Saturday, 13 June 2009


I cannot imagine why they gave the Laureateship to that dreary old lesbian when they could've had me, Barry Teeth, Maroon or Iris Noble, the poetess of Moggs Cross who used to work for Hallmark Cards.  The Laureatte's  first official poem is an absolute disgrace, commenting as it does not on the Queen's recent visit to the Carphone Warehouse, Windsor, nor on Princess Eugenie being spotted on a Brompton Road ale-bench, nor yet on the Duke of E'burgh's expressed preference for frozen hake and potato essence, and not even on the knighthood of Delia Smith.  No, she chooses the turgid theme of our moribund economy, and plunges the nation further into the gloom, from which we were so recently delivered by Susan Boyle.  

It is to cry.  See what some faker called Judith Palmer, Director of the Poetry Society, says about it:  "I think that what she has managed to do is capture in poetry the sense of disbelief, the numb despair, which leaves most of us just shaking our heads, open-mouthed and inarticulate".  To this, I can only reply: speak for yourself, Judith.  Only those half-strangled with beastliness would recognise themselves in that description.  I can speak boldly for myself, and for my readership, when I say that none of us stand gaping like codfish at the sight of Mr Jacqui Smith billing us for Anal Boutique.  No, indeed.  Our mouths our drawn shut in a thin line of disapproval, and as for being "inarticulate"!  Kind friends have contacted me over the past month with endorsements and testimonials in support of the amplified stance I took over the Raw Meat III debacle.  "A beautiful purling stream of  opprobrium"  AHKM, Jeddah.  "Your moral compass is truly magnetic!" KM, Manchesterford.  "Speak for England, Clarissa" GD, Cluj. "Hello, Baybee" EM, Burridge.  "I liked Hugh Janus in Anal Boutique but I spilt my popcorn" Miss SB, Bromley-by-Bow.

As some of you know, I have been workshopping my new play, Suet Blunders, over at Gadjo's, and there are roles for you all.  The part of Nobby Jellifer is still in dispute, but the piece is now fully cast, with the entr'acte in the steam laundry looking particularly gripping.  I shall probably take it to Edinburgh this August where it will be met with great acclaim.  Naturally, this has left me scant time for my poetry, but I have still managed one about Susan Boyle's downfall and another about Dr Maroon's admission and I am working on four new pieces: David Carradine's auto-erotic demise, on seeing Prince Harry at Chez Gerard, Marlow, the Queen's visit to Carphone Warehouse (someone has to) and Cheryl Cole's pregnancy concerns.  

I will leave you with this exclusive preview:


'Twas in the early summer of two thousand and nine
When Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II showed no sign
Of irritation or discomfort as the crowd of queue bargers
Obscured her view of a fine display of top of the range phone chargers.
(another 60 lines follow)


'Twas on the first of June two thousand and nine
When I spotted Prince Harry, the third in line
To the throne, but only if his father and brother have by then died
Possibly of swine fever or some vile act of Regicide
(another 75 lines, yet to be composed)

I do hope you feel elevated, and probably rather envious, on reading these pensees.  Last night I got completely hammered in Warwick, and so I will have a gentle evening, probably involving mange touts, Milk of Magnesia and some Madame de Stael.


Newshounds have contacted me this morning begging me to turn my thoughts to the biggest stories of the weekend, namely Lady Thatcher's broken arm, Madonna's new orphan and the Krankies' house-break horror.  I shall, of course be beavering away after luncheon.


I have just returned from the BP garage on the A4, and was struck by just how ugly and ill-dressed most people are.  It is to sigh.  I am also much exercised by Andrex's new lavatory paper (toilet tissue to the masses) which is "impregnated with vitamin D".  How extraordinary.  I am of the Izal generation; of the hardy daughters raised on roller-towels and surly washroom attendants; of disinfectant blocks.  How have we become so etiolated that we needs must vitaminise our bottoms?  At the official launch, Sir Dave Andrex made the grandiose claim that his new paper "was arrived at (sic) after rigorous consumer research and testing.  We are confident that we have provided our customer with the right solution (sic)".

