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

A bit of a video

Did this back in uni...

Limerick of the day

A student from Pembroke once said:
'I'll take my mathematics to bed.
       My girl isn't willing,
       But I still want thrilling,
I'll integrate, quietly, instead.'


Andrew Stoker

Pat Ingoldsby

Another classic from Pat. It's called Polio (for Nick)...

Polio

You did your worst,
I did my best,
and I walked.
So fuck you!


Legend

Don't play with fire...

This one goes out to Sarah Corcoran, at her request...

Here’s a novel new way to extinguish a fire

If your lungs are just not up to the task

Just take one drunk girl and swiftly apply’er

I assure you this works, but please, don’t ask

gtoner

A Limerick Semi-Sonnet...

As requested by Sam 'the hutch' Hutcninson.... A sonnet about Limerick (not quite a sonnet, but fuck that, have you ever tried to write a sonnet?)

In England people know about Limericks

But they know bugger all of the town

It’s reputations is that it’s full of dicks

No shortage of gangs, running around

It has been given the nickname ‘stab city’

Having worked hard to earn it for many a year

Although really that nickname’s a pity

For there’s so many ways that you could die here

I will admit this is slightly unfair

It’s got one or two things to redeem it

It’s got roads that lead to Kerry and Clare

And a place is as good as you deem it

However I’ll tell you this one thing for free

From Cornwall, right up to the highlands

I’d rather live in Limerick you see

‘Cus at least it’s on the right island

gtoner

Limerick(s) of the day (brotherhood)

I found myself a little book of limericks a while ago. I couldn't decide on one, so here's two:

A young schizophrenic named Struther
When informed of the death of his brother
Said, 'Yes it's too bad,
But I can't feel too sad -
After all, I still have each other.'

ANON.


An amoeba named Sam and his brother
Were having a drink with each other;
In the midst of their quaffing,
They split themselves laughing,
And each of them now is a mother.

ANON.

Ameoba jokes never fail...

Suicidal Superhero

Have you ever looked up to see superman fly
and wished you had the balls to give it a try
Then you realise that superman's starting to fall
it's a father for justice, ending it all...

gtoner

I mean no offence but...

As I sit in an office and take people in

Robot sardines packed into a tin

It’s striking how few people really stand out

As for genuine craic, there’s a terrible drought.

Yet surely these people have lives of their own

Whether living it up, or living alone

Maybe they have families, living in bliss

Give their robot wives a robot kiss

I’m aware that in work people tend to play down

The fact that they might be a ‘man about town’

Any interesting secrets are kept under wraps

Safe from sideways glances from god fearing chaps

In a room of one hundred there should easily be

Forty affairs and the odd divorcee

At least three of these people are terminally ill

And a few have secretly popped the odd pill

I refuse to believe that nobody here

Has been hospitalised through consumption of beer

But if inwardly people are how they appear

To appear as they do is my ultimate fear.

gtoner

Pat Ingoldsby

This guy is a poet from Dublin. He is semi-homeless and his poems rarely rhyme, but we'll hold neither of these things against him because he's a bit of an awkward genius. This one's for all you English boyos. It's called Brittania:

It is not in the Irishman's nature
to cover the grass when it rains
and run for shelter.
Then the civilisers came
and taught us cricket.

And didn't you teach us well...

It was a good year...

It may seem to you that we always drink wine
And it may come across as a worrying sign.
Do not look down and don't bare any grudges
For most of the time we're all sober as judges.

We're articulate, wonderful, charming creatures
With many amiable, endearing features,
As we talk many high brow topics are reached
And the highest intellectual summits are breached.

We are not just run of the mill for our age
We're far more advanced than most at this stage
The occasional wine helps to loosen our tongue
And bring back the memories of when we were young.

I'm inclined to ignore what anyone thinks
On account of the fact that I've had a few drinks
But if over-consumption of wine is your fear,
Fear not, from now on we're all drinking beer.

gtoner - Rezzo classic collection

Limerick of the Day

There once was a woman in labour
The result of a night with her neighbour
Her husband then said I
Am glad I'm a Jedi
And dealt with him with his light saber

gtoner

All the fun of a Sunday Afternoon

All of this is completely true...

Although memories of events were significantly blurred,

They knew some notable occurrences occurred.

The following day it did not seem to matter,

They’d prefer to feel human than have fuel for their chatter.

But they did what they did and would now spend a day,

In a body that hates them in more than one way,

Not just the intensity of their physical pain,

But the hangover guilt that’s plaguing the brain.

In an attempt to distract them from their current condition,

They thought of the previous night of attrition.

One by one, memories were recalled,

Some were welcome, others appalled.

Without going into it in too much detail,

Here’s what their memories would start to unveil;

There was projectile vomiting in the direction of strangers,

The theft of a cushion, which brought its own dangers.

The cushion was smuggled into the next venue,

Where random hugging of strangers seemed to be on the menu.

When they finally decided the night was complete,

One made a friend who lived on the street,

After an hour of chatting about the guys plight,

He was invited for dinner on Monday night.

They finally managed to get through the door,

At somewhere approaching half past four,

You’d think that’d be a good time for bed,

But the xbox was on so they played that instead.

So as they sat with their heads feeling like they had split,

They’d come to agree that they all deserved it.


gtoner

Preblog

I think before I launch into blogging to the billions of people on the internet (or the few sympathetic friends willing to entertain the drivel I produce), I should explain the point of the blog.

To be honest I'm not entirely sure there is one. I do enjoy writing the odd poem. Generally they're not serious in either content or topic, but I might surprise you. I also like the sound of my own voice, so for the good of noise pollution I'm going to try to write some things down instead.

I tried something like this before on that once beloved platform, Bebo. I started my own religion, gained myself a number of followers, and set myself up as the figurehead of the whole operation. It became something of a disaster. I couldn't handle the pressure of my 'flock' relying on me for sustenance and I had to give it up, leaving them without direction. I don't want a repeat of this, so I would ideally like people to contribute something of their own, either as comments or e-mails to me and I'll post them for you (and give you the credit obviously). I'd like it to be a communal effort.

I'm not sure whether you have to sign up to be able to comment, but it's very easy. If you have a google account you just use that.

We went through a nice little phase in the workplace where there were poems and Limericks flying back and forth. It was all very exciting, if a little abusive.

That'll do. We'll see how it goes. It might be a bit of craic...