Because 4 Dates Are Better Than Nowt I Suppose

On our first date,
she told me she prefered dogs to cats.
I told her how that that was rare. In my experience.
We strolled through the mud in search of wild parrots.
We sheltered from chilblains
beneath the beams of a 15th century tavern,
reknowned for its selection of real ales
its summer BBQ
and the fact that Dick Turpin once hid in its cellar.
Later, as we kissed goodbye at the bus stop,
I could feel a single wonky tooth
gently nudging against me
from beneath the skin of her top lip.
On our second date,
she took me for a drive in her Russian Range Rover.
She wore my coat to keep warm.
We watched the cityscape sparkle
from atop my favourite vantage point.
We sat through the first period of an ice-hockey game,
absorbed by the slapshots,
the Zamboni resurfacer and the musical interludes.
In the pub, waiting for the gravy boat to arrive,
she became concerned about whether people could
smell the dogshit on the sole of her boot from earlier.
Later, as we kissed goodbye on her door-step,
I felt that single wonky tooth again;
nudge-nudging away beneath the skin of her top lip.
On our third date,
she decided to make fresh scones for high tea.
For my benefit, blueberries were used instead of raisins.
As a result of an afternoon spent painting bedroom walls,
her forearms were flecked, here and there,
with Pollockesque stains of brilliant white emulsion.
At one point, she forgot to put the lid on the liquidiser.
As we stood smoking on the roof terrace,
watching the lights of the aeroplanes in their
holding patterns
above our heads,
I became slightly concerned that she wasn't wearing any socks.
Later, as we kissed goodbye at the railway station,
that thing with the wonky white tooth happened again.
On our fourth date,
she wore lipstick for the first time.
She told me she didn't have an appendix. Or any tonsils.
She leant me 5p for the toilet.
We sat next to each other in the theatre.
We sat next to each other on the tube ride home.
It wasn't me, it was her. She said. We never saw each other again.

Barbarossa In Session

The BBC studios in residential
Maida Vale are the stuff of legend.
The Beatles. Jimi Hendrix. The Who. The Small Faces.
All the greats have plugged-in
and tuned-up here at one time or another.
Every cramped corridor echoes with the history of the place.
Every coiled microphone-lead has a tale to tell.
Once home to the pioneering Radiophonic Workshop,
it was here that composer Ron Grainer
painstakingly pieced together a collection of
electronic ripples and white noise wind-bubbles
to create the iconic theme tune for 'Doctor Who'.
It was here, in September 1967, that psychedelic rockers
Tomorrow, recorded the first-ever Peel Session.
Adam & The Ants, Joy Division, The Pixies,
Half Man Half Biscuit and The Fall (some 24 times of asking)
were among the many bands that followed in their wake.
This afternoon sees Barbarossa, with new band in tow,
step-up to the plate and record 5 tracks within the confines
of these hallowed and double-layered walls.
Behind the soundproofed glass, the mixing desk flickers.
Up on the balcony, there is a selection
of complimentary tea and coffee.
After the red light has been extinguished
and the guitars and the harmonium have been packed away,
I hand over my black Sharpie "Twin Tip"
so that Barbarossa can add his scrawl
to the wall-of-fame graffiti
that adorns the door-frame of Studio MV4
and the ceiling and skirting-board of the inner chamber beyond.
It's my small way of saying thankyou.

I don't love you

Well, when you go
Don't ever think I'll make you try to stay
And maybe when you get back
I'll be off to find another way

And after all this time that you still owe
You're still the good-for-nothing I don't know
So take your gloves and get out
Better get out
While you can

When you go
Would you even turn to say
"I don't love you
Like I did yesterday"

Things Your Daddy Should've Told You # 1

And Lo, there will come a time in every man's life,
when he will be forced to walk into an electrical store
and purchase a Male Grooming Kit with nasal trimmer.
Can the hairy Lycanthrope earlobes
and salt-and-pepper mons pubis be too far behind?

i wan to sleep!!!

i wanna sleep!!! i juz cant sleep well tis few days... izzit health problem or wat?? or maybe im too worried bout e-run?? everytime when i close my eyes everything related to e-run started to pop out!! pop pop pop POP! give me a break!! i hav test tml nite! let me sleep plz...plz... n my cgpa is dropping!! arrrr!!!!

The Ancient Hill Of Tara

Here in the footsteps of the High Kings walk I.
Here amongst the megaliths
and the long-barrows and the ring-ditches.
On a clear day, from atop
this long, low-lying limestone ridge,
you can see for miles;
viewing as many as 13 of Ireland's 29 counties.
Today is not a clear day.
Today a thick and persistent mist prevails
(common as it is in cold air above warmer waters).
The mist is strangely appropriate.
The mist is more fitting than you might imagine.
For it was in mist that the Tuatha Dé Danaan,
the people of the Triple Goddess,
first came through the high air to this land
- bourne aloft on a giant cloud.
From the Islands in the West they came.
From ancient Falias and Gorias
and Finias and Murias too.
From the Land Of The Forever Young.
And with them they carried The Hallowed Treasures:
The Spear of the Sun
The Sword of the Moon
The Cauldron of Blood
and The Stone of Destiny, or Lia Fáil.
Forbidden and empowering weapons,
salvaged from the lost land of Atlantis.
The monolithic pillar stone
that sits stoically upon this hillcrest
is reputed to be that self-same Stone of Destiny.
It is said that if the rightful King of Ireland
should happen to lay his feet upon its surface
then it should cause the Lia Fáil to sing out in joy.
The stone's song, so it is said, will be heard
from one end of the Emerald Isle to the other.
Despite much protest, work has begun on a new
motorway project in the nearby Tara-Skryne Valley
slicing through the heart of this sacred landscape.
At its closest the intended thrombus of automobiles
will come within 1.2 km of the Ancient Hill of Tara.
For sure it is the work of
the evil lord Weird Slough Feg,
in servitude of his monstrous master
the many-headed maggot-god Crom Crauch.
They seek to turn the earth to sourland.
They seek dominion over the rivers and the forests.
So let the Lia Fáil sing its song.
Let the almighty Tuatha Dé Danaan awaken
from their sleeping place in the Otherworld below,
and come forth armed with
flickering lances of blue flame
and shields fashioned from shining purest white light.
For they have fought and defeated
the fearsome Fir Bholg
and the primordial Fomorians
and they fear not the advance of the asphalt.
The Land must prevail. The Goddess must not be tamed.



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