
Am I bovvered about his wife killing him? Of course I am. But, if such an action did take place, he could take solace that whilst the wheels of justice turned, for him, he would be able to rest in peace.
"Why do brown eyes see better in the sun than blue eyes?"
Erm... Now that's an interesting one to ponder. Personally, I'm a sucker for big brown puppy dog eyes, but I wouldn't have said they see any better than their baby blue counterparts.
Although, if this is a serious question, I'm sure science has a full and logical explanation. In my humble opinion, and putting aside colour, when it comes to some people, mentioning no gender, their eyes only see what they wanna see!
“I never had the least thought or inclination of turning Poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart.” Robert Burns – Commonplace Book, August 1783.
Whilst the Scottish Bard described his early poetry as “very puerile and silly”, there’s something to be said about the days when “my heart was honest, and my tongue sincere”.
You see, I found a temporary joy in attempting to write poetry the day a young man paid me a surprising compliment.
With a glow in his eyes
I felt desire rise
His gaze captivatingly sexy
Undulating with ecstasy
Was it just a professional thing?
Holding back a potential fling
Could it be for him it's just a game?
For me, it's turning to tearful shame
Him a youthful warrior
Me an ageist worrier
Well, just for the record, my heart has always been honest, even though I didn’t always listen to it, and my razor tongue approach may not have always been sincere, but it was the defence mechanism to my inner sanctum. A doomed marriage not only buried the ability to express the person I was, but also the things I most wanted out of life. It’s a little late for some of my dreams, I guess, but the only way forward is to overcome the hurt of a burnt-out heart, and find a way to serve up the love I have to share.
I daresay I’ll never be able to tell my muse how much his one-time compliment really meant to me, or how much I hurt myself over not believing, but here’s one of Mr Burns’ finest poems as a way of letting go of an abnormal farce.
A Red Red Rose a poem by Robert Burns
O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie loon,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.
Ok… so’ there’s been a tiny wee edit, as a tribute to that gorgeous young man who made me feel alive, inside out.
"Is Santa so jolly because he knows where all the bad girls live?"
Wonder why me gadget threw that one up? Apart from having stacks of boxes containing Christmas decorations, with nowhere to store ‘em, I aint seen any sign of a yuletide approaching on the outside of me lofty retreat.
Not so long back, a young lady asked me: "how do you know when you find, The One?"
"The One" what? I could have played it dumb, but I knew exactly what she was talking about - the “Mister Right” thingy.
Pah, humbug, why me? Another kick below the time belt for this middle aged baby boomer who has conceded defeat in the relationship wars and given up on a dream of a biological offspring tax credit!
Now, just because I’ve disengaged a legal relationship doesn’t mean I’m an instant access, dummies guide to love, lust, and wot not to marry. On this occasion, and for the sake of man kind, I put aside my mangled and mutilated self esteem in favour of a philosophical approach. You see, if you’ve done time with a willing and almost able partner of some description, or other, you don’t always know if, in my experience, he is a Mr Right-Now, Right-for-Ever, or Right-With-A-Lot-Of-Patience-And-Persistence.
For me, Mr Right-Let’s-Just-Coast-Along-Because-You-Can’t-Do-Any-Better-Than-Me, assumed marital bliss was a matter of rituals, routine, solitary pursuits, and… erm… best not go any further, here.
What I have discovered, inadvertently, is that when you meet a “love of your life”, you’ll know it. When it happens, you don’t have to ask anyone if it’s right. There’s that little voice, deep inside, hammering away on your heart so hard, you just can’t ignore it. The reason I know that is because I’ve had that hammering on my heart for sometime, now, and it just won’t go away. You see at the time Mister Drop-Dead-Gorgeous paid me a compliment my self esteem was at an all time low, despite the face I put on for the world. Of course I fancied the snug fitting pants off him, but my ill advised logic insisted I wasn’t good enough. He left me sitting there, shocked into silence, desperately sad and alone in life. He just walked away as easy as he walked in through the door. Maybe I should have noted his middle name: Doesn’t-Try-Hard-Enough. Anyhow, there has been contact since, but it’s as though nothing ever happened. Still, he managed to get his leg over using a hard copy of the same chat up line he used with me… How do I know, I hear you mumble? Cos his huntress had great delight in telling me about her "anonymous" gift!
I guess love isn’t always mutual when it comes to the different levels of affection and tangled emotions. A lovely, yet cantankerous, man once told me he loved me. In fact, it was the last thing he ever said to me, and in front of witnesses, too. On a number of occasions, I had made it crystal clear, that there was no way in hell there would be anything between us. Maybe I should have been more blunt and told him who had won my heart, but alas, I couldn’t do that to him. You see, that lovely man was someone I would have liked to have called a friend, but some guys yer just can’t be friends with, and he was one of them. He gave me some good advice, once, too. Which I ignored! Yep, in some situations guys are all the same, be careful of fists flying…
So, it seems that for some of us, the love of a good partner for sharing the most intimate moments in life is a treasure that can be hard to find. Sometimes we think we’ve found our heart’s desires only to discover that it was no more than an optical illusion, with the passage of time eroding the rough edges of attraction.
