Front Pages: ‘Red Top Reveals Red Bra’

Sepp Blatter didn’t make it on to the front pages today
No sign of him, maybe he was playing away
Lord Sewel dominated the news in a lurid exposé
The front page of the Sun portrayed him in all his glory

A cocaine snorting peer, looking perky, pictured in a red bra
A sex and drugs romp, everyday government expenditure
He chaired committees to raise parliamentary standards higher
Sewel cavorted with prostitutes, got exposed as a sham, a liar

The Sun caught him in a sting, playing with his ding a ling
He made comments about his political connections. Quite interesting
Tony Blair going to war in Iraq, pursuing a romantic fling
With George Bush, world leaders together, hopelessly fumbling

Droplets of Verse: ‘Watching the Specials at Splendour in the Company of Frank McMahon’

‘Terry Hall’s a miserable git, he’ll just walk off
If anyone throws beer cans on to the stage’
That’s what Frank McMahon said as we waited
For the Specials at Splendour, at the home of the Batcave

The band arrived and played a version of ‘Ghost Town’
Stripped back to the bones, a skeletal ska rattle
A dystopian vision floated on a haunting delivery
Rhythm and melody alive in harmony, Terry got lyrical

It didn’t appear to impress Frank, he remained negative
He speculated that the band were all just session musicians
Performing a script soullessly, disappointingly workmanlike
A lukewarm offering, journeymen going through motions

And he noted Terry’s reluctance to engage with the crowd
Relating that previous gig when someone threw those beer cans
On that occasion Terry asked them to stop, and said if not he’d leave
To go home and watch Match of the Day, and have a wank

Personally, for me, the Specials were grand, their performance glorious
And I got unique added value,  from Frank’s continual sideswipes
Maybe he’s more like Terry Hall than he might previously have thought
Gloomy poets, enjoying life, alongside the beautiful stereotypes


Droplets of Verse: ‘Verbal Diarrhoea’

Crawling through a massive crack in the narrative
Censorship dribbles from your status updates, that’s what you give
Take a cup of tea, calm down, like you did when you were young
I’ll never understand why you want to silence my tongue
I’ve read your best work, I could ape that stuff effortlessly
A complete satire in less than fifty words, it would get messy
You attempt to prevent the spread of views and ideas
So we can all admire your regular dumps, your verbal diarrhoea

Droplets of Verse: ‘When Shooters Become Looters’

Separatist fighters terrorise the residents of east Ukraine
Use a Buk surface to air missile system to shoot down a plane
They celebrate wildly, waving their pistols in the air
Give each other high fives, dance around like they just don’t care

They organise themselves, then march together, to the site of the crash
Expecting to find a Ukrainian fighter jet turned into smouldering trash
They find pieces of charred, smoking metal over several metres of ground
Dead bodies, none of them in military uniform, no longer homeward bound

Terrorists  are forced to readjust their eyes. They’ve shot down a passenger jet
Innocence dismembered, fractured, tourists travelling, caught in a conflict
Unwittingly the target, undeniably in the wrong place on this occasion
The victims of a regime determined to keep on with a covert invasion

Terrorists, supported by Russia, killing tourists,  using extreme violence
Investigators deployed by global bodies to gather and verify evidence
Experience obstruction and non co-operation, terrorists wave guns in their faces
Meanwhile, luggage is looted, possessions stolen from battered, broken suitcases

Droplets of Verse: ‘Tabloid Hack Makes Another Comeback’

Acquitted on a technicality
The tabloid hack drives back to the city
Normal business can be resumed
A career thought long dead can be exhumed
He finished telling lies to a judge and jury
The roving reporter is now completely free
To revive his once glittering career
As a deep digging, hard hitting truth seeker

Celebrities everywhere should tread carefully
Columnists of his calibre are always hungry
Their appetite for scandal is never-ending
Household names get exposed, for wearing designer bling
Immigrants are often surprised when they arrive
To find themselves the subject of newspaper headlines
Tabloid hacks write about such matters, it’s in the public interest
But they put away their notebooks when people march in protest

They search far and wide, looking for a story
Discover a massive boob job and a closet gay
A politician is mocked, because he has a second kitchen
Soap stars are collared in their dressing rooms, bitching
Tabloid hacks avoid the geopolitical, keeping it superficial
Opportunities often arise to pocket bribes from officials
A long time ago, their values and beliefs were so strong
Now disappeared, corporate kingmakers bought their tongue

