“some comedians push the boundaries in the name of entertainment”

I’d no idea that being a misogynist

Was a way for a comic to take a big risk,

That leering and jeering and shouting out “moist”

Was something a telly bod would want to foist

On innocent viewers across the country

In the name of pushing entertainment’s boundary.

To be frank ITV, this decision you’ve screwed

Taking a net clown with demeanour so lewd

To give him a show’s one of your biggest gaffes

For poor Daniel’s not dapper, and he’s immune from laughs,

And she knows that he knows that when he’s on the pull

That the only ones laughing are deluded fools.

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Griff Rhys Jones lives in a hice

Impoverished Rhys Jones

Discards mobile phones

And other costly devices

As he renews attacks

On Ed’s mansion tax

For targeting wealthy folk’s “houses”.

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A rubbish topical poem about the fuss about the Ukips and the Mock the Week

We want a new hero to help Mock the Week

Rejecting the nob gags, and Parsons’ stock cheek

To stand up for Ukip, to come off the fence.

Where is he? where is he? Where’s Andrew Lawrence?

To talk to the public, to say the unsaid:

About immigration and why Ed is red.

Ask the silent majority in the audience

Where is he? where is he? Where’s Andrew Lawrence?

So discard the woman, the fat bald one too

The crap one, the mad one, the comic who’s blue,

What we need is a ginger to stare down the lens

The one and the only: here’s Andrew Lawrence!

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The “Revolution” will not be televised again on Newsnight (if they’ve any sense)

Oh Piketty! Woe Piketty!

Inspiring such prolixity!

Who’d have thought his economics

Translated into fluent bollocks.

But all ideas fall at the hand

Of cultural icon, Russell Brand

Whose revolutionary attacks

Would reinvent corporate tax

At twenty pennies in the pound

(the rate today, as most have found).

Russ questioned whether the twin towers

Were struck down by Islamic powers

When interviewed by Evan Davies

(as part of book promotion favours)

And garnered unintended laughs

In shrinking back from Evan’s graphs.

Poor Russell’s worldwide “Revolution”

Seems much afflicted by confusion.

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A rubbish hastily typed topical poem on David Cameron’s impromptu budget press conference

When you sign international obligations

You should watch for cheap machinations

And lectern thumping for party audience -

Play the long game, develop patience,

Pick your fights, avoid the faux rage

(designed to out Ukip that Farage).

Best when asked about the EU budget

To waffle a bit, and then just fudge it.

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lines on the departure of Johann Lamont as leader of the Labour party in the Scottish Parliament

Few will lament

The end of Lamont,

Apart from that Ed

Who she’s punched in the head.

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A rubbish poem written in 10 minutes about Russell Brand

Who’d have thunk when watching Big Brother’s Big Mouth

The Dickensian host with language uncouth

Apologising for Jade’s racist remarks

Some months later would alarm Andrew Sachs

By phoning to say he’d shagged his granddaughter

And other remarks he’d really ought not to?

Yet within a few years when quizzed on Newsnight

As a cultural behemoth, a man with insight,

Ribald revolutionary Russell Brand

Thought today’s politics was much too bland

And consequently we shouldn’t vote

Because those pesky MPs got on his goat.

At least he seemed to think that until this week

For faced with an old punk he seems a bit meek

‘cos when called a “bumhole” by one Johnny Rotten

Russell’s earlier views seemed quickly forgotten.

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A rubbish topical couplet

Might be best to avoid

Private views of Lord Freud.

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a rubbish topical poem contemplating the lack of official concern into allegations of ballot rigging in the referendum raised by a well known American writer

On Sunday we’ll go to Freedom Square;

Let’s hope Naomi Wolf will be there

Brandishing her blank ballot spreadsheet

With labelled columns, all lined and neat:

Listing regions from around Scotland

And ballot papers that should have been banned.

The Electoral Commission doesn’t care.

No, they won’t have someone in Freedom Square.

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This week’s rubbish topical poem-lines on the media reponse to Douglas Carswell’s by election victory

Matthew Parris blames you

For the Clacton to do.

