Have Some Mulled Wine and Chill the F@ck Out

There seems to be some eejits kicking off again back home,
Each hooded thug resisting change like a single little ohm.
What terrible abuse of rights has caused this peace abortion?
They've taken down a flag? Well, that seems in proportion...

The lads are going ape shit, throwing bricks at the police,
It's good to get some exercise when you're out on day release.
The women find a tv crew and screech into the lens,
"If they're gona take our flag down, then we won't be their friends!"

That kid has got a petrol bomb, he can't be more than ten,
Don't worry, round the Shankill they're highly trained by then.
He know's what he's doing as he lights the oily rag,
And I'll once again remind you, this is about a FUCKING FLAG.

That pregnant woman over there, with the cider in her hand,
She's joined her fellow comrades in the street to make a stand.
That's dedication for you, in her delicate condition.
She's still out there in the cold, providing sources of ignition.

So you can fly the union flag no more than 15 days a year,
Which is a threat to your culture and the things that you hold dear.
I think that you're confused about the point of city hall,
It's for goths to hate the world in, and Christmas market stalls.

The Olympic Nightmare

I’m not awfully fussed, about this awful lot of fuss,

For what’s essentially a Lycra lover’s dream.

It’s not my place to say, but I’ll do it anyway,

These Olympics are not everything they seem.

“It’s the greatest show on earth”, no hint of irony or mirth,

That’s the bit that I find very hard to swallow,

“The Olympics will surprise you” Let me quietly advise you,

That the Chinese aren’t an easy act to follow.

“We’ll never see the like again”, the world’s most runny, jumpy men,

Will run and jump like no one ever has before.

But as far as I can see, it’s just a sports day on TV,

Except it’s costing over 13 billion more.

If you’re going by all means, please enjoy the festive scenes,

But remember al Qaeda want to kill you.

In summation as I see it, if you can then you should flee it,

Regardless of what Ryanair might bill you.

Let your children paint...

My friend is having problems, it’s really rather bad,

And I think it may have started when he fell out with his dad.

He wants to be an artist; he’s made that very clear,

But his dad believes that art’s a poor excuse for a career.

A few years on, things are worse; his dad is in the ground,

He’s got an awful lot of anger, he’s very tightly wound.

He needs an outlet to deal with what is eating at his core,

But instead he’s joined the army; he’s off to fight a war.

The war has not done much to help his anger it would seem,

If anything his views are tending more to the extreme.

I don’t know how, but now there’s millions who’ll obey his every order,

And it would seem he’s sent an army marching through the Polish border.

How's It Going So Far Jesus?

This one’s going out to the little baby Jesus,

Who by now should be one month old.

He’d be lucky if he hasn’t got himself a few diseases,

And it was common at the time for young babies to be sold.

If that’s not bad enough there’s a king who wants him dead,

And he’s still in that shed with all the sheep.

After a difficult birth, he’s got a misshapen head,

And those gifts were just a loan, those men were wise, but also cheap.

And yet there’s more, it would seem his mum and dad are splitting up,

On the basis of genetic ambiguity,

It’s hard not to feel a little sorry for the pup,

A child needs a normal head, and a sense of continuity.

There’s some things I’d like to tell him, that his life won’t be all bad,

That someday, he’ll be everybody’s boss.

And if he doesn’t know already, the big man is his dad,

Which is why his mates eventually will nail him to a cross

The Unreasonable Fears of Modern Man - Pt.1

Is there someone behind you with sinister notions?

Have animals been tortured testing perfumes and lotions?

People go through your bins, with no measureable shame,

On the off chance they’ll find out your mum’s maiden name.

Take care of yourself, or you’ll catch a disease,

Cancer for instance – contracted with ease.

There’s nowhere that you can’t develop a tumour,

One ironic example – the vitreous humour,

It’s ironic because cancer’s entirely humourless,

Which is true if you’re riddled or entirely tumourless.

Don’t eat too much, or too little veg,

Unless you’re a fan of life on the edge.

Diarrhoea and constipation are no laughing matter.

With a fine line of fibre between former and latter.

Your health risks extend beyond merely food,

You’d do well to avoid the kid in the hood.

Ignore the optimistic notions that grab you,

He won’t want to help; he’ll probably stab you.

That man over there, did he look at that child?