The only thing I can say, for sure, is that spending half a lifetime with the wrong man is toxic on the soul. People DO change, over the years, but not in the way you expect. The bad habits they give up, or hide, WILL come back the minute they think they have you in your place, and they won’t be so endearing when there’s no affection tendered.
So if yer heart is lying dormant and someone shakes it up, don’t think you’re not worth it, cos you are… Love is a magical gift, to give and receive. Find it, enjoy it; don’t lose it.
As a flexitarian, Spiritualist and great believer in civil liberties, I feel I should point out that my beliefs are not just a matter of convenience, but a right to remain an individual in an ever changing world. A bit liberal to some, but I don’t really care much for politics. I am who I am and I won’t be branded.
If you’re wondering what a flexitarian is, it’s my adoptive approach to being what I eat. You read it here, first, folks. That’s my word, a J.J. Cocker original, and don’t forget it! Being a human being, with canine teeth, I enjoy a variety of animal and vegetable matter in my diet; preferring products that have been reared and grown to as many ethical standards as possible. I don’t have to eat meat every day, or even every week, and Soya substitutes are a great alternative to mechanically recovered, unmentionable, animal slurry. It can be a pretty tough job balancing the conflicting choices between local, fair-trade, organic, free range, healthy, and environmentally friendly products, but I happen to think its well worth the effort.
My faith, as a Spiritualist, has helped me get through the worst time of my life, without instruction, guilt, or condemnation, and allowed me to close the door on an empty and fruitless existence. I have stood up against an ex-husband who thought I was worth nothing, and walked out on a corporation who thought they could, and still do, bully employees into accepting a global philosophy where one size WILL fit all, no matter what area of business, or the people and places involved.
In my humble opinion, every human being deserves the right to retain their own intellect and live a fulfilling life of their own making. It would also be nice if the big companies who bang on about diversity training start to appreciate the diversity in each and every one of us.
At long last, I am free to be me, and mistress of my own destiny.
Just seen this poster, and couldn't believe it... Well I could. A woman comic supporting the guys. Go Sarah... whoop, whoop... Wish I could be there, but I can't.
Another nougat from my gadget, and what a nice thought! I guess it all depends on the sport of kings keeping the shorts active, or not. As someone getting use to a new life as a completely free singleton, I’d like to think I’m gonna find an active pair of shorts, again, someday. Not bothered if it’s a Boxer, Cocker or a Cub, as long as he's over the age of consent with the where with all and knows how to treat a lady real good…
“The solution is very simple, to save gross maltreatment of the females, the males have got to be thinned out by shooting. The second, which would be much more difficult, would be trapping them at night by hand, taking them to distant parts of the country and releasing them which, of course, is out of the question.”
Now, this isn’t what you may be thinking, or what you think I may be thinking, especially to those of you who think you know exactly what I could be thinking. Absolutely not! Although, thinking about it now and considering my somewhat dire experience with the opposite sex, it doesn’t seem such a bad idea to contemplate a mass cull of the male population at this precise moment in time.
The opening paragraph, in fact, is a mere excerpt from a letter written by Spike Milligan to the Wildfowl Trust on the 18th March 1968 expressing his concerns over the “terrible thrashing to the point of death” the female Mallards were facing during the mating season in London’s Parks. Not something I’ve ever witnessed, thankfully!
Whether the letter was posted, or not, is irrelevant. I just happened to come across it in a post partum addendum to the Goon’s works: “The Unpublished Spike Milligan Box 18”. I can only assume, the once stateless former British Soldier was giving his support, regardless of his own species and gender, to a persecuted minority group. Well done, Mr Milligan. Me thinks such a noble act warrants a retraction on my earlier slight and knee jerk condemnation towards the male sex. My sincere apologies! It would be unfair of me to propagate the myth that all men have a tendency to lodge their brains in their nether regions, bury joint income in moth infested wallets or file domestic logic on a hard drive in an unreferenced sub folder. Sarcasm aside, and genetically speaking, my longstanding belief has always been that each human being has the power to develop their own individual characteristics, unique in their diversity, with some ending up a little more quackers than others.
In his letter, Mr Milligan went on to suggest that “The killings need not be useless, the ducks could be given to Chelsea Pensioners who I am sure would enjoy eating them.” Maybe, maybe not! I wouldn’t count on it with the growing number of vegetarians and organic consumers looking towards more ethical and healthy options. It’s also hard to say whether medical practitioners and government spin doctors would unanimously agree to disagree on the dietary goodness of such wild fowl.
My main concern, however, with Mr Milligan’s suggested solutions is: who in the hell is going to go down to the park, under the dark of night, to trap these over sexed creatures by the hand or… Heaven forbid, blow their featherlite brains out? There must be an irresistible, bureaucratic, arrest-able offence in there somewhere!
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