Monday, April 30, 2007


There's no point talking
To me
I only see the things that I want
To See
It might look like I'm listening
But nothing you say
Can make me think in any sense
Except my way

There's no point talking
At all
Go have a conversation with a
Brick wall
It should seem like I care less
But probably don't
Don't try to think like I think
Because I won't

There's no point talking
Per se
It's nothing but a game that the
Humans play
Misused like a privilege
So go tell the birds
And don't forget that actions speak
Louder than words

Sunday, April 29, 2007


Do you want a piece of me? Is that what it is? Is that all this is? Because I'll tell you now, that isn't going to achieve anything.

I'm the same as everyone else. Really. If you shake me then I'll rattle. You might not think it, right now. You might think that I'm 'different', and you'd be forgiven for thinking it, but not by me. I'm pretty unforgiving. I only work one way, and you'll have to work with me if you want the best of me.

Can you see what I look like? I know you can, or at least you think you can, on the outside at least. But I'm incomplete inside, honestly. And that image, the one you can see? That isn't really what I'm like. That's not me most of the time. Most of the time I'm an unmitigated muddle. A big mess. Bigger than you imagine you know.

Don't let me frustrate you. I'd hate it if you got bored of me and I can't abide the thought of being redundant. So don't waste hours on me without getting anything back, because that might happen. You might approach me the same way you approach everyone, and you've no obligation to approach me any differently. Use your usual technique, the same tried and tested method that has guaranteed success in the past. And take your time, exercise your effort with discretion. Leave me alone for a while, go and do something else. Come back to me later, once you've had time to think, time to distract yourself from me. Don't totally forget about me though, or we'll end up having to start all over again. Although I already know it's only ever going to end one of two ways. Isn't that always the way?

Go on, please. Please try me once, or at least once, just to get me out of your system, just to find out what I'm like. I know you'll feel much better for it. You know you'll much feel better for it. It's a given. It gets easier each time, in time, like everything does. Or am I a game to you? Just some sort of fucking game? Am I...? AM I...? ...So just get rid of me. Dump me. Drop me. I'd care, of course I would, I'd go to pieces. But I swear I'd hold you responsible for picking up every single one afterwards. I know I wouldn't be in any position do it myself.

I'm an enigma: a complex soul. I'm black. And I'm white. And black and white. And grey. And a myriad of other colours and reflections of light and shades of shadow. I'm a plethora of different shapes and every shape a different shape. Every one has a pattern and everyone has a pattern. Everyone has the right to feel complete. We're all just a series of rows and columns, and corners or edges, aren't we?


Okay fine. Have it your way. Go ahead. Pigeonhole me. Put me into a convenient box.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Bite Me

Hollow me out
and stuff me
Put me in the oven
and bake me
Scrape my fingers pickle my eyes
Marinade my liver poach my thighs

Peel off my skin
and mash me
Macédoine my tonsils
and baste me
Beat my buttocks curdle my cream
Microwave my nipples let off steam

Butter me up
and spread me
Roll me in some breadcrumbs
and fry me
Grate my earlobes boil my toes
Skewer my intestine up my nose

Flour my back
and whip me
Put me in a cupboard
and leave me
Soak my plums and grill my loins
Celebrate my pudding filled with coins

Now fold me in
and mix me
Put me in some foil
and roast me
Spice my kidneys batter my jaw
Barbecue my carcass

Want any more?

Sunday, April 22, 2007


I know what I want
And if I don't know what I want
Then I know that I know
What I know I don't want

I know who I am
And if I don't know who I am
Then I know that I know
That I know who I'm not

I know what I do
And if I don't know what I do
Then I know that I know
What I Know I wont do

I know what I know
And if I don't know what I know
Then I know that I know
That I don't know a lot

Friday, April 20, 2007

Re: Lotto

Every week the National Lottery promises to make someone a millionaire. Simply pick six numbers between and including one and forty-nine and if your numbers match those chosen by the lottery machine on the following Saturday, you've won.

It all sounds relatively simple, doesn't it?

The odds are about 14,000,000-1, which are the same odds as the chance of you swallowing a badger in your sleep. And the odds of those odds being the same is also 14,000,000-1.

