Raise your banners for Baron Prezza from shop floor steward to upper bench. Tell your mother, tell your bezza to doth their caps for Baron Prezza: velvet robes meets pickled eggs there I say the man’s an uber mench! Bend your knee to Baron Prezza from shop floor steward to upper bench.

A Sonnet for Radio

I think of you [...]]]> A Triolet for John Prescott

Raise your banners for Baron Prezza
from shop floor steward to upper bench.
Tell your mother, tell your bezza
to doth their caps for Baron Prezza:
velvet robes meets pickled eggs there
I say the man’s an uber mench!
Bend your knee to Baron Prezza
from shop floor steward to upper bench.

A Sonnet for Radio

I think of you as telly’s older sister,
the old maid of the air waves, staunch and true.
Your stroppy sibling takes a better picture
but thinking men would rather drink with you.
For you can help them drown their midnight sorrow
with arguments or strange progressive noise
and won’t think any less of them tomorrow
when switching to your sober breezy voice.
They love you for your thousand strong impressions
and for your interest in everything
for how you mix tradition with progression
and how you raise their spirits when you sing.

But most of all they count you as their friend
’cause you reflect the good they have in them.

It’s Splendid Being The Infidel (a song for a musical)

They say the world is heading for a meltdown. They tell me change is coming and it must. They say that we’re not free but if you’re asking me I’d say that most of us [...]]]> I’ve been listening to a fair bit of Noel Coward of late - here’s the result:

It’s Splendid Being The Infidel (a song for a musical)

They say the world is heading for a meltdown.
They tell me change is coming and it must.
They say that we’re not free
but if you’re asking me
I’d say that most of us aren’t all that fussed.

Yes, life is rather jolly here in Britain.
We’re lolling in a warm suggestive fog.
What need of I for vicars
when I can drop my knickers
then share the gory details on my blog?

It’s stunning what the human mind can do
unshackled from the fiery threat of hell.
I’m lost in dirty thoughts
and not the least distraught
Yes, it’s splendid being Infidel.

It’s wonderful to be the Infidel.
No curate keeping track of all my sins.
When a finger points at me
it means I’ve won the lottery:
It’s You! Now spend it all on pointless things.

So toss your holy books onto the fire
and come and have a cheeky smoke round mine
I’m lying in my filth
and perving on G-GILFs
but that’s not sick - she’s only thirty-nine.

I’m bloody thrilled to be the infidel.
No omnipresent git to cramp my cool.
For life is non-stop gaiety
when you are your own deity
and you and only you can make the rules.

All these religious wars
are nothing but a bore
so tell me now how many have been felled?
You’d burn far fewer flags
if you had porno mags.
What price a wank in these Jihadi cells?

Yes, I’d rather be a heathen
I like my bosoms heaving.
In karma terms I think do quite well.
And though you find me wanton,
you will never find me wanting.
Oh it’s splendid being the infidel.

Cometh the hour, cometh the pad Six hundred quid, they must be mad but queues of geeks snake down the street to buy their slice of techno chic. They take their VISAs to the limit to fill the unforgiving minute a brave new world imagined there: you take your telly everywhere.

The Perils [...]]]> Why shouldn’t your every waking moment be filled with entertainment?

Cometh the hour, cometh the pad
Six hundred quid, they must be mad
but queues of geeks snake down the street
to buy their slice of techno chic.
They take their VISAs to the limit
to fill the unforgiving minute
a brave new world imagined there:
you take your telly everywhere.

The Perils of Obedience

In 1961 a man
called Stanley Milgram hatched a plan
to show the world what he surmised
the average chap had locked inside.
He wagered our ability
to fight for what we felt to be
the proper, better decent thing
fell victim to our master’s whims.

He got a range of average males
to come and take the test at Yale.
But Milgram’s set-up was a rouse
each chap was paired up with a stooge
(an actor on a little earner)
who always took the role of “leaner”
while particpants were cajoled
in taking on the teacher’s role.

In short the teacher had to shock
the learner every time he got
the answer to a question wrong.
You’d think that it would not take long
for teachers dolling out the volts
to call the process to a halt
to say the whole damn thing was bent
to pull out of the experiment.

But though the teachers weren’t aware
the volts were faked they were prepared
to carry on and in the end
near Sixty-five percent of them
gave out the biggest shock they could
which sadly proved Stan’s theory good
that human backsides like the fence
the perils of obedience.

And now we have a theory to
explain the awful things we do -
the memory of Stanley’s game
reminds us how we pass the blame.

