Christmas poem

'Twas the night before Christmas when in the depths of the house,

A creature was stirring and it wasn't a mouse;

A burglar had climbed through the window with care,

and gently put down a first foot on the stair.

He transferred his weight to test for a squeak.

The stair took his weight and didn’t complain.

All going well so he stepped up again.

Butch licked his hand, no guard dog him!

He carried on up, found his way in the glim,

the pale moon highlighting his massive physique

Old missus Thered, her instinct aware,

Had thought that she heard a tread on the stair.

‘Perhaps rain on the tiles?’ ‘That’s no rain, I’m clear.

Randolph Thered knows rain, dear,’

said her spouse, quietly. ‘Just listen, don’t speak.’

‘Hark,’ she whispered, ‘that sound on the roof,

could it be, can it be, is that a click of a hoof?’

He pushed back the blanket, no duvet for them.

Foot caught in the sheet, snagged in the hem.

He fell out of bed, he looked such a freak.

He turned himself over, looked up from the floor,

Who is this slowly opening the door?

‘Don’t make a sound, the children will hear,

They are so excited now that Christmas is near’

Said Randolf, before the stranger could speak.

‘What’s going on, you’re using the staircase?

You’ll miss your sherry we put in the fireplace

With your load of presents in that big sack,

shouldn’t you  be climbing down the chimney stack?

The children might see and think you’ve a cheek.’

‘I arrived on my sleigh,’ the big Santa said.

‘And there was a bird, searching for a bed.

Tonight your neighbours are due a new baby

The stork is asleep on your chimney, a bird B and B.

She bunged up your flue in a scorched fit of pique.

Ho, Ho, Ho, Happy Christmas.

The New Royal Baby

The new Royal baby.

            ‘Welcome to the Today program your Lordship.’

            ‘Thank you John, delighted to be here.’

            ‘You are, I believe, Lord Singeing Stephen, who is generally acknowledged as a constitutional expert?’

            ‘Yes, some people have called me that.’

            ‘Well, let me ask you a question about the constitutional arrangements then. ‘Will this baby, once she or he has been born, instantly become third in line to the British throne?’

            Firstly I would like to take this opportunity to offer my congratulations to the happy couple. Secondly, the answer to your question is ‘No.’

            ‘What!’

            ‘You may know that there has a been a lot of discussion within the Commonwealth Countries about this. Whether the succession to the British throne should be gender dependant or not.’

            ‘Yes, I had heard about that but I thought that was all settled during the recent Perth Conference.’

            ‘Well, yes and no.’

            ‘How do you mean?’

            ‘It has been agreed that gender will have no role in deciding who succeeds to the British throne in future and a bill will be passed in all the relevant parliaments to this effect during 2013.’

            ‘Well they had better get on with it then, they don’t want to be too late do they? Babies don’t wait for anyone.’

            ‘This is not an issue as the legislation will be retrospective’

            ‘Just like most things to do with the Royals’

            ‘Careful John, you don’t want to let your inner republican out of the closet do you?’

            ‘Well, OK then. So if that is all sorted out, why do you say that this child will not automatically become third in line to the throne?’

            ‘This is really out of our hands now as, since Gordon Brown signed the St Reatham treaty in 2007, we have to conform to the European Directive that refers to the use of Monarchy in non opted out countries - EUD/07/Rex/Reg/01 is the relevant document.

            This states that in any commonwealth of nations the Headship has to rotate between the members to ensure fairness and diversity just as the presidency of the European Union does.’

            ‘Are you telling me that any head of state of a commonwealth country can become King or Queen of England?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘But you just said…’

            ‘No, the result of this directive is that any head of state will become Queen of England, Wales and Northern Ireland. Who it is in any one year will be decided by a vote of those heads of state. That person will then become Queen of the Commonwealth.’

            ‘Unless that head of state is a man of course?’

            ‘No, the bureaucrats in Brussels made a mistake and, although they insisted that the head of state will be gender neutral, they forgot to include the phrase ‘or King’ in the final draft as it has been so long since we had a King in Britain, although I am sure you are old enough enough to remember King George VI?’

            ‘Well, err, just, but moving on. Are you saying that a male head of state of a commonwealth country could become our queen?’

            ‘No John, the word is ‘will.’’

            ‘Do you know who the first one will be?’

            ‘Well, as long as you keep it confidential John, I can reveal that the first will be Robert Mugabe. He will become Queen of England, Wales, Northern Ireland, Australia, Canada, New Zealand and the rest of the Commonwealth countries on 1^st January 2013 for one year. The coronation will be held in Hurryry – he is an old man you understand.’

            ‘Huh, you left Scotland out of that list!’

            ‘Yes, my good friend Bob insisted on that as a condition of taking the job.’

            ‘So, as usual, Mugabe gets off Scot free?’

            ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, he is very frightened of Alexander Salamander.’

             ‘I did hear somewhere that Mugabe comes from Yorkshire and used to work in a factory in Halifax making extra strong mints. Can you confirm this?’

            ‘Yes, in fact if you reverse both of his names, you will see it spelled out for you.’

