Free DNA test

Results bear that

You are related to everyone else.

To be more exact 

Part of everything ever there is or was or will be.

All there up yr DNA.

Om om buggy buncha atoms

Badman sandman don't aks me.

Somehow In Breathy Credit

Oh

Everything is loud and mercantile 

A messy house of reptiles

Shedding careless

Stop

Underneath the sultry sighing sun awhile

The paradigm unfolds

Incessant 

Oh

Sit and feel the undulations 

We approach the early

Evening dauntless

Cause

We have conquered tribulations 

Scrambled by fear

We rose nonetheless 

So

Ask not why them not us, why now, cause

Logic has nothing

To do with it

Or

Reason or rationale force 

Book learning to something

Beyond that 

Oh

We call across the passion skies, hands up

To shout your

Names out

But

Sine waves and sawtooth lives cannot

Create continuation 

From the casket

And

Belief in anything is worse than life

With scar struck

Projects

The

Prospect of capital or kisses or god

With all his magic

Merits

Oh

The day is cooling now, and still 

We seem to be somehow

In breathy 

Credit

Oh

The joint end's orange glow 

Mirrors a sunset 

If you bless it

So

For all those we have lost we offer a scraggly toast

With voices wracked

And ragged

For

With life comes the cost of its damning aftermath's

Heavy toll and its 

Cold dagger

Oh

Memory unreliable

Moments quite conflatable

But this all happened 

And

That we could exist at all together is incredible

A time tapered

Revelation 

So

Amidst all the bigotry we scaled the hill of dignity

Unassuming 

After a fashion 

Oh

We had our time in the city. Unending nights of fantasy 

Hackled back to reality 

A crushing crash land

Oh 

Karma's call seductive brings a tissued veneer 

Through which we see 

There is no pattern

And

Decades destructive kill qings and kings, 

Whichsoever queers 

The vast illusion

So sing:

If, if we are still here,

If here to sit must we:

Then maybe, finally,

With

Tired time detained an cuffed,

A darkest blue for us:

Let there be love.

And love there was.

