Sir Humphrey explains Brexit!

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A story for cat lovers :Emile goes for a bike ride

Cats on the hill


Stan had just got back to his lovely bright home from a ride on his old mountain bike.Emile had travelled in his special cat seat/basket just in front of Stan as he liked to see the road less travelled should it appear..and he liked purr to encourage Stan to ride further into the deep countryside  which they lived near
When Stan got home to his luxuriously detached yet bijou dwelling he went to the wonderfully disappointing cloakroom to wash his paws before putting the kettle on for some tea.

Ah, how peaceful it is here, he thought…,how nice Mary is still at work.

Suddenly and alarmingly, the door bell rang.There, on the flower bedecked porch, stood a large, beautiful curly haired woman holding Emile in her pretty freckled arms
I believe this is your cat, she said boldly.So he tells me.Why, he even knows the address.
Well,if he’s anyone’s he’s mine, Stan admitted uneasily.What has he done now?

Did you not notice he jumped out of his basket?she asked enquiringly.

Well, no, Stan answered furtively..

I was getting a bit tired and keen to get home…I forgot my water,

I hope you won’t let him do it again,he could end up absconding,By the way, I’m called Yvette.

Are you Yvette Cooper,the MP,he enquired wildly.

No, she said, I’m Yvette Hooper, the swan lover.

Do come in for a cup of tea ,he said caringly.

I don’t mind if I do, she said, then I can be sure your cat is alright.

Tell me, Stan said, Do you live with a swan?

No,she said,though I do have an old Swan saucepan.

A saucepan is not much company, Stan responded.

Well, at least it never shouts at me!Yvette said quickly.

Have you suffered verbal abuse? Stan said in a kind and supportive voice.

I have yes.We had a mutual agreement that I could be handcuffed and verbally amused for 3 hours a see we’d read this book,”Fifty shades of grey.”It’s all about human bondage But my boyfriend thought it was verbal abuse I wanted..As I was upside down I couldn’t tell him of his error.After that things were never the same.

Why did you have the handcuffs?asked Stan calmly.

We were given them for Xmas, she whispered.

Also a whip and some rubber gloves.

Why the rubber gloves?

For washing up of course!

But after being whipped would you feel like washing up?

I don’t know.We split up before we even tried the whip… to be honest, I didn’t want to use it.

Alright, my dear.I understand it all he said nervouslu

Here you are.. drink a nice cup of tea and try these biscuits I made myself they are almond biscuits from my Penguin Jewish cookery book.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm,delicious,she cried.Are you Jewish, Stan?

No, but why should they have all the best recipes?

A good point… maybe because they had almost the first alphabet so began to write them down before anyone else could.

Not to mention they invented monogamy, a great religion, Freud, Wittgenstein, Einstein, rhinestone.Give them an accolade. I mean, Jesus Christ!

What more do they have to do to be rewarded?

Ascend into heaven?

Make more cheesecakes?

I wonder, said Stan pondering slowly

The back door opened and in ran Anne, Stan’s mistress.

She was dressed in soft tomato red with toning pinky red trainers and she wore a light beige foundation with bright coral lipstick making a subtle contrast… all by Lam com of China.

Oh, Anne,have some tea.This is Yvette, she very kindly rescued Emile after he jumped off my bike.

Don’t tell me he can ride a bike, Anne screamed, showing off a good set of teeth and a long red tongue.

No ,I was riding it.Stan told her sensibly.

Hello Yvette, Anne said, where do you live?

I live on the top road by the wood.Yvette answered politely, her auburn hair standing up in a mass off curls as she spoke, showing off to good effect her light orange lipstick and burnt sienna eye shadow…in fact it was color from her art materials..

Have you been there long?Anne enquired politely and warmly.

No, only a few weeks..we don’t know anyone..

So you are married?

Yes, my husband is in the Police Service… he cleans policemen for special occasions.

I didn’t know anyone did that.Can’t they clean themselves?

A self cleaning policeman…or how about putting coat of Teflon on them so they can be wiped with a wet cloth?