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A rubbish untopical poem on a topic and in a style requested by a reader

Crow and legislative competence

His winged shadow

black

Fell on the page

black

Crow descended

black

He clawed the words

black

His acts - beak tore

black

Crow belched

“Not law”

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Another rubbish poem on a topical issue

I sometimes incline

To confuse Naomi Klein

With Wolf, which is a no go

Perhaps best resolved with a logo.

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tonight’s rubbish topical poem

A sheep in Wolf’s clothing

I’ve just read

Naomi.

Her brain’s shred.

Oh my, eh?

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National poetry day 2014

Those things that poets said

 

Those things that poets said

Of love seemed true to me

When I loved and I fed

On love and poetry equally.

 

But now I wish I knew

If theirs were love indeed,

Or if mine were the true

And theirs some other lovely weed:

 

For certainly not thus,

Then or thereafter, I

Loved ever. Between us

Decide, good Love, before I die.

 

Only that once I loved

By this one argument

Is very plainly proved:

I loving not am different.

 

 

Edward Thomas

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this week’s other political poem

Mister Ed

was talking hoarse

So whispered “deficit”

Of course

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This week’s political poem

Sadly I didn’t have the time

For Ukip to move me to verse

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A personal reflection on the impact on me of the departure of Jason Orange from Take That

.

.

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referendum poem

Like many people I have greatly enjoyed the tremendously bad poetry about the referendum as people have put together words on a page with no sense of the shape of the words on the page, how to use space,  or any conception of subtlety, word choice or rhythm. The self important political poetry has been of such quality that I for one am grateful that the internet exists in order to allow its full dissemination.

however, how easy is it to write bad referendum Poetry lacking all of the qualities that one would expect from poetry? I thought I would try for a good five minutes or so using the challenge most seemed to have set themselves:  lines with no or nursery rhythm; littered with clichés and adverbs; and a Simple rhyming scheme.

I therefore unveil

September 18, 2014

I am sure that I will for rest of my life certainly remember

That initially foggy day in the middle of September.

I attended the polling station nearby just before eight

My heart full of hope, and devoid of hate

Apart from for those who would do Scotland down

Who I Stared at as they walked in, while giving a frown.

On the ballot with pencil I marked a big X

But waiting for the result I and my wife were turned into nervous wrecks

And as I watched the twitter timelines and saw the tweets from tannadicelad

I realised for yes the results they could be bad.

[and so on for weeks]

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Yah all right? YYAAAHHHHH AAAALLLLLLL RRRRIIIIIGGGGHHHHTTTTTT?

I live in a relatively new housing estate in central Scotland. Like many recently built housing estates our area neighbours extensive social housing. The local primary school has a great mix of children and parents talk at the gates or in the playground when dropping off or picking up children. For nearly two and a half years the referendum was scarcely mentioned. But when the schools went back in August the referendum campaign was up and running and entering the final weeks, and people started to talk.

“have you had anyone at your door?”

Uniformly, across parents from social housing and those from the new estates the answer was no. This confused me. I thought it was just us. That our estate was identified in these demographic mapping exercises as clearly supporting one side or the other and consequently not worth bothering with. But it wasn’t just us. It was everyone. The media talked consistently of a massive ground campaign by yes supporters, contacting areas never previously canvassed for opinion. But not where I lived. Not in central Scotland. Not in a council area with two SNP MSPs. And watching the media something struck me. This massive ground campaign was filmed in one or two geographical areas.

Now I knew there were activists for the yes campaign in the area. indeed, one neighbour was an early adopter of the YES car sticker. But he did not have a window poster (in my area in a one and a half mile radius of my house they did not appear until the final week  after an unfortunate incident earlier in the campaign, and it was the yougov poll showing yes in the lead that prompted window posters although even then no more than a handful with “no” outnumbering “yes” (disregarding the enthusiastic homes, one on each side where three posters appeared in the windows of one home)). So where was the campaign?