He’s more than likely a paedophile,

Long gone are the days of milk and honey,

As the banks swallow up, and shit out your money,

And without any cash how can we be expected,

To get through life and remain uninfected,

By diseases, societal, physical and mental,

If the world’s gonna fuck you, then let’s hope it’s gentle.

Drinking at home....

The advantage to sitting at home with a drink,

It loosens the cogs that control how you think,

The train of your thoughts can go on uncurtailed,

‘til drink really kicks in and your train is derailed.

But it’s not up to you to decide at which time,

You’re crossing the line and committing thought-crime.

Which explains the insistence on verbalisation,

Of thoughts which would curl the toes of a nation.

But alas you continue, you’re still undeterred,

Despite the disturbing messages inferred,

The perils of an uninhibited mind,

Like a visual joke, at expense of the blind.

I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had one or two,

I’m not keeping count, but you might add a few.

It’s a running total, so I’ll keep you updated,

But sobriety is without doubt overrated.

I’ve had ten.

And then,

Just one more,

Or four,

Then I’m done,

I have none, but there’s rum...

The Diary of a Retiree

The age of retirement might well be sixty five,

But I don’t believe in basing it on how long you’ve been alive.

So when people leave work early, there’s no need for complaining,

As they’re basing their retirement on the years they have remaining.

In the case of my dad, although he’s only fifty six,

He’s done his fair share of working since he grew up in the sticks.

So I’ll take you back to fifty five and the town of Edendork,

Where my dad was dropped from quite a height by the baby making stork.

But in Tyrone when you have a fall, no one makes a fuss,

Which might be why, a few years on he failed the eleven plus.

At some point in the next few years, he engaged his meagre brain,

And somehow got himself a place at college in Coleraine.

Where he got up to this and that, and between one thing and the other,

He came out the other end tightly wed-locked with my mother.

They moved themselves to Antrim, and on a cold night in November,

They made arrangements to extend themselves by one more family member.

Six years on, another move, and another child arrives,

And for eighteen years at least this is how they’d spend their lives.

All the while he plied his trade, round west Belfast and more,

The children there were social worked like they never were before.

As he worked on the streets he worked his way up the ranks,

All the while piling money into several different banks,

After all those years of saving, he unveiled his masterplan,

I couldn’t quite believe he went and bought a caravan.

He got through that awkward phase and reacquainted with his senses,

And after some consideration and reshuffling of expenses,

They bought a house in Donegal where they’d settle for a while,

Far from death threats in Portstewart from a dangerous paedophile.

Before I go much further I’ll indulge in some digression,

For there’s more to Mr. Toner than caravans and career progression.

From the long list of his talents, I have time for just a few,

If he’s not the worlds best mumbler, he’s certainly number two.

He’s got a very special talent for illegible handwriting,

And his culinary efforts are nothing if not exciting.

As for looks, well God gaveth and he tooketh away,

He lost the moustache, but went gradually grey.

He’s recently got into this cycling and walking,

He’s hopefully better at these than at talking.

To get back to the point, it’s two thousand and five,

And my dad’s got like fifteen years left alive.

Twelve hours a day is too much for a man,

So we urged him to make a retirement plan.

We all knew at the time if he didn’t slow down,

He was hurtling towards a big hole in the ground.

Flash forward to the present day, and he’s about to pack it in,

And we’ll look on patronisingly, as his twilight years begin.

So to sum up:

He was born, he fell, he failed, he passed, he went on to meet my mother,

He studied, he left, he worked, he moved, he had me, then he had another,

And he worked and worked and worked and this work was all quite hardening,

Which will stand him in good stead, in his new career in gardening.

France - Je Plaisante

If you make a threat towards the French they'll fall upon their knees,

And wave a small white flag which more than faintly smells of cheese.

They could be down and out, on the street, and only have one shoe,

But they'll do it in a way that seems superior to you.

A Little Light Racism

Some xenophobic notes on international relations,
On ill-informed pre-judgements people make of other nations,
Awareness of it's baselessness won't dampen their conviction,
As we know the English suffer from some cognitive constriction.

Keeping My Options Open

I'm not looking forward to dying,

But I'll give it some thought if I must.

It'll happen, there's no point in crying,

So if I have to I'd like to spontaneously combust.

Spontaneous combustion is hard to arrange,

So I've thought of another idea.