It’s up to him ,said Yvette.I am a lecturer at Pond’s End Polytechnic.I teach philosophy..

In a poly?

Yes, I have a D.Phil from Oxgridge in the philosophy of science with particular reference to Dirac’s remarks on Wittgensteim.

Do they study such remarks in a poly?

All the students do Philosophy of Science…it’s compulsory.

Stan said, I wish they all did Peace Studies too…

I know, said Yvette kindly..If only we could bring peace but we are descended from the most aggressive primates… why many of them were sado-masochists.Well some were sadists and the rest were masochists I gather.The ones who weren’t died out as they never mated..
Well,I’m not a sadist, said Stan,or at least only to myself!
Do you beat yourself up ,the ladies asked.
Just in my mind, he answered judiciously.
So do I thought Yvette.
Let’s have some more tea,called Anne from the hall,I’ll make it.

Anne is my mistress,Stan boasted humbly……

There was little point trying to seduce Yvette now Anne had met her and vice versa.

Yvette was intrigued.That is rare, for such an old man to have a mistress.

Is a wife not sufficient for you?

A wife is necessary but not sufficient, Stan teased her.

Well, my husband has no mistress, she said unknowingly,

but I have several boyfriends.

How do you get the time?

I have a rota, she chuckled happily.

You seem an intriguing lady.May I have your email address, mobile number and your landline?

Your height and weight too..clothes size and shoes too.



My phone number is Oh,oh,6666666666666.7777777777777777………………..

That’s irrational, he informed her knowingly.

Have you got an i Pad, she then asked boldly.

No ,I’ve not even got a you recommend them.Maybe you could come to ComputersRus with me on Saturday.

No, she said, I’m Jewish.

Are Jews not permitted to visit Computer shops..Some religious edict, is it? he said inquisitively.

It’s the Sabbath ,you dimwit,she responded.We don’t shop on the Sabbath but don’t worry I’ll come on Monday with are a charming man.I need as many as I can get.

Why are you deficient in some way?Stan whispered.

No, I’m very proficient and mildly conceited ,she admitted modestly.

And I like a good kisser.Are you a good kisser?

Well, maybe you could give me a test, he said manfully, and if need be you can give me some lessons followed by a total Examination to see if I satisfy you.

Just then Anne came in with fresh tea..

Emile mewed loudly.

What is it.Emile ? Stan asked.

I am jealous because we cats can’t kiss.

Well kissing is neither necessary nor sufficient in the art of love.Rolling about together in some soil is also very nice..

I hope you don’t expect your wife to roll about in soil, said Yvette questioningly..

Well, i can ask her, Stan said, but her main interest is topology and knitting.She is often very cold in bed…

Can’t you warm her into life; or buy an electric blanket?

No,she’s hopeless because of a type of Asperger’s syndrome but I love her anyway.

Have you tried a new technique like whipping each other or tying yourself to the bedposts.You can buy handcuffs now in Boots ,I hear. Why some doctors prescribe them on the NHS nowadays

I thought Love was enough, Stan answered

It seems in the UK people are into whips and handcuffs…
Well,count me out, said Stan, I’m more into a careful yet tender study of the skin from the toes right up to  the head, followed by gazing into her eyes for ten minutes.

Why ten minutes?asked Yvette.

I can’t wait any longer…

Well, you’ll have to practise..she said coyly.

I can practise with him, said Anne virtuously.

Yes, the more the better…he’s getting older so he can’t wait.

He needs satisfaction as son as possible.

The door bell rang,It was handsome Dave the paramedic.

Hi, he said,I was worried as you’ve not called 999 today.I brought a leash and some whips.

I’m Yvette, the woman said.

I’m bisexual, he told her.

That’s a strange name.

Never mind that, give me your email address and phone number

It’s,she said

or 09964321.3333333333333333333…..