Fugly

Lost my pension pot investing in a memestock pump and dump

Fronted by the hawk tuah girl

Well if that ain't financial smarts I don't know what is

Put my family in the hands of a convicted rapist and multiple bankrupt

Who wants us to drink bleach

Well if that ain't democracy manifest I don't know what is

From the fat twats in the west to the crackpot obese east

The rats and worms frenetic for the fugly famebot feast

Well ain’t that just another delicious kickback in the teeth

I could have sold my soul six times over if I just knew where it was

These days it doesn’t track

Another despot’s orgy undetected by Starlink’s inevitable malfunction

I surround myself with meatheads six feet tall and eight feet wide

Staring behind dark glasses

Demanding that I have authority over the definition of maleness

From the no-marks in the north to the scumbags in the south

The very worst amongst us get their snouts first in the trough

And that is just the latest way to shove and smite and snub

Lost my mind when I was implicated in a swathe of DDOS attacks

Restructuring is never a good word

Who wants to work anyway when you’re already using foodbanks

I built my week on AI and now I’m facing nine charges of fraud and theft

Though it all seemed above board

There’s no way I would ever have done those things without such timely help

From the bubbling rage of incels to the suicides in the Apple sweatshops

The groundswell is of hate and pain, an inward-facing rot

Don’t look up from twisted toes whilst tears run rank and hot

From the fat twats in the west to the crackpot obese east

The rats and worms frenetic for the fugly famebot feast

Well ain’t that just another delicious kickback in the teeth

Chappy

Chappy got bit by a radioactive octopus

And now he's an octopunk

Four extra limbs made transformation obvious

And his head became a bulbous lump

Chappy started sniffing glue and drinking scrumpy scrumptious

Dyed his hair and stuck it up

Mohican and a jacket made of leather looking glorious

And ink sacs squirting out black gunk

 A bike chain and a safety pin like sneer, he felt so monstrous 

Slouching down and getting drunk

He started speaking cockney like a prototype Sid vicious

Looking for someone to thump

Cause chappy was an octopunk

Yeah chappy was an octopunk

He pogoed like a springy spider  oh so dick ridiculous

Cause he had eight limbs to jump up

He didn't like the hippies cause their dope made him feel nauseous

And they gave him the hump

At all the gigs he got the crowd in paroxysm gnarliness

Kicking out for DM crunch

When the chaos started that was when he felt most ominous

He smacked and cracked at any chump

Cause chappy

Aye chappy

Chappy was an octopunk

Yeah chappy was an octopunk 

He couldn't help himself and went on tour to places dubious

Across the world to find more punk

Punjabi and Pyongyang never met someone so luminous

Tentacles that really sucked

Then chappy went to China and was stared at by the tourists

Waiting at the wall side pub

Cause he was on the grill in bits and god the smell was glorious 

He'd been caught by a fishing junk

He was a tasty octopunk

They had him on a plate for lunch

Cause chappy

Yeah chappy

Chappy was an octopunk

Chappy was an octopunk 

Learning to Write Jokes

I've been trying to get topical one-liners onto a radio show for a few weeks, with no success so far. It's much harder than you'd think. 

Such a lot of moving parts: the joke, its delivery, the cadences, where the emphases fall, the appropriateness of it to the show, the expectations of the audience... it's poetry and it's a beautiful writing challenge. Without getting too Giles Coren about it, it really does make a massive difference if your rhythm is off. I'm enjoying learning as I go, though. It has some clear parallels with news writing, particularly for broadcast and for packages which I've done quite a bit over the years for radio and a bit for telly here and there. Discipline is key to this; word choice can make or break the whole idea, too. Fascinating.

Usually the jokes are based on current news events. I think I've noticed a few themes running through what I've been submitting: plays on words, attempts to disguise punchlines, distraction, reclamation of cheese and puns, leading down one path then making a handbrake turn... anyway here's a few. I think some are a touch cheap, but some I'm quite pleased with. My technique is coming along, too. Some don't work in retrospect. Some work better. Anyway all academic as none got chosen.

I'll never do stand-up, and I'm in awe of those who can articulate themselves so well onstage under pressure - as well as ad lib when needed. As it is, the written word comes to life in a very different way when performed. It helps, too, that it's the same person presenting every week. The challenge is to find things that sound natural coming out of their mouth, with their honed delivery and professionalism. Lots going on. Anyway I reckon I'm probably more excited by comedy than music these days, which given my long background as a music journo is quite the realisation. It's not one or the other of course. That'd be frankly daft. Anyway. 

FAILED ONE-LINERS OCT-DEC 2024

Germany is being overrun by a gaze of invasive raccoons. One enterprising butcher there reckons he can solve it by culling them and making them into sausages. Not the best idea, not the wurst.

Moat Brae mansion, where Peter Pan author JM Barrie played as a kid, has closed, leaving investors out of pocket. Dumfries and Galloway, several hundred thousand pounds in the hole, said they were trying to claw back their funding. “If they’re trying to get themselves off the Hook, they’re living in Never-Neverland. Wendy wake up to the facts, they’ll realise their money’s Lost, Boys,” said a representative of the owners, Tink. R. Bell. I refuse to apologise.

A British collector of housebricks has run out of room and is hoping a museum will take all 4,000 of them. If only he could think of a way to knock up a building himself.

The youngest ever Chinese taikonauts have reached space. Their mission includes fly-bys of Button Moon, the planet of the Clangers, and Q Pootle 5, before returning to Earth with the taikonauts in suspended animation, or as they call it, ‘nap time’.

Researchers in Japan have discovered that chimpanzees perform better at tricky tasks when they’re being watched by humans. So if you were ever wondering why we record in front of a live studio audience...

Donald Trump’s son, Eric, has confirmed that his dad will visit Aberdeenshire in 2025, to open his new golf course.