I am bound to ask: solution to what, exactly?  "No more vitamin-deficient bottom wiping" is a cry never heard in the Thames Valley, although some might say they have heard it in Wiltshire, or parts of the Peak District.  Who knows?  And the research itself is bizarre.  A control group, with their pants around their ankles, each closeted in a lockable cubicle, was given a ticksheet. They had to choose from Vitamin D, Vitamin B12, beta carotene, Riboflavin, Pantothenic acid, Special K or Tocopherol.  They went for Vitamin D, as they felt they could get the rest from Cornflakes.  They were then asked which condition they felt could benefit from regular Andrex use: megaloblastic anaemia, keratomalacia, clinical lordosis, hayfever, Wenicke-Korsahoff Syndrome or hives.  None of them knew, but many asked about haemorrhoids. 

The thing is, one of the primary indicators of vitamin overdose is diarrhea.  We live in recessionary times.  Have the lavatory paper manufacturers found a new, cynical money-removing exercise?  I only pray that I am mistaken.


  1. I'll try again.. this time with the glass NOT in my hand.
    Dreary oul lesbian she is indeed.
    I've dribbled better prose while depositing the contents of my stomach on the pavement outside of the Gallowgate.

    Jobs for the girls?

    The Queen, the Queen, she likes to hunt..

    The Duke, the Duke, what a silly...

  2. How glad I am that I have never read or heard a single line written by that woman. And I owe my gladness to you, Mrs P.

    Mrs Pouncer Ludenda
    It rhymes with pudenda

  3. Duffy Duffy,
    too fluffy
    probably needs a
    spot of

  4. Clarissa, you seem facinated by my testimonials - but you are right! I AM a better poet than the current laureate and much more able to do justice to a butt of sack than that dreary old velcro who has been foist upon us. As our friend Inky once said, prosody!

    Kind regards,

    AHK Maroon x

  5. that's right, faCinated, not fascinated, which means something else entirely.

  6. Dear Mrs P. I'm impressed, seriously, but I do wonder wheher a dreary old play is the best way to frame your undoubted talent. Have you considered operetta? I believe you may be the natural heir to the baton of messers G&S and, although I always hesitate to thrust myself forward, I have more than a little experience of musical thespianism. Indeed, my Widow Twankey was compared favourably to Olivier's Hamlet by the theatre critic of the Isle of Islay Interrogater.

  7. Are we having dress rehearsals underneath Babes In The Wood?

  8. Mrs P

    You brighten all our lives with your divine wit. As for the poetry, The Great McGonagall himself couldn't beat it.

    Happy to take a part in the new theatrical opus: anything for a short bald guy (I've been compared to Bob Hoskins, although of course much better spoken)?

    Your own


  9. As always, you cast an unerring light on the social mores of society. I shall examine my current (expensively soft) toilet paper for its health-giving qualities. I have never known that I could ingest vitaman D through my posterior. the wonders of the human body never cease to amaze me. But then, I do live near the Peak District.

  10. Warwick is an awfully long way to go to get pissed. Are you banned from all the pubs in Reading? That certainly takes some doing.

  11. Dear Mrs P (or may I call you Clarisssa? .. and please call me Marston). I think I have it. It is clear to any halfwit that you easily have the skill and talent to knock out a libretto without breaking sweat before breakfast. Just leave the score to me. I have dashed off the odd leider-type piece in the past, and even got as far as a discussion with a producer for a triple CD entitled "Singalonga Stockhausen". Unfortunately the only commercial offering I have in the public domain is based on recordings of birdsong taken in my garden entitled "Dr J's Greatest Tits", but I can assure you I am more than man for this job. I realise that putting my own name forward as a performer is a little presumptuous so I am willing to undertake any form of audition that you may see fit.

  12. Marston you are a very funny man.

  13. *Observes quietly from armchair and eats popcorn*

  14. Im afraid Im more of a Purple Ronnie girl myself...

    *Wonders how MrsP finds the time to keep so abreast of current affairs during the last few weeks of the school term when the rest of us are scuttling hither and thither trying to be everywhere at once but is glad there is someone out there to keep me up to date :P*

  15. Mrs Cake! As you know, my household is ludicrously overstaffed. I have drudges for that kind of work - at sports days, prize givings, tea in the Governors' Parlour, etc., I am always represented by Mrs Rumteigh in cast-off couture and reeking of Tweed by Lentheric.

    Scarlet, as well you might. Kindly keep all crumbs off the parquet.

    Dr Maroon - drop it like it's hot.