Aisle Sixteen (Revisited)

Well, Tarquin the banker was pinstriped and neat coked up to his eyeballs and chewing his cheek when dreaming of methods to catch out the meek an underling [...]]]> With respect to Mr Dylan. And also to Mr Stickley, who suggested six years ago this might be a good thing to write and then failed to do so.

Aisle Sixteen (Revisited)

Well, Tarquin the banker was pinstriped and neat
coked up to his eyeballs and chewing his cheek
when dreaming of methods to catch out the meek
an underling entered and started to speak:
Please sir, I need help our investors are starting to scream.
The big man just smiled and replied quite serene:
Take all toxic assets to Aisle Sixteen.

The slick perma-tanned arch-svengali of pop
was telling a crowd how he climbed to the top
he boasted of hits and he laughed off the flops
the slavering audience gave him his props.
Please tell us, they cried, how you find all these synthetic teens?
Much later he laughed in his black limousine
I find them, he whispered, on Aisle Sixteen.

Well, Kelvin the Killjoy stirred hatred for cash
and most of the nation woke up to his trash
each morning’s invective a post-modern mash
of homos and foreigners ripe for a bash.
With underlined adjectives Kelvin would empty his spleen
and crass little Englanders drank it like cream.
The name of this column was Aisle Sixteen.

In tenement Krakow the rumours were rife
a Polish professor petitioned his wife:
The good strength of sterling could mean a new life
Lord praise the EU, we can live where we like.
But now he serves lager to kids wearing Armani jeans
and she’s receives two pounds an hour to clean
the mock Tudor mansions on Aisle Sixteen.

Well Herman the writer was canny and wise
his main aim to try and sensationalize
a genre that otherwise drew in the flies
which often meant he won a literary prize.
Each one of them judge by a neo-con pal from the scene
He trotted out trash with a zeitgeist-y theme
and this year his subject is Aisle Sixteen.

The young politician - no stranger to spin
a neat line in sound bites and translucent skin
he turned to the press with an odious grin
and said: my dear people where do I begin?
We’ve done all we can, took advice from a specialist team.
Our policy has been approved by the Queen -
we’re outsourcing Britain to Aisle Sixteen.

Go here to vote for it. To vote, simply press the ‘like’ button. You can do this once a day, why [...]]]> Joel Stickley and I paired up with animator Jon Dunleavy to write this short film. It’s now been shortlisted (from around 1300) for a Cannes Film Fest comp run by Canadian Film Board and Youtube.

Go here to vote for it. To vote, simply press the ‘like’ button. You can do this once a day, why not keep coming back?

You can also watch it below:

I think it was my favourite of all the shows I’ve done over the past two years. The studio [...]]]> I was back on Saturday Live this week. I’m normally there every 6 weeks or so but Kate Fox was trapped out in Spain due to the volcanic ash cloud so they asked me to fill in.

I think it was my favourite of all the shows I’ve done over the past two years. The studio guest was Alvin Stardust, who is a delightful fellow. He was a perfect guest, full of warm, witty anecdotes. The featured interview was also a cracker. I wrote my longer poem about one of the short features, a “guerilla” report about Gang Shows, am dram productions put on by the Scouts. As Saturday Live poems go, it’s one of favourite ones.

Volacanic Ash Triolet

I’m owed some compensation
now there’s no more ash.
It ruined my vacation.
I’m owed some compensation.
Imagine my frustration
so now I want some cash.
I’m owed some compensation
I think I’ll sue the ash.

All The World’s A Scout Hut …

Meet the gang cos the boys are here
young entertainment engineers
toggle up to the end of the pier.
Cheer. It’s the Gang Show.

From Basingstoke to Hull and back
swap neckerchiefs for silk cravats
get glitter on your campaign hat.
Clap! It’s the Gang Show.

Sketches, skits and ukuleles
am dram vignettes, songs and caleighs -
Bums on seats for a good turn daily.
Hail thee! It’s the Gang Show.

From singer’s lungs and playwright’s nibs
comes cabaret so gay and glib
half Isherwood half dib dib dib.
Ad-lib. It’s the Gang Show.

Making fires then playing the spoons
on Gilbert and Sullivan afternoons.
Who says Woodcraft have all the best tunes?
Swoon. It’s the Gang Show.

There’s silver on the scarlet scarf.
There’s magic in a theatre mask.
There’s beauty in a young man’s laugh.
Bask in the Gang Show.

Across the world these fresh faced teens
do duty to their God and Queen.
Be prepared and keep it clean.
Supreme. It’s the Gang Show