Janey Godley’s daughter, Ashley Storrie, is designing a new sign for the occasion. (She already has the first three words: ‘Trump is a’ … )

Social Network news now, and there has been a massive migration away from X, formerly Twitter, with millions of disgruntled punters joining Bluesky instead. 

However, Sir Keir Starmer said that there were ‘no plans’ for the UK government to move away from Elon Musk’s app.

Once considered a welcome breath of fresh air, but in recent months a tainted, unreliable and toxic brand, the Labour party won the 2024 election by a landslide.

An unknown Glasgow-based violinist stepped in to play with The Corrs, after Sharon had to pull out of Sunday’s gig at the Hydro. 

Éadaoin Ní Mhaicín had just one soundcheck to run through the songs beforehand, and said she fulfilled a childhood dream onstage.

Of course, many of us have our own dreams about fiddling with Andrea.

Veteran rocker Rod Stewart is set for the Legends slot at Glastonbury 2025.

A byword for hedonist excess, booze and sex in muddy corners since the 1970s, Rod is 79 years old.

Ebeneezer Scrooge’s gravestone, used in the 1984 movie adaptation of A Christmas Carol, has been destroyed by vandals.

Eyewitnesses spotted three ghostly figures fleeing the scene, but police described current evidence as ‘miserly’.

Ed Sheeran has said sorry to the new manager of Manchester United, after gatecrashing a live pitchside interview.

United boss Ruben Amorim said it was the most effective intervention on the field he’d seen all season. Sheeran starts in midfield versus Everton on Sunday.

Britain’s obesity crisis is down to the Church of England failing to provide people with spiritual sustenance, according to Boris Johnson.

Seems the former prime minister remains obsessed with enriching our souls.

East 17 singer Brian Harvey has urged Vladimir Putin not to send nukes to bomb the UK.

In an impassioned YouTube rant, Harvey explained that he’d toured Russia and loved the country and the people. Though he had to go away, he didn’t want to take the pain, so he asked Putin to strafe another day.

The surgeon to the pope has been accused of fraud after saying he was in the operating theatre, when actually he was hundreds of miles away - on the beach. 

Luckily for Sergio Alfieri, he collects his wages through an app - so he has PayPal immunity.

A UK ticket holder has won 177 million pounds on the EuroMillions, the third biggest National Lottery win ever.

They told reporters: “Byeeeeee”

Conservationists have called an AI tool which can distinguish between grey and red squirrels ‘an absolute game changer’. Squirrel Agent can automatically allow only the endangered native reds into special feeders, whereas the larger invasive greys are forced to consume contraceptives instead.

Elsewhere today, sales of Rimmel red hair dye have gone nuts.

Dundee University, beset by cash troubles, has said that a £7,000 trip to Hong Kong has generated more than ten times that in revenue.

It would have been more, but the final roulette ball landed on red instead of black.

A previously-unknown 1830s waltz by composer Frederic Chopin has been unearthed by a New York museum. It’s the second longest time between new releases this week after The Cure’s latest album.

The Wall Street Journal  has reported that Elon Musk and Vladimir Putin have been in regular touch for the last two years. A volatile and capricious dictator spreading misinformation to destabilise democracy,  Mr. Musk bought Twitter in 2022.

Pippa Middleton is in the middle of a row as she blocked off a footpath crossing the back of her £15 million Berkshire estate. Local ramblers complained that they have lost access to one of the world’s greatest rear views.

(OR

Pippa Middleton is in the middle of a row as she blocked off a footpath crossing the back of her £15 million Berkshire estate. It’s not the first time her back passage has been in the headlines.)

Glasgow doctor and TV presenter Punam Krishan was voted off Strictly Come Dancing this week. We tried to get a quote but were told by her receptionist that it’s a three week wait for an appointment.

(OR

Glasgow doctor and TV presenter Punam Krishan was voted off Strictly Come Dancing this week. We tried to get a quote but were told by her receptionist that it’d be three weeks before we could see her.)