If you’d like a non rational phone number email me at

Read more freely in the Daily Slur tomorrow….on sale everywhere and making life hell as fast as they are able to,

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I heard you singing

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In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones
The man was old and small and  used a crutch
Letting bitterness  scream from my bones

Oh, better it would be to utter moans
Than let my anguish out in feet or inch.
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

What a person is may soon be known
He  turned and smiled as if I’d brought him luck
Letting bitter rage  scream from my bones

So this old man’s mature and fully grown
And will not cause me pain by any trick
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones

Can I ever call my soul my own;
I, unfit, his ancient boots to lick
Letting bitter rage  scream from my bones

I am as empathic as a brick
His love made my own errors feel antic
In my pain, I spoke in cruel tones
Letting bitter loss  scream from my bones


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Her smile outdid my wish to be cut off

Her smile out-did my wish to be cut off
To hide inside a cupboard or a box
While I drowned in pathos and old wrath

I  had  been by cruel storms well tossed
Measured by the demon’s  ticking clocks
Her smile out-did my wish to be cut off

I had not realised the fatal cost
Of   self-help  by  the odd electric shock
As I drowned in pathos and old wrath

Her smile I let come in,  though I was lost
Wandering in the graveyards of loves locked
Her smile outdid my wish to be cut off

What is it with our nonsense and old stuff
That lets each cell of skin  decide to shut
As we float in pathos and old wrath?

I took my heart and on it I did pluck
The strings  that sang a tune  to mercy’s luck
Her smile outdid my wish to be cut off
So I swam  from pathos and old wrath



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Freedom in poetry



Extract:””Impulses, swerves, collisions, flights, descents, gags, indirections, surprises, exploding cigars,

“”Impulses, swerves, collisions, flights, descents, gags, indirections, surprises, exploding cigars, non sequiturs: all are allowed or encouraged, and all in some sense begin to create their own principles.

There are no rules, but uniformity in art can make it feel as though there are rules: the more unconscious or unperceived (as with widely accepted fashions), the more confining.

A reigning style can feel tyrannical: the assumptions behind it so well-established that there seem to be no alternatives. But there are always alternatives. How might a resourceful, ambitious artist get past or around a perceived tyranny? European painters early in the twentieth century, challenging the academic norm, found something useful in Japanese cigarette papers and African masks.

The past can offer a useful way of rebelling against the orthodoxies of the present. The early modernist poets revived interest in John Donne and Andrew Marvell, not because they wanted to correct the academic reading lists—that was a side effect—but because they were impatient with late-late Romantic, post-Victorian softness. They craved models of hard-edged intelligence and lightning wit.

In the 1970s, a young poet I knew described the manner most prevalent in the magazines and writing workshops of those days as “just grooving on images.” I remember that poet—now a considerable and innovative figure—introducing me to James Shirley’s “The Glories of Our Blood and State,” praising the poem for the force of its statement and idiom, the cogency of its propositions, and its cadences. Those elements carried along the effectively minimal imagery: swords and laurels and breath, even the conventional “icy hand” of death.”

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I think he’s in the other room today

I used to have a husband, how we played!
He was funny, kind and caring in sweet ways
I think he’s in the other room today

He hated Mervyn Stockwood, unsure why
Ian Paisley was another who dismayed
I used to have a husband  and  he prayed

He  never comes to see me,  since last May
Nor brings in our old tea pot on a tray
I think he’s in the other room again

I think I hear him walking night and day
He opened up the window  for my eyes
I used to have a husband in my Play

So I played being Missus B  today
But he did not enter, as he’s fey.
I think he’s in the other room again

He was quite an artist of the wry.
He liked Bacon and  Freud and yes, Paul Klee
I used to have a husband, I feel grey.
I think he must be moving rooms today


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What she wore out

Photo0261 2

What she wore was a striped cat and a  classic navy dress with creme spots
Then later she wore bride legged jeans and a slogan T-shirt saying, I combined
At breakfast, after her first night of married fuss she wore a racy negligee covered by a long Burberry branch
She always looked very keen and tidy.
However, he was put out as he looked like the cat who found the clean.His pyjamas had no mutton at all.
For visiting Torquay, she wore her Alex and Co wavey slacks and a  lime sweatshirt saying, I’m your man.Signed, Eliezer HaCohen.Amen.

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