            ‘Well, it all seems very strange to me but I guess we will have to accept that the world changes. Thank you for your time your lordship. By the way, is it true that all titles will be done away with in 2014.’

            ‘Yes, a very regrettable decision. in my opinion.’

            ‘Which wasn’t asked for, I assume?’

            ‘Err, no.’

            ‘OK, thanks Steve, see yu!’

Book Launch!

A writer friend, Kay Lawrence,  has just published her second volume of the QT Anthologies.

The second of the QT Anthologies comprises fourteen brand new stories of varying length and genre. Featuring the light-hearted experiences of a night school cleaner, the fable of Jack Frost, a thriller set in the mountains, storms, villains, and heart-warming tales, there's something in this collection for everyone. To help you choose which story to read next each title is listed with its word count, ranging from 500 words to 10,500.

Here is the link.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthology-Book-Unseen-Stories-ebook/dp/B009ZIJIZG/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1351759993&sr=1-5

The first volume is still available.

I am sure you will have a very enjoyable read.

Shampooing my geranium

I’ve just got back from holiday in sunny Herculaneum.

cycled across Europe on my bike made of titanium.

First I tried to make it from a type of cheap uranium,

looked it up and found that it is called actinouranium.

The tubes turned out too heavy and changed into plutonium

So giving me a headache at the back of my pericranium

Had to change from aspirin to a big dose of succedaneum

This quickly cured the pain so I shampooed my geranium.

Rufus

It’s hot in the sun but cold on the ice

The water is wet but drier is nice

The wind it blows, sometimes high, often low

Rain is not common but we always have snow

Sometimes I eat penguin, other times seal,

penguin’s ok but seal is more real

I like the Ant’ but Arctic is wetter

South is too far so I like North better

I wanted another but one cub is fine,

easy to feed and then keep in line.

Spring is the time that we leave our lair

pause digging out, sniffing the air.

Often I’m good but sometimes I’m bad

Sometimes I’m happy, other times sad

Warm in my white fur that many call hair

Hi there, I’m Rufus, the bipolar bear

Going to war in 1917

In Felixstowe Camp, waiting to go

Here since the call-up, what do we know

of the war, how’s it all going?

Winning or losing, no way of knowing.

‘But I need to go, to do my bit.’

The war has been running for three long years

Rumours we’re leaving, I prick up my ears.

We train with the signal lamp, morse is our friend

as we trim the wick and learn how to send

signals ‘cross mountains, received in a blink

We travel through Europe by ship and by train

Sun in the valley, snow on the plain.

I list in my diary the places we pass,

more than four days just sat on my arse.

The flowers and vineyards are all new to us.

We’re getting so close, nearing the fighting

‘Will I be up to it, is it exciting?

Will I stand up, as strong as my mates?

Waiting and fearing, what is my fate?

What is to come, how bad will it be? 

Sailing

None of us like the long leg across the Southern Ocean. There’s no land, see. The rollers go right round the globe with nothing to stop them, only the molleys to see them. We was close-hauled when it happened, Lascar Jim on the wheel. The off watch hands were asleep in the fo’c’s’le, the deck watch loafing topside, taking shelter in the lee of the deck house.

      Jim must have been caught napping, probably leering a goney. He allowed the head to pay off a few points to larboard so the squall took us full broadside, laying her over near to her beam ends. We hadn’t reefed the top gallants so she shuddered to recover with the weight of green in the scuppers and the pressure of the squall aloft.

       The Bos’n was at my back shouting,’ Get those topgallants reefed sharpish, sailing master, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’  I had to whip the watch with a turk’s head to get them up the mast and do my bidding.

      She slowly laboured back to upright, shaking the water off her like a dog after a ducking. She shuddered as the prow dipped into a trough but Jim had her back on course, head to wind.

      I told off the deck hands to let fly the halliards for the top yards to give the reefing gang a chance to beat the wet canvas into shape so they could throw lines around the sails and reef them in.

      We were now in a safe condition, not carrying too much sail and hove to until the sea state dropped. This would lengthen the voyage and cost the owners a packet but still less than losing the ship and cargo.

      The frozen mast monkeys clambered down the rat lines and took shelter. The bos’n ordered a tot for each man who had been aloft. We only lost two men in that evolution.

      The Bos’n beckoned me over and said, ‘Get Lascar Jim relieved off the wheel, take him to the grating on the poop deck and give him twenty lashes.’

      ‘Twenty will kill him, Sir,’ I argued.

      ‘He won’t do it again then will he? Just get on with it and make sure both watches are there to watch, unless you want a couple for yerself.’

      Jim was lashed down on the grating, a wedge of quid rammed in his mouth to stop his screams. The flogging started. He was unconscious after ten, the open wounds dripping blood off his back. The torment continued until the chorus from the hands reached twenty. Salt was rubbed into the wounds to stop infection, then he was cut down and taken below where he died later that night.

      I had the job of putting a stitch through his nose and sewing him in a canvas shroud before he was slid over the side with a marlin spike at his feet so as he didn’t float.

      No one had a prayer to say for his soul.