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Oh God!

Let Sleeping Gods Lie

If God made us, in “His own image”
Does that mean he looks like us?
So I guess he’s bald, with long blonde hair
A moustache and a forty inch bust.
He’s black and white and yellow too
A hermaphrodite to boot
Wears stockings and suspenders tied
to the jacket of a pin-striped suit
And when it comes to language
well. from every single land
(s)he takes every other syllable
which is why we’ll never understand
a single word that’s been handed down
from book to mouth to book
the faith of each nation
so lost in translation
so the warmongers get off the hook.

Danny Reynolds.

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A Sing – El Fish

I couldn’t let Danny Reynolds’s poem about the single fish languish in the comments section. The sing el fish (note the soft ‘g’) is a great Scottish delicacy. It can be ordered in several circumstances i.e. 1) The purchaser has insufficient funds for fish AND chips. 2) There is some crazy belief that whilst potatoes cooked in deep fat are high in calories, fish cooked in batter (also in deep fat) is just a healthy snack 3) The purchaser is so drunk he/she orders the first thing they can read on the menu.

The knife and lemon are in fact just a serving suggestion. Not normally recommended at bus stops.

Danny writes:

I was recently inspired to write on the subject of food, when my sister in law recounted her dilemna on trying to buy one solitary fish in a Balloch Chippie:

Why (how) can ye no buy a single fish in a Glasgow chippie?

“Can I just have a single fish? i.e. just ONE, not TWO?”
This simplest dietary wish, was holding up the queue.
“Am sorry, a single fish is aye two! Are you friggin’ huvvin’ a laugh?
Even if ye huv a simple Fish Supper, ye’re still getting one and a half!”
“But two fish is too much fur me” said Anetta, “The fat joost goes straight tay ma hips.
One and a half wi’ nay batter is better, but I really don’t want any chips”
The queue was soon catching that trouble was hatching.
The hungry man’s patience could not see the joke.
“Oi missis, if this is whit huzs yer brain scratching,
buy the single, eat wan, ‘n leave wan in the poke!”
Unflustered, she mustered another suggestion, “Hauf a single?” the strange request came.
“Oh fur God’s sake…Aw right, anythin’ else ya wee shite?”
“Aye! Ma wee brother here, wants the same!”

Whilst cutting and pasting there, I’m reminded of the question; “How do you know when a Drumchapel girl has reached orgasm?” Answer: “She drops her chips!”

Beautiful Poem

I wonder if you saw the story earlier this week about the “Beautiful People” website (A dating site for, er “beautiful people” only) being hacked by a disgruntled former employee? Apparently as The Guardian reports, the “Shrek virus” allowed in more than 30,000 new members who didn’t quite meet the criteria for the site.

The walls were breached, but not for long. It was reported today that due to a software malfunction nicknamed Shrek, 30,000 ugly people managed to join the dating website Beautiful People. Normally all applicants to Beautiful People are vetted by a panel of already Beautiful People and, if they are ugly, they are not allowed to join. But due to a “disgruntled former employee” the site broke – like a toenail! – and the ugly stormed in, in an angry ooze of big thighs and swastika-shaped eyebrows.

I do wonder about the veracity of all this because the report states that the poor wee insecure beauties were being offered counselling after the breach.

Anyway, my poetic pal Danny Reynolds was tickled by the story and sends this crochety rhyme:

The “Beautiful People” have suffered a loss,
and the after effects may well linger.
30,000 new members should please any boss,
unless all those, bar one, was a minger.

A plague o’ plug-uglies had got through the gate,
the state of the site was a wreck.
Integrity shattered, this crude crime of hate
had unveiled a vile virus called “Shrek”.

The beautiful Swedes and Norwegians were shocked
and dismissed first reports as just skittish.
But the photos would show that their ranks had been rocked…
an invasion of Irish and British!

Asymmetric visages were alas, no mirages
these dog rough-ians had ruined their game.
With their eyes, big as pies, centred by onion bhaji’s
to the Beautiful folk, they brought shame.

So the Board said “Oh my!” and then promised to try
to allay all the chic members’ fear.
Sent a blanket reply to each new girl and guy…
“Quasimodo! You’re not welcome here!!!