  16. Mr Bastard, how vile. The Gallowgate is the home of AG Barr, is it not? I sincerely hope you hadn't been trying their new Diet Dandelion 'n Burdock. It is not available at Waitrose.

    Scarlet, you have no obvious gift for poetry. I suggest you enrol in the masterclasses I intend to hold this September. Please forward recent examples of your work, and two references.

    Dear Mr Jekand, do not worry about thrusting yourself forward. I am strangely interested in men who are confident in that manoeuvre. Your Widow Twankey sounds impressive, and would probably put Maroon's Baron Hardup to shame.

    There you are, Maroon. And how is it in the Landofsand? I am sending you a butt of sack soonest, and sincerely hope you don't come to an unfortunate end like the Duke of Malmesbury. Or an even worse one (the Duke of Buckingham for eg).

    Kevin, rehearsals start next Wednesday at the Ethical Hall, West Hampstead, 7.00 pm sharp. We will be in the Banqueting Suite, and the Babes in the Wood have booked the Function Room. Please don't align yourself with the wrong cast. If you see the Krankies, Roger de Courcey and Bobby Crush as you enter, then you are in the right place.

    DT, yes I do brighten everyone's humdrum lives, don't I? You should all rise up and called yourselves blessed. I have cast you as Vince Mulph, a sophisticate. Dressed in a sausage-brown surcoat, you drink sparkling British brandy throughout, and tell tales of old Paree. You speak of the Folly Burjerrs and the Moolong Rooge and no-one dares to correct you.

    Dear Madame Defarge, as usual, you take us back to the lavatory. Someone has to, I suppose. I cannot say why Andrex Inc. has decided on this course; I imagine their marketing man ran something up the flagpole and an idiot saluted. I was once on a focus group for instant bacon; I was there to give the kosher view. It never took off. I would like to make a witticism about pigs not flying here, but I am drinking a bot of Tokaj I found in the outhouse fridge (about 4 years old) and feel addled.

  17. Dear Gorilla,
    Apparet te habere ingenium profundum
    Edepol, fautor tuus maximus sum.

    Mr Jekand, an encore! Rest assured, the role of Major Temperley (pronounced Timlee) is yours. You always have a native bearer at your side and your sang froid is legendary, even during the Bournemouth heatwave of '57. During the entr'acte, you sing Men O'Wiltshire whilst the audience queue for their Kiaoras.

  18. Daphne, you tease! Every ale-bench, every gin palace from here to Abingdon is proud to call me their patron, as well you know. No, I was in Warwick as one of the invited guests for the opening of the Silver Bilberry, a glorious new boite, built in the shadow of the collegiate church of St Mary. We drank Empire Sunsets all night, and the two ugliest Nolan Sisters sang the Burt Bacharach back-catalogue. Wish you'd been there.

  19. Well, how can I thank you? Don't worry Mrs P, I won't let you down. Although my sang tends to be more chaud than froid, but I'm sure adding some ice to the hipflask I always take on stage with me to calm the nerves will do the trick. Now, as to the part of my native bearer, I wonder if Barbara Eden would be available to reprise her role in "I Dream of Jeannie"? I will also need to re-learn the words for "Men O'Wiltshire" as I haven't sung that ditty since I played long stop for the Malborough juniors cricket team (a club, I confess, I only joined so that I could wear a cap with MCC on it).

    BTW, I assume you meant the audience would have Koalas (Phascolarctos cinereus). Great idea and should pull in the Antipodeans who, I have found, are always excellent at joining in the communal numbers.

  20. PS: If you do want to attract an audience from down under, then can I suggest we include a song entitled "Walking the Bulldog". Let me know if you would like me to send my rendition of this to you via email.

  21. Nice blog! Scarlet-Blue has recommended it to me. I too am a resident of the delightful Thames Valley.

  22. My word, Warwick has gone downhill if it's got some place called The Silver Bilberry!

  23. I do hope you don't mind Mrs P, but I am so excited about the prospect of appearing in your opus that I just had to send you something by way of an audition. Hence I got my trusty lute out his morning and recorded my version of Walking The Bulldog. I've stuck it on that YouTube thingy and it can be found here:

  24. Why did I miss this post?
    What has Maroon admitted to?
    What would your father think of your spelling of diarrhoea?