One way of shortening the odds is to form a syndicate, a group of friends or colleagues who all contribute a pound, or more, to purchase one ticket, or more, each. If your syndicate has two people the odds are 7,000,000-1, if it has seven people 2,000,000-1, if it has fourteen people 1,000,000-1 and so on and so forth. So if you're one of those people who doesn't have 14,000,000 friends, the chances are that you'll be pretty hard pushed to reduce the odds to evens. In fact, even if you did have 14,000,000 friends, with the average jackpot total standing at about £8,000,000, you would still lose out.

This begs the question, why form a syndicate?

They're not new, far from it. Many people form syndicates in order to win the football pools. But in this instance there is a method in the madness. The more crosses you have in one permutation, the more chance you have of matching with more score draws. The more crosses you have in each permutation, the more it costs. So, in order to be able to afford the cost of your perms (and I don't mean going to the hairdressers every week), you can split the cost between the members of your syndicate. The end result assuming you win is, of course, the same. The prize money is shared between the members of the syndicate.

More tickets more chances more expense. More crosses more chances more expense.


Here though is where the lottery syndicate fails to deliver. A football pools syndicate is often honed from the collective football intelligence of many people. Their foundations lie in the working clubs and pubs of Great Britain. Lifelong friends whose rights to join syndicates have been handed down throughout generations. With the football pools you have a chance to study form. It's unlikely that a cup fixture between Manchester United and Stalybridge will produce a score draw. However, a game between Manchester United and Liverpool would no doubt create some interesting debate, and might only be resolved after the seventh or eighth pint. In the event of a jackpot win the money has been won by the syndicate and each member is deserved of a share.

But compare this to the lottery syndicate. The horrible randomness of it all. Arguments over whether or not the number three is more likely to appear than the number twenty-three. There is no form, no history, no theory behind it, unless you rely purely on probability. When the lottery syndicate wins there is only one winner, the person who holds the ticket. They must then share their winnings with everyone else. Everyone who hasn't really deserved it.

Of course, for everyone else it is a dream come true.

Members of lottery syndicates nationwide should ask themselves one question. "If I win £8,000,000 do I want to give most of it away?" If the answer is no then the solution is simple. Whatever numbers you have on your ticket, buy an identical one. If a syndicate of four has the lottery's only winner, and you are that winner, and you've got two tickets, you win £5,000,000.

They only get a poxy £1,000,000 each.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Anagram Story

There are two schools of thought.

There are those who believe that Spiro Agnew was called Spiro because Spiro is a nice name, and there are those who believe he was called Spiro for a more sinister reason altogether.

One must first be privy to the knowledge that Spiro Agnew is an anagram of 'grow a penis' before one can fully grasp the rudiments of the second school since the second school believe that this seemingly random choice of forename was anything but.

Picture the scene.

Mrs Agnew has just given birth to a bouncing baby boy. Uncertain about the naming of their child, Mr Agnew - who is something of a practical joker - has what he considers a rather humourous idea. Taking away the letters in his own surname from the words 'grow a penis' he cunningly fashions the name 'Spiro'. And the rest, as they said, was history.

What, then, are future parents to do when confronted with the apparently elementary task of naming their children? Is there any need for someone to calculate every single possible permutation of anagram for a child's name before committing it to... ermmm... whatever it is people commit names to? Aren't the stresses associated with childbirth enough already, without having to worry about Richard Stilgoe waiting in the wings to point out that if Mr and Mrs Platt name their son Boris, an anagram of his name will be 'Spoilt Brat'?

If there's a lesson to be learnt from this it's a simple and fascinating one. Anagrams can be both fearful and fun.

And fascinating.

I can clearly remember the day I discovered them. It was a Tuesday. Keith Williams sparked it all off. During an exceptionally dull 'A' Level Economics lecture my mind began to wander. Keith Williams. Weith Killiams. Unassuming Keith. Ordinarily if Keith was pissing me off I would have just told him to shut up. But "why?", I thought, should I resort to such obvious intellectual depths when instead I could say, "Keith. Your name is an anagram of 'I will make shit'."?

True story.