A Smile to Remember – Glesca Style

McKowski’s legacy

We hud these tadpoles goin’ roon an roon
in a jeely-jor on the side near the black-oot curtains
cuvrin the aluminium windaes, an’
ma maw, aye beamin n’ wantin us aw
tae be brand new. “Geeza grin, wee Danny Boy!”
Knew her stuff, ma maw. Better than a mizrable bam.
But ma Da kept blooterin me n’ her a brace a week
Steamin inside his five fit nine, coz he coodnae
suss the bile inside that irked him.

Ma maw, poor wee tadpole
Wantin’ tae be a frog, pummelt like clockwork
Cheshire catin’ it, “Chin up Danny boy,
Shoaz ’em pearlies?”

She led the way, wi a smile tae gi
the dentist nightmares.

Wan day, aw the tadpoles snuffed it. Whole lotty them.
Bottom o the jeely-jor, wee legs nearly developed
Deed.
Ma Da came hame, ate wan hissel’,
threw the rest tae the dug
n’ there’s wur maw. Smilin’ fur the gold medal.

Poetry Corner

My correspondent Danny Reynolds posted this in response to my Children in Need posting. For some reason the response got lost in a spam folder, so just in case you missed it, Here’s Danny’s poetic view.

Oh what a marvelous country this is
Or should I say marvelous nation.
A kingdom united in taking the piss
and making the best of a bad situation.

A place where minorities rule it would seem,
God(?)forbid, we should dare to offend them!
Feel the freedom they find in the Great British Dream
While they curse at the troops who defend them.

A place where the poppies are now used for kindling
Where flags can be burnt in plain view of the masses
Where kudos is given for cheating and swindling
And governments gather to scratch their own arses.

Where taxpayer’s money is going to be spent
on a wedding for those well accustomed to wealth.
And tonight there are folk who can scarce pay their rent
who will pledge their last quid to aid some poor child’s health.

Yes I think our priorities have gone astray,
When I see how we tend to our Children in need.
For this far from fun Friday is laced with dismay
and their plight is the product of corporate greed.

Let’s rattle the buckets for Willie and Kate
And tell Pudsey, today, Britain isn’t so great!

A Wee Hauf Vee

This great poem comes from my correspondent Danny Reynolds who obviously attended St Patrick’s High School in Dumbarton. He read my post about Hermitage Academy (about 8 miles down the road) and sent me a link to his work.

Absolutely brilliant Danny!!

Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England
2005

First day at St Patrick’s High,
Decimalisation day nigh,
Sylvester and Tweety Pie,
Wur still funny.

Ha’penny Caramels disappeared,
The inside o yer scarf, pult doon roon yer ears.
Mr Cunningham’s belt, held no fears,
Bit it seemed ye goat less fur yir money.

School trips tae Girvan or Ayr,
The English teacher, unaware,
We’d hid Newkie Broons and Whisky somewhere,
Till we threw it a’ up oan the bus.

Some sad gits liked “Marmalade”,
Me an ma pals wur a’ intae “Slade”,
(A kin mind, when the first Live album was made,
it sure sounded heavy tae us!)

Skinny-Rib jumpers, Oxford Bags,
Levy Stai-press, Kensitas Fags,
Save up the coupons, Bazooka Joe gags,
Send away for the X-Ray specs.

The gangs on the school train, would try no tay mix,
Till they sent a 3 carriager, insteed o a six.
There wiz nuthin a good sharp compass widnae fix,
Tay get fae wan Station tae the next.

The “Spur”, the “Dinky”, the railway bridge pongs,
The “Haldane Hatchets”, the “Bowl o’ Meal” Tongs,
The Spam Valley Scout Troup, where no-one belongs,
But there’s one memory, that really is odd!

“Dad, don’t get yir petrol fay Texaco!”
I think it wiz the World Cup in Mexico.
When a think back noo, it makes me vex ye know,
Collecting coins, o the England squad!

When Monty Python wiz still a hoot.
John Peel, before the punks came oot.
For weddings a double-breasted suit,
No tay mention platform shoes.

Before the Jam, wi their “Eton Rifles”
There wiz the City Bakery’s fresh cream trifles,
The back o the chapel, where the laughter stifles.
It’s nay wonder, ah now love the Blues!