Writing for Viz

 "You should be ashamed of yourself"

...is the response of someone close-ish to me when they discovered that I occasionally write something for hashtag#VizComic

It made me chortle a little, which is appropriate. Because, almost by accident, Viz is the greatest satirical magazine the country has produced for decades. Yes, it has its scatological moments, and no, it's never Political with a capital P.

It's as scathing as ever as it holds up a mirror to societal vignettes. Rather than an overarching manifesto, it shows the grubbier sides of life (sometimes). The work of Barney Farmer & Lee Healey produces the ever-dark Drunken Bakers, shot through with desperation and regrets of the past; or how about Whoops Aisle Apocalypse, where a main character is obsessed with supermarket markdowns, and the strip generally ends in a mass brawl amongst shoppers fighting over £1.20 chicken strips. (That character also looks a lot like Geoffrey from Rainbow, for some reason. Barney didn't confirm or deny it when I asked him).

Elsewhere there's Foodie Bollocks, skewering snobs of scran delightfully; 

My favourite of all time, though, is Davey Jones. A surrealist par excellence, whose work deserves to be up there with Vic and Bob, the Pythons, and Spike Milligan. From Vibrating Bum-Faced Goats to a deliciously depressing strip about the ghost of Bruce Forsyth living inside a crumbling castle in the shape of his own head, via Gilbert Ratchet and Tinribs - the man is an absolute genius.

So many iconic strips, too: Terry Fuckwitt is an incredible, constantly perplexing, wonderfully-delivered ongoing slice of Escher-esque mad logic. Through the looking glass, upside down, intra-dimensionally - somewhere it makes sense.

The tropes of 'kid has a special power' are lovingly reworked, too: the long-running Tommy 'Banana' Johnson, with variations on a theme, is the exemplar of that. Viz doesn't reject its past; it celebrates it, embraces it, gives it LSD, and lets it loose.

That's what people get wrong so often about it. It's not just fart jokes, though of course there's plenty of those, too.

What I like the most about Viz, and writing for Viz from time to time, is that basically if something makes Graham and Simon laugh, then it'll get in the comic. Doesn't matter who wrote it, their status, or any crap like that. The main and only requirement? Is it funny or not.

So, no, I'm not ashamed, not least cause I'm in the company of David Bowie (who loved Viz), Peter Cook (who voiced some of the cartoons), Harry Enfield (likewise), and the vast majority of the UK's gigging comedians who subscribe to the comic.

Delighted to say that my latest piece 'Everything's a Competition' is in the Christmas 2024 issue of Viz. Go buy it, you won't regret it.

My back might be fucked, my knee misbehaving too. But my brain's still kind of working, somewhere underneath.

Yabadabadoo! Viz is ace. Long may it reign.

MATA

Suck it losers

we won

we are awesome

cause we won

look at those losers

over there

"thinking"

You'd think

You'd think, wouldn't you

That in all this 'time off'

I'd've

* Improved my Spanish

* Written loads

* Attended webinars

* Learned the uke, the harmonica, the piano, the kalimba, the mandolin properly

Ah well, you'd think wrong 

Cause it's not 'time off'

It's time on 

* Being in constant pain

* Getting knackered walking 50 yards on sticks

* Taking 20 mins to unload a dishwasher

* Taking ages to load the washing machine 

* Being too fucked to actually hoover

You know, thinking about it

I'd rather be at work

Complaining 

* That it's raining

* That it's fucking Monday 

* That it's busy

* That it's quiet

* That my back hurts a little bit, but no more than a back normally would in this weather at my age after lifting all those boxes of paper and doing all that high shelving

Maybe one day 

I'll be back

un/grateful

There's new things I can’t do like walking or working

but, see: my book’s flying

I’m not doing housework or cleaning or cooking

but it’s fucking selling

There’s no real connection, but it feels like a tradeoff

a bargain with – who? - someone?