Accidentally shot on a firing range,

Or strapped to a warhead in North Korea.

I'd consider being crushed by a Chinese tank,

Or shot on a grassy knole,

Wear a star of David around the West Bank,

Get a Palestinian boot up the hole.

Some polonium-210 mixed in with my tea,

Or a happy slap gone wrong.

Charged with murder in the land of the free,

If I did it or not, I'd be dead before long.

But then doctors are very clever.

What with medical advancements and all.

So I reckon I might live forever,

Or just die from injuries sustained in a fall.

Creationism or EVILution?

What would you like to have taught to your kids?
Facts or superstition?
Apparently god expressly forbids
Scientific inquisition.

So in for a penny, in for a pound,
If we were really created by god,
I would suggest that the earth isn't round,
And we actually live in a sterilised pod,

The pod man is out there watching us all,
Listening to all of our thoughts,
He digitally records every telephone call,
Stored as a series of ones and naughts.

To listen in on every creation,
You've placed inside your pod,
It's useful to own a news corporation,
Yep, I'm afraid Rupert Murdoch is God.

The joke's On Me... *sad face*

I feel like the butt of a long running joke,
Where the punchline's been hidden by mirrors and smoke.
But this doesn't sit well with my sense of humour,
As funny as famine, drought, or a tumour.

All through school and college I'm told,
You'll be happier now than when you get old.
But when you grow up you're comparatively rich,
So where's all my money you son of a bitch.

I get paid bugger all and pay rent through the nose,
Every week my bills dish out bitter blows.
And just when I think that I've got through the worst,
My overdraft's gone and my bubble is burst.

These wise old heads have been known to say,
"Paying rent is like pissing your money away"
But like a girl in a car, trying to parallel park it,
I'll never get into the housing market.

So as property prices continue to tease,
The economy fails with quantitative ease,
Other ways of life might be better for the soul,
Like social housing and claiming the dole.

What to do with Your Recently Acquired North African Tyrant...

If by chance Gaddafi is caught,

Do we know what we’re going to do?

As with every crime, justice is sought,

But perspective is needed too.

A benchmark of law and order,

An origin for our graph,

As we drag him back from the border,

Have we written his epitaph?

So let’s establish a sense of scale,

Before he’s off to the slaughter.

As a starting point – six months in jail,

For stealing a bottle of water.

So how much worse are war-crimes,

Than bottled water theft?

I’d say it’s at least four times,

On account of the bereft.

So by my calculation,

Two years might make amends,

Followed by swift assassination,

If he ever reoffends.

Anyone for another game of Hide & Seek?

It looks like Gaddafi is out on his arse,

As North Africa’s ball and chain,

Support for the eejit would seem to be sparse,

But he’ll probably do a 'Saddam Hussein'.

They’ll storm his compound and what will they find?

A note signed off with a kiss,

"As you can see, you’re a step behind,

I’m long gone while you’re reading this. x".

He might’ve knocked on a neighbour’s door,

And asked him to do him a favour.

"Hi mate, can I just hide under your floor?

If not I’ll take your wife and enslave ‘er."

What if he’s got to the border?

It wouldn't surprise me at all

Found a way through all the disorder,

Or just gave is local cab firm a call.

Or maybe he’s got even further away,

He might’ve been gone for a week,

The last game NATO wanted to play,

Was anymore Arabic hide and seek.

Phone Hacking and a Nice Cup of Tea

As people’s private lives are attacked,

I think that it could’ve been me.

What if my voice-mail had've been hacked,

And my deepest secrets set free.

The world might hear of addiction,

A disgrace to my family tree.

My life is scarred with affliction,

None worse than my constant consumption of tea.

I've tried to stop, but you don’t understand,

It’s harder than that you see.

Imagine me sitting there, biscuit in hand,

Dry as a bone, without any tea.

It’s all well and good drinking water,

But it doesn't quite pack the same punch.

If I had one I’d sell my own daughter,

For some quality tea with my lunch.

The thought that the papers could get hold of this

Has driven me slightly insane.

When I don’t enjoy tea I know something’s amiss,

So I've become quite partial to smack and cocaine.

Jesus Christ Bananas! What's going on!

What kind of morally decrepit, scumbag, prick,
Primitive, sub-mental, low-life, dick,
Would crack an old man’s skull with a stick
For the change in his pocket, you make me sick.