Droplets of Verse: ‘I Google Everything’

I always google before I do anything
Just to make sure I’m doing it right
Google Maps tells me my location
Just in case I’m in any doubt

Always just one left click
Away from something special
Google is the magic portal
Without it I’d go mental

Sometimes I think I’d like
A really wonderful beach holiday
Google got me a great deal
At a guest house in Torquay

When planning a meal out
In the belly of this fine city
Google finds me the perfect feast
Down at the local chippy

When I come over all romantic
And I’m trying to show my ardour
Google helps me out a lot
Recommends a suit of armour

I repair my car from time to time
So have to find a decent garage
Google finds me somewhere local
But the prices give me road rage

I love listening to music
I often search for the unusual
Google gets my foot tapping
To a dog who plays the bugle

My favourite television shows
Are comedy, news and politics
Google gives me the listings
I end up watching complete bollocks

Droplets of Verse: ‘Men Wearing Slip On Shoes End Child Poverty’

At Prime Minister’s Question Time
In the House of Commons
No one pays any attention to footwear
And there’s an assumption
That men educated at the finest private schools
In the land
Can manage simple, everyday tasks

Britain’s economy is in safe hands
The Labour Party can’t be trusted
They left behind such a mess
A growing economy is a wonderful thing
Somewhat spoiled by the presence of child poverty
Marketing men are given assignments
An urgent rebranding required

‘The culture of welfare dependency’
A strap line designed
For Daily Mail readers
Unemployment is a form of madness
People out of work are penalised
Lack of aspiration can be tackled
By whip cracking psychologists

Politicians wear their ties straight
But their vision is skewed
Somehow they keep a straight face
As they roll back the state
They can all use a knife and fork
And cut their food up themselves
But they have to wear slip on shoes

Droplets of Verse: ‘The Amazing Stainless Steel Teapot’

It was just another ordinary day
I made myself a cup of tea
And thought I might knock out
A little bit of free verse
Just to loosen up the words
Stuck on the inside of my skull

I stirred sugar into my tea
And poured in full fat milk
I watched as the strands of fat
Floated on the surface
Never colliding with each other

I drank it while it was still hot
While thinking maybe I should invest
In a stainless steel teapot
A household item with multiple uses

It could be used in many ways
As a container for items of a suitable size
Or as a way of amplifying a person’s voice

When held at an angle
At the side of a person’s mouth

It makes a fairly powerful microphone

Droplets of Verse: ‘Austerity Massage Parlour’

Orders are taken from the Champagne steam room
Figures are massaged, the British nation is groomed
The political jet set scrub party policy up, in a jacuzzi
Bollinger boys bullishly bang on about austerity
Shaking their heads at the inheritance, sweating in a sauna
Dog  eat dog capitalists sit together in a corner
Oiling their ideology, deregulating, stealing all the towels
Building up to something big, opening up their bowels

Droplets of Verse: ‘Slaughtered in the Sunshine’

Throughout history, British men have struggled with summer fashion
A string vest and knotted handkerchief on head were traditionally relied upon
These days they wear flip flops, sunglasses and designer shorts
Baggy t-shirts disguising the beer gut, they lurk around holiday resorts
They always make an effort to learn the language when they’re abroad
Purposefully learning the phrase to order a beer, but not much more
Barbecuing themselves in the sunshine, cooking up a sunburn tan
When the sun goes down, you hear them screaming in their accommodation
Under a cold shower, cooling themselves off, preparing for the evening
Resorts overrun with peeling lobster Lotharios, they’ll soon be roaring
Drunk on the tropical fruit punch, slurring all the words at the Karaoke
Finding their dancing feet again, flexing their skills in the Hokey Cokey

In the morning, they scoff a full English breakfast, on a journey to recovery
Then they explore, as far as a smoky back street bar, the best kind of discovery
Looking elegant in sweat soaked bright yellow Hawaiian shirts
Eyeing up the passing women, oozing oily charm, always alert
When a chance arrives to impress, they display their finest talents
Suck in their beer guts, jump down from their bar stools, clumsily they advance
Perch sunglasses on top of their latest lager blonde hairstyle
Smile precariously, knowing that the women, as always, will run a mile
Chat up lines flow like cheese melting on a giant, greasy burger
They deal with inevitable defeat by simply ordering another lager
Fall asleep at the poolside, chillaxing in the searing midday heat
Slaughtered in the sunshine, sprawling slabs of overcooked human meat