I’ve written nowt decent for – what? - three months?

fuck this interregnum.

Codeine for the fucked back; it smooths me a little

but smothers as much

Drained of motivation, a fight to stay level

but can’t give enough

A waste of this nowhere, unable to battle

toward what I want:

Appointments ahead, Joe, so wait for the phonecall,

and keep your head up

People are shocked when they see me. I’m shorter

than I ever was

Some lose weight: I lost height. Oh how truly funny

a fractured back is

I’m waiting for respite. Stability. Something.

I’m fragile. I rust,

But my book is selling. It just won’t stop soaring:

my spine crumbles, dust.

Machete, dulled

The bramble scratch, the nettle rash,

the dulled machete’s feeble hack,

a year, a second, dizzied time,

its tendrils creepful, serpentine.

Half-drowned in dirty dopamine,

baptised by gremlin gods unseen

and devil dogs with rancid breath

scrape bloodied claws, scars snarling death.

The tangled thicket’s insurrection

thwarts progress in all dimensions;

crazy patterns, mazes turning,

muscles burning, melting, yearning

for any movement, for distraction.

Every moment, every action

trips-out troubles, tangles, tumbles;

a thousand cuts, a thousand stumbles.

A month, an hour, a life, obscene

to carry on, to writhe, to scream:

but on we must. So pain, so fear:

brambled, nettled, human, here.

The Impresario Barry Smalls

Barry Smalls had smelly balls

They stank like rancid guff

He scrubbed and scrubbed with full strength bleach

Until his cock fell off

Undeterred he paused a mo

Then said pragmatically

I'll fry that up with onion rings

And have it for my tea

Treatment Agreement

Hey! Professional listener!

Watch as I puke up scabs and scraps!

Just nod or grimace when I stop.

Trained to recognise which to enact.

Wonky steps, crude dark descent:

the pressure forces fluid from my brain.

Drill my skull before it explodes;

Oh hapful procedure! Oh give me release!

Despite me, to spite me, to kiss me, to bite me:

A feast of my metallic gristly blood abounds!

Sundry nothings from another festering taproot.

I’m such a sad, broken, abandoned bandicoot.

Surrogate mothering is where it’s at!

Tell me I’m your only one!

The hands of the clock clap me back upstairs.

I’m lost in the universe far from where we began.

Thank you for being kind.

See you next week

for more trepanation

and flirting and grief.

Loss Did Not Make Me A Believer

Loss did not make me a believer:

I wanted so much to share this 'truth':

that there was, there is, another place

where You still are and We one day will be.

And that is the case, but for different reasons

than I ever expected. Nobody knew

or knows how to react, in the face

of the rippling, crippling crime of grief:

and, sure, it didn’t make me a believer

but it whipped away the certainty, the glue

I stuck to the concept to stick it away

somewhere it couldn’t really confront me;

because I am here, the march of the seasons

continues, and life still moves on through

whichever dull drudge or exciting embrace

comes along. And I have started to see

that whether someone is or is not a believer

is intensely unimportant. And, in due

respect to those who find motes of grace

around the confusion and devastation, I leave

my dogma behind. We walk the same river

and it flows around us, and silt accrues

and traps us if we stop. So some pray

for comfort. I am envious. They seem free.

Stop the Boats

This country must crack down on those damned bastard boats:

(Not the ones full of desperate refugees. Just the ones bringing coke)

Papa Boulanger

There once was a village nestled high in the mountains

where the snow melted down through a stream

and the water was sharp and clean and magnificently pure,

and it powered a stone water mill on its way.

The village had fields of wondrous, golden wheat

which made the most exceptional flour

and nearby were lavender and rhododendron abustle with bees

who feasted on the nectar, and made delicate honey.

There were salt pans nearby; a small farm in the hills;

a brewery, a winery, an inn;

and a bakery, where Papa Boulanger worked all night

turning that flour and water and salt and honey into magical things.