You walk about like you own the streets,
Recruiting through incomprehensible tweets,
As you burn down buildings the atmosphere heats,
And the rest of the country’s patience depletes.
You’ll loot anything – Example: Gregg’s baked treats,
Lattices filled with savoury meats,
Four ipods each, for surround-sound beats,
But your warranty’s invalid if you don’t have receipts.

There’s a person on the ground, bleeding and confused,
Someone your mates have already abused,
He’s helped to his feet and his bag is perused,
Nothing that you want, so he is excused.

You’re worse than shit I’ve scraped from my shoe,
You reckon society owes something to you,
You say you’ve got nothing better to do,
Well then, here’s a suggestion or two…

You could take your old-man-hitting-stick and shove it up your arse,
I’d say you’d learn a lesson, but grey matter must be sparse,
Next time you burn a car out or set fire to a shop,
You might douse yourself in petrol, and throw yourself on top.

It would be wise to find some other ways to take out your frustration,
Which you claim stems from economic issues like inflation,
But you need another reason to excuse your actions soon,
Because we know you think inflation’s something done to a balloon.

I want you to know I hate you, and all you represent,
And I’m sure there is an island, to which you could all be sent,
But we’re not allowed to do that, on account of human rights,
Which apparently you have, despite the last few nights.

To sum up, you say you’re out there, because your lives are shite,
But you’re not improving things by running wild at night.
If you hate your life so much, you could attempt to change it,
There are saintly people out there, who might help you to arrange it.

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Back By Zero Demand

Haven't written a thing in a month or two,
But it's back by zero demand.
If everyone could just form an orderly queue,
We wouldn't want things to get out of hand.

A succession of phrases which rhyme will follow,
And there's plenty to go around.
Though the sentiment may seem to you to be hollow,
To me these words are profoundly profound.

I'd say there's no more pressing a matter,
To face society today.
Some people get exponentially fatter,
While others continue to waste away.

I understand that it must be hard,
When you struggle to reach your own laces.
You should maybe cut down your consumption of lard,
Once your forced to replace your belt with braces.

On the other hand it can't be easy,
When your problem is not that you're big.
But rather the thought that if it gets breazy,
It's more than likely you'll break like a twig.

So I would propose a special new tax,
To act as a kind of quick fix.
Whenever a fat person gives in and snacks,
They'll be forced to force-feed a thin guy a twix.

Worrying thoughts

As my belly gets big, it's button gets deep,
I worry about this stuff.
Concern for my clothes is losing me sleep,
Whole shirts could be lost and turned into fluff.

Oh no, Sunday again...

Cheers Manchester.

Another Sunday spent feeling like shit,

At the bottom of a deep metaphorical pit,

Though the night before was an absolute pleasure,

(With me throwing up, thrown in for good measure).

Its been a long time since a Sunday was spent,

Not wondering where money and brain cells have went,

The difference this time as we sit there and fester,

We’ve changed our location, we’re now in Manchester.

While compared to some nights, this one was quite tame,

Some of us didn’t escape without shame

So it fell to me to make the first blunder

I crept round the corner for a tactical chunder.

With continuing affinity for those on the street

In another misguided but selfless feat

The hero of the homeless struck once again,

Bought a bottle of vodka for a brother in pain.

It’s definitely time we all learned our lesson

The frequency of events such as these is depressin’

We must find enjoyment in some other way

Fuck that, this Thursday is St. Paddy’s day.

Traveller (I'm drunk while posting this)

For Nicola (cuz)...

Spend 6 months saving every god damn penny

You’d think you’d have loads, but you don’t have many.

Regardless, forget it, ‘cus it’s time to leave

Around the same time, your folks start to grieve.

It’s not like you're dying, just going away,

Though you won’t be returning for many a day

You’ve got big, big plans to see all these places,

Eat all these things, and meet these new faces.

No matter how much you’ve dreamed about this

You’re never prepared for the feeling of bliss

As you walk off the plane and the heat hits your skin

Then the panic sets in, where to begin

There’s too much to see and not enough time

To prioritise things just feels like a crime

But you’ll find soon enough that you start to relax

Despite the huge weight you have on your backs

Two bits of advice for those going away

Be aware that some ladies are not as they say

But most importantly, pack in your kits

Something to fight the inevitable shits