I know some people are uncomfortable knocking on doors (I did it myself for a party in the late 80s and early 90s when enthusiastic and devoid of cynicism and am conscious that forcing yourself into someone else’s personal area requires you to be in a particular mind set) and would have expected lots of leaflets. But we didn’t even have that. Over the more than two years of the campaign we had (up until the final week) five leaflets that had no been delivered by the Post Office. One was for yes, four were for no. When these leaflets were delivered the person did not knock at the door, did not want to engage. On two occasions I tried to go out to speak to the leafleter (partly out of a desire to get information, partly out of mischief given that I had some questions I has been trying to persuade someone to ask the politicians throughout the campaign) the leafleter rushed off. Once I recognised the local SNP councillor, who – following my cheery shout – darted round the corner as if attempting qualifying for the Commonwealth Games relay squad. We were getting hardly anything, but there was the Yes activist in the immediate area. What were they doing? Where were they going?

When I raised this at my work, in central Edinburgh, I expected colleagues to regale me with multiple tales of canvassers. But no. Despite people living across different parts of Edinburgh only one of my work colleagues (from a sample of ten I had chatted about it with) was canvassed. One, living in the city of Edinburgh had, apart from royal mail deliveries, never had any leaflets from either side.

This seemed bizarre.

But then I spoke to my parents in Dumfriesshire. They were canvassed four times by one side during the campaign, never by the other. Four times. Now, as a long time apathetic former activist four time seemed unnecessary. My mum and dad were pretty clear in their vote. They had been clear in their statements with the canvassers. When I canvassed (Admittedly more than twenty years ago) we usually relied on the first response, would note probability, and may go back as a check potential swings, or to encourage our supporters. And once identified it was about getting those supporters out to vote. But if the yes side was canvassing avowed no voters four times I had some queries. The media proclaimed the database of the yes campaign and the SNP hugely impressive. What sort of database needs you to go to the door of someone supporting the other side four times? What was the record keeping really like? And why, when I knew so many areas were uncanvassed, was the same series of streets in a small town in Dumfriesshire, being done four times?

The use of resources seemed inexplicable. Moreso, when told by parents that a team of sixty canvassers descended on their home town in the final weekend of the campaign for another go at the same streets in an area near the border that was nothing like SNP or pro independence territory – while I lived in central Scotland in a town with two SNP MSPs and had never had anyone at the door.

That weekend 6,000 yes supporters attended a protest at the BBC protesting against BBC bias and the temerity of the political editor of the BBC asking political questions. And we got another no leaflet. And no one from yes came to the door.

On the night that thousands of yes supporters rallied in George Square in Glasgow, less than half an hour away on the train was a sizeable chunk of a Scottish town – where ultimately over 100,000 people voted – where the yes campaign had never made any contact. The night that the rally took place in Glasgow I saw my neighbour, the yes activist. It was at the train station as he left for Glasgow and I got home from Edinburgh. Knowing that I watched pictures of the rally, and videos appeared, I was reminded of Kinnock’s rally at Sheffield. It looked like a victory rally. That night we had a no supporter at the door.

The following day I saw a car with two saltires drive round our estate. The driver stopped and dropped off boxes at my activist neighbour’s home. We did not get a leaflet until much later that night. Just after the one from no arrived.

I voted early on 18th September, completing my referendum journey. As I wandered round I reflected on questions I had raised with friends that were activists that had gone unanswered, questions that had been asked to representative bodies for the campaign based on readings of directives and other legislation that had been answered with one line emails, I reflected on my childhood weekends, on my family, and my job, and my home, and I reflected on a twitter exchange which exemplified a feeling that neither side really understood the emotions of the other and lacked any empathy. I got my ballot paper. I marked my cross.

That night I went to the local corner shop. I passed the car with two saltire driving around. The shopkeeper and I chatted about the number of people who had voted. He closed early to go to vote himself. I returned home and saw the car with the two saltire driving around my street aimlessly. What was the driver doing? Given there had been no canvass if this was a get out the vote operation where was he going? I stood at the door and watched it drive past my door three times in five minutes as it followed the loop of the road. Going round and round in circles.

I closed the door and waited for the results.

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my journey to my referendum decision

I’ll probably go out of the house after breakfast, walk up the street, then through the cut, turn left, and along the road past the roundabout until I get to the new houses and then turn left to the community centre. I’ll hand over my polling card and then go to the booth and put a cross in one of the boxes, but with a pen mind, not a pencil. You can’t be too careful.

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