If he’d once had another name, it was long forgotten

and he was not one to speak of the past

he was four foot tall in his stockinged feet

and wore scars on his face, deep, long-healed.

Some said he had once been a soldier. Maybe true,

but Papa Boulanger was the greatest baker in France.

His eyes had been sightless since anyone remembered;

he was albino, with tight curls under his cap.

But – oh, the things he could make! Pure delights -

croissants buttery, flaky, sublime,

and the bread crust snapped like gunshot to reveal

the spongy, forgiving, delectable inside.

He did it all by aroma, and taste, and the most acute hearing.

He could listen to the fire crackle and deduce how hot it was

from ten yards away. And he could hear the dough rising

and proving, and living. He smiled as he worked.

He was the happiest man in the village, and the quietest too.

Papa had a special table outside the inn, which was sheltered

from sun and rain by an overhanging eave.

There he would sit, and listen, and sip brandy

as the village went about its day. He would raise a glass

as the oxen thundered past, taking wares to the markets

in neighbouring hamlets; and he smiled on their return,

with their cart laden with new linen, fashionable no doubt.

He would smoke a cheroot or two, sip on some soup

at his lunch; then a snooze, still at his seat.

As people passed him, he half-roused from his slumber

and greeted them not with names but their order,

and the time they picked it up: “Seven thirty, pan de mie

and a honey croissant on Sundays.” Or, “Six o’clock,

before work, for a croque monsieur.” And, with a twinkle

of delight: “Three AM for a twist to share.” To this last one

the young lovers would blush: nobody else knew.

By midnight, he would retire briefly to his room

above the oven, and wash, and get changed into

his night’s uniform. All was dark to him; he preferred to work

in the quiet of the night: but it was not silent

at that time, there was simply a lack of human noise

save the distant carousing from the inn. And he fired up the oven,

and set to his task, and into whichever reverie of his own

he disappeared. Where he went, nobody ever knew.

Now, one evening a businessman came into the village

travelling between his newly-bought factories.

He had fancy clothes, and lots of money,

and a loud voice which spoke of strange things

and strange vehicles, powered by coal, on straight rails,

travelling at incredible speeds. Why, you could be in Paris

within the day, he told the innkeeper. The inkeeper

nodded, and kept his counsel: he was wondering why anyone

would even want to do that. The businessman ordered

some stew, and some bread, and drank the wonderful

red wine as he waited. It was chalky, and mineral,

and berried, and fruity, and quite the greatest he had tasted.

“Thank you,” said the innkeeper. “We are very happy about it.”

The businessman took another sip. It really was superb.

And he started to think that this could make his fortune.

He asked how much was left. The innkeeper brought

the rest of the bottle out. “Ah, no,” the businessman laughed.

“How much of the batch is left? I should wish to make a deal

for this; we could sell this at great price in the city.”

And the innkeeper laughed and shrugged. He had a cellar full

but that was for the village until the next season. “Sorry, sir,”

said the innkeeper. “You are out of luck. Enjoy it whilst we have it.

That is how we have always thought of it.” And there was nothing

to be done but to chuckle and sip another glass.

The businessman sat down, and took a spoon of the stew.

Meat - maybe venison? - and root vegetables, and quite delicious too.

Well, perhaps he was somewhat in holiday mood

and perhaps, he reasoned, that is why it all tastes so good.

Perhaps, perhaps not. For when he reached for the bread

and, distracted, ripped off a piece, he was quite unprepared

for what happened to him. Thinking of his factories

he unsuspectingly placed a morsel of bread in his mouth.

Immediately he was transported. No longer was he sitting

at a rough-hewn wooden table in a smoky provincial inn,

but he was a child once again, running through a field

by his parents’ house outside the city,

and his childhood dog, the faithful Pierre, jumping

with joy all around him; there was a copse

where they adventured a million stories, now pirates,

or soldiers, or simply splashing through puddles

left by the late summer rain. For the taste of the bread

was that of the sandwiches his mother had packed

for him to sustain his long battle campaigns. And tears

came to his eyes as he remembered her smile

that he’d never see again as long as he lived;

he could feel the fur of Pierre, wiry and alive;

he could hear the dog’s panting and rambunctious energy.