Anagrams itself is an anagram of 'ars magna', which means 'great art'. And there are a plethora of absolute corkers out there. Famous people have used anagrams as pseudonyms, and even not so famous people, like me (Viz Top Tip c.1988). Private Eye has had an anagrams feature for as long as I don't care to remember. Competitions are run. Prizes are awarded. There's a World's Biggest One for goodness sake.

In the south sea islands
A thousand islets shine

These two lines share The Very Same Letters. Revel in their literary likeness. Marvel at their simple simplicity. Wonder about my avant-garde alliteration. I could look at those two lines for at least about roughly two minutes without getting the least bit bored. Who couldn't?

Of course, the funniest or most peculiar or chilling or clever anagram of them all isn't 'grow a penis'. It's not even someone's name. It's just a word. The word is funeral, and its anagram is quite a paradox.

Monday, April 16, 2007


I'd like to teach the world, but not to sing.
I need to tell them what true love can bring:
A sense of immortality and worth:
The reason I've been put upon this earth.

I have to teach the world, but not to write,
That "she doth teach the torches to burn bright."
I'll thank my God that they've delivered me,
And realise that it was meant to be.

I want to teach the world, but not to read.
I have to tell them that it's love they need:
The sense of culpability and blame:
How things can never truly be the same.

I need to teach the world, but not a song.
I'd like to tell them where they're going wrong:
To trust to serendipity, not fate:
To just believe your heart and conjugate.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

In Memoriam

Three years ago today my Dad passed away.

Although he had cancer, it was still a shock that it took him so quickly.

I remember going to the hospital like it was yesterday. Seeing him lying there. My Mum crying.

My sisters live away from the area so they had the choice of seeing him later, days later. I'm glad I wasn't given that choice because even today I don't know whether or not I could have made it.

My Dad was a brilliant Dad. Not all the time of course, but mostly. His own Dad died when my Dad was just six, so he did a pretty fucking good job without having had anyone to show him what to do.

Three years ago the 11th of April was Easter Sunday. My Dad's Dad died on Easter Sunday exactly 50 years before him. Weird.

I never wanted to have to live for 50 years without a Dad, like my Dad had to.

But I hope I will.


To live inside the hearts
Of those you love
Is not to die
To love you every day
That you are gone
Is not goodbye

To live inside the hearts
Of those you love
Means that you're here
To know that if we go
You'll always stay
And still be near

To live inside the hearts
Of those you love
Shows that we care
To see you when we want
We'll close our eyes
And you'll be there

You give us all your love
And give us all
You have to give
You are inside the hearts
Of those you love
And so you live


Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Looking For You

I've always been finding the one
Without me really thinking that I'd ever be done
Another mouth to make my own mouth smile
Another mouth
To make it all worthwhile

I've always been seeking you out
Without me ever thinking that my search was in doubt
Another heart to make my half a whole
Another heart
For whom the bell might toll

I've always been looking for you
Without me really thinking that my one could be two
Another pair of eyes to see the light
Another pair
To heal my sore eyes sight

I've always been one of a pair
Without me ever thinking that you wouldn't be there
Another hand to hold that's not my own
Another hand
To make me feel less alone

Friday, April 06, 2007

Devil's Poem

Since negating my past
Once the last die was cast
When I swam in the sea
And proclaimed it my last
I've just lied in the sand
More supply than demand
With a head buried deep
Know my place is dry land
(Come) hell or high water
(Or) devil take daughter
I won't never go back
As I know that I oughta
Cos one day things might change
Whilst I'm home on the range
It will call from afar
Dialect Sounding strange
Then my self-doubting style
And an internal smile
Will return to the sea
To lilo for a while
Where if my toes get wet
It's a pretty safe bet
That I'll sink till I swim
And have paid off the debt

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

The End

Sorry about the poetry. I'll think of something else to write soon. Probably.

The End

Into my soul a fire is burnt
That only time can quell
Each passing day a lesson learnt
Heralds a fond farewell

There is a place I know is lost
That I won't see again
History now dictates the cost
As it will heal the pain

Into my arms my children run
Melting with their embrace
Making me warmer than the sun
Cushion my fall from grace

This then the world that I create
And why I must prevail
Follow the route that I dictate
So I can never fail