All that came from one bite of the bread.

The businessman opened his eyes, and realised

where he was. This was more, he knew, than simply

being free and travelling between his factories.

This was no vacation infatuation. This was real.

“Innkeeper,” he cried. “Wherever did you get this bread?”

“It is more than extrordinary.” The innkeeper nodded.

“Yes,” he replied. “We are quite proud of that too.

It is the work of Papa Boulanger.”

“Well I must find this man immediately,” said the businessman.

“I intend to make him an extremely rich man.” The inkeeper smiled.

“Why, sir, you passed him on the way in.”

But the businessman did not recall seeing anyone.

Papa Boulanger of course had heard it all, from his place

under the eaves. He stretched out, and sighed, and took a drink

of his cognac. Presently, as he expected, he was joined

by a stranger – the businessman – mouth still full of bread.

“Sir,” said the businessman. “This is the greatest baked good

I have ever tasted. This is the work of a master. I should be honoured

if you would hear me out. I feel we can change the world

one loaf at a time – we can sell millions -

for the new railway can carry these loaves across the country

and wherever people are, they always need bread;

and this is more than mere sustenance.” In truth

the businessman was babbling somewhat.

He burbled about riches and palaces and kings;

but like the brook, he eventually came to a pool

where he stopped talking. Papa Boulanger smiled and said,

“Thank you, but I am already happy.”

And he stood up, and bade the businessman goodbye

for it was time to return to his room

to change his clothes, and to briefly doze,

and to rise to set the fire for the oven’s night’s work.

“Let me change your mind,” the businessman called.

“You do not know the world as I do.” But Papa had already gone

and was out of earshot, by other people’s standards at least.

So he heard when the businessman muttered to himself:

“If this bumpkin fool will not go into business,

it is my duty to myself to get his secrets. What an idiot

he must be to turn down this once in a lifetime offer.”

The businessman went back into the inn, and up to his own room.

There he schemed and planned across a restless night.

He became angrier every time he thought about how

with a soft voice, his offer had been turned down.

Nobody did that to him. He was the owner of many factories!

He moved in the highest circles in town. He knew mayors

and majors and was nobody’s marionette. These country folk

were stupid and dangerous. How ridiculous of them

to keep their wine and bread to themselves.

Who did they think they were? And with such thoughts

he fell eventually into intermittent sleep.

Papa Boulanger worked on his pastries all night,

and his customers came to collect at their appointed slot.

The businessman awoke in malevolent mood.

This required cunning beyond belief. He had landed in the village

on a whim; nobody knew he'd diverted his course, so he had time

to think of a way to come out on top.

But first – breakfast – and despite himself

he devoured two rhododendron honey croissants. Freshly-made,

picked up as a special order by the innkeeper’s wife not an hour before;

and each bite made the traveller’s soul sing

of fields, golden, of mountain dew, of delicate lavender days.

And his mood lifted; he no longer wished anyone harm.

It was simplicity, love, and a heart full of contentment:

oh, such pastries. Such magic. That man was an artist.

And, so, after eating, he sat outside, with his paperwork,

the morning sun beginning to warm the graceful day,

to rounden the edges of the sharp-edged mountain air.

He would ask the baker once more. Perhaps he would repent.

Presently, Papa Boulanger came to the inn for his lunch.

A bowl of vegetable soup; some of his own bread.

He never paid, of course. It was part of the arrangement.

And everyone in the village was party to an arrangement.

And he sat, and the innkeeper brought him a brandy,

and Papa raised his glass to the businessman nearby:

“Good day, two croissants,” he said rather quietly.

“Ah, hullo Papa,” came the reply, “They were wonderful,

which is my privilege and your gift. Sir, I understand

that you are not interested in my business idea.

Now hear me out once more: you need do nothing

but sit here and live your life how you wish,

which first I failed to understand, but now I do.

It is to your credit that you are content, and I can see why.

This village is beautiful; there are swallows on the wing;

a man need go nowhere else, if he pleased,

though for me I fear I am different and must move on.

Therefore, what I propose is that you simply

name your price for the recipes that you follow.

I am, needless to say, extremely rich, and so can you be.”

There fell a silence for quite a long while. The businessman

nearly broke it, but bit on his tongue. Papa Boulanger took

a spoonful of soup, and mopped at his bowl with a chunk of bread.

“Thank you for your offer,” he eventually said.

The businessman leaned in to hear better, for Papa spoke so softly.

“But I am, as you say, content. What would I do with all that money?

I have everything I need. You have said it yourself. I wish you good luck

but I respectfully decline.” And he fell silent again.

The businessman’s heart sank. The bile began to rise.

His face reddened, and, shaking, he tried not to speak

lest he shout expletives and blasphemies beyond reason;

and he trembled, and turned purple, and from his mouth

came blood and guttural sounds of no known language,

and he fell, quite dead, right there.

That night, the everlasting stew was replenished with meat.

And on the farm the pigs crunched through sinew and bone again, 

just like last time

and the time before that, 

and so on and so on.

And the baker went about his work

with a smile, for all he needed was right here in the village.

Making it Happen

 My last book - Quiz, Actually - did pretty well over Christmas 2023.

(It's a Chrimbo movie quiz book, and you will love it ;) https://lnkd.in/ex27w5kQ to grab one, though you could wait awhile and snag one on a decent deal in many other bricky-built bookshops.)

That said, as is sometimes the case I didn't have anything directly lined up to follow. Ideas came, and went, and remained uncommissioned.

So, rather than continuing to get frustrated and down in the dumps, I decided to return to my punk/DIY past and for the first time in a couple of decades to self-release something.

I'm no stranger to indie publishing and have worked with a few independent book publishers over the years; but this is right back to the grass roots, taking the spirit of my days making zines.

What I've always thought is that if you're going to do it yourself, there's no reason why you can't make it as bloody amazing as possible. Yes, I like the scratchy, punky, cruddy stuff - but punk isn't about doing things badly or half-arsed is it? It's the notion that anyone, anywhere, can do anything, without recourse to the mainstream fuddyduddys, without asking for permission.

Three chords and the truth, y'know?

So with that spirit intact I decided I'd break the log-jam by self-publishing a book of lyrics from a musical project I did with Paul Hammond, called Zombie Dub.

I designed it, proofed it, made it look boss, and printed it very cheaply, but to a high standard, with Mixam. I made it A6, pocket-sized, with a download code to get hold of the tracks from Bandcamp, and it looks fantastic.

Zombie Dubs is out on Friday, 13 September and if you want one shout me. It's not really gonna be in shops or online. But it is a great-looking book and I'm proud of the content too.

So far, so what. So this:

Zombie Dubs is my 13th book. I put it out because it deserved to be out rather than stuck on a computer and forgotten. But I also put it out to persuade the universe that this log-jam could ease. If I wasn't getting things commissioned, I was gonna bloody do something ace anyway.

When I decided to do it, I posted about it on social media - in part as a kick up my own arse to actually be accountable and get it done.

An hour later - literally - an offer came in to publish a poetry book. That's out in November next year.

A month ago I was asked to do another quiz book, out this Christmas. I'm working on it right now. That's going to be the 14th book. Not only that, I've just this morning signed a contract for a major music book which will be released in 2025.

If nothing's happening, folks, you gotta try and make it happen. The evidence is literally there in black and white (or will be, once I've written the bastard things)

Get out there and do it. Do it fucking awesomely, and awesome things can happen. Sitting waiting for things is a scam.

Believe in the power of Why Not.