Trellis McBungee is my name
Extreme snorts is my game
I listen to all the world can give
And snort harder than a man can live
If the energy from my snorts were caught
Why all the science teachers who ever taught
Would not be able to explain the power
That would make the toughest army man cower
With a fizz and a bang and an awesome sha-booooooom
My snort power would blow them clean out of the room
They ask me the secret and I simply laugh
They can’t even imagine – they don’t know the half
A Trellis McBungee atomic strength snort
Would blow flat all the armies that have ever fought
And a Trellis McBungee snort doesn’t come cheap
No. The price would make the world’s richest man weep.
And I don’t sell my secret, quite reasonably
Because my snort is quite simply what makes me me
My snort is unique, no-one can repeat it
And no-one, whatever they do, can defeat it
Since Trellis McBungee snort’s such a hit
It is rather hard for me to admit
That sometimes I wish I could smile and not snort
As no-one can get near me, and I’m quite short
So people don’t always know I’m around
And as I exist quite close to the ground
I find it quite hard to have lots of friends
As my snorts tend to drive them right round the bend
Daily Archives: October 4, 2008
Trellis McBungee is my name
I have a thing about pens on chains in banks.
I’m going into a bank to pay in some money, or take out some money, or harangue them in some way for doing stupid things with my money and then charging me more money to tell me about the stupid things they’re doing with my money.
I’m not going in to steal a pen.
If I was going to steal a pen I’m likely to go to a stationery store that sells decent pens, not blotchy, dribbling, scratchy useless ones like they have in banks. Why would I want to steal one of those? You’d steal it and then throw it away.
But no, banks clearly have a problem with people stealing their pens, so they chain them up. Like criminals. Perhaps it’s where bad pens go to serve their time. “‘Ere at Bic we ‘ave created ze perfect ballpoint, and you come along wiz your ink dribbles and blotches zat go right against all our principles. We are sending you far away from here and your freedom will be curtailed. You will be chained to a desk and made to serve 15 years at HSBC. And let zat be a lesson to you.”
Or maybe it’s a kind of reverse psychology designed to deter actual bank robbers:
“Think you can crack our vaults, eh? Think you can hold up our cashiers and make your way out with bundles of swag, EH? You’ve already mentally bought your villa on the Costa Del Sol, a half-share in a Division 2 football club and the complete back catalogue of Michael Buble, haven’t you? Well think again, matey – WE’VE EVEN GOT THE PENS CHAINED UP!!
“And if even those pathetic excuses for writing implements are chained up, how do you think we’ll have protected the money?! With a bicycle lock? With a couple of elastic bands, in a shoebox, under the manager’s desk?!! Dream on, sucker, we have the latest hi-tech, infra-red, GPS, dna-fused, heat-sensitive, plonker detectors this side of Gatwick Airport and they’re all trained on YOU!! You’re on more cameras than Britney Spears. Spend a bit longer here and your half-hearted wide boy capering will be a series on UK Living and out on DVD by Christmas!!!”
But if you’re a student and open a new account by the end of the month, we’ll give you a free download from iTunes and our easy guide to getting into debt, mainly through exhorbitant bank charges.
Just don’t take our pens, alright?
Right, there are now officially too many entertainment items released for public consumption. I am a member of the public, I can no longer consume any more and so I’m now announcing this, officially.
I propose that for the next year, we basically ban any new albums, books, films, musicals, TV programmes and websites. The people concerned can have a holiday, or catch up on a little reading. You know, all those books you bought because you thought you’d get round to reading them. And you didn’t.
The rest of us can also do a little catching up – on all the CDs we barely listen to, the films we always meant to get around to watching, the programmes we never watched etc
Bands can practise their old stuff a little more, comedians can dig out jokes they haven’t told for a while and we can all stop clogging the world up with more and more product. That’s my view and I’ll be sticking to it for the next 12 months.
Unless I have a fantastic idea for a novel.
Or a poem. Or song.
OK, it was a bad idea after all …
Love part 1
If I learn Esperanto, or Welsh, or Serbo-Croat and can jabber fluently until the cows come home –
wherever they’ve been –
or can talk backwards or in hieroglyphics, or even in genuine angelic lingo,
if I haven’t got love, I might as well sound like the National Kazoo Orchestra played through a blender.
Or a Seventies prog rock band at the wrong speed.
If I can be the fount of all wisdom,
covering everything from knowing the whereabouts of the car keys at all times to accurately predicting the stock exchange,
the 2.15 at Kempton
and whether the chemists round the corner opens late tonight,
but don’t have a loving bone in my body,
I am worth diddlysquat.
Even if I am
more brainy than Stephen Fry,
more hunky than George Clooney and
more peaceful and centred than a barrow full of Dalai Lamas.
Even if I give my entire month’s salary in exchange for a copy of The Big Issue, hand over my house to asylum-seekers
and give up my body for medical research –
while I’m still using it –
if it’s not done with love,
I am no more than a pimple on the backside of humanity.
Love hangs around, and doesn’t mind waiting for the postman.
Or your other half in the bathroom.
Love does good stuff for people without needing to be noticed.
Love doesn’t sit there skulking because next door’s built an extension.
Or gone to Mauritius.
It’s not into showing off the new car, or saying ‘come round for a meal’ when really you just want to show off number one son’s trophies.
It doesn’t preen.
It doesn’t count among its hobbies road rage,
swearing at the milkman or badmouthing the in-laws.
It’s not bothered with looking after number one.
Love doesn’t fly off the handle at the least excuse, or go looking for fights.
It doesn’t dig up grudges, find axes to grind
or keep an extensive logbook of the times you got it wrong and don’t you forget it.
Love doesn’t side with the bad guys
or count lies as an endearing characteristic of modern day relationships.
It’s more keen on keeping the good things safe than Yale, Chubb and Churchill Insurance.
Love is extremely big on giving you the benefit of the doubt,
taking you at your word
And making you feel you’re better than you actually are.
Love saves small slivers of hope
And builds them into gigantic, monumental mountains of excitement about tomorrow.
Even when life suggests you have as much chance of living long and prospering as a whelk has of winning the Nobel Prize,
love … never … gives … up.
February 2008 – with thanks to 1 Corinthians 13
There’s a trumpet call on Speakers’ Corner
It’s not what you think so I’d better warn ya
It’s a joke and a song and a dance or two
Cos the Creator’s creators are getting through
While people have ears they’re not always listening
The people have fears – they can see what’s missing
Too much preaching from the head not the heart
Political manoevering’s a new kind of art
But the underground is bringing change
Imagination revolution’s going to rearrange
The powers that be will be the powers that were
As the poets and the comics start to cause a stir
See, there’s a God of rhythm and a gospel of grace
There’s a street level dance with a human face
It’s compassion and it’s action and it’s love that hurts
It’s the prodigals forgiven as they’re cleaning up the dirt
It’s laughter and it’s danger and it’s colour and it’s shape
It’s a triumphal procession but without the ticker tape
It’s the artists and the sculptors and the singers and the mimes
It’s the dna of Jesus painting signs for the times
It’s the dna of Jesus painting signs for the times
I could be small and scuttly
I could be big and hairy
I’ve got legs enough for two
And some people find me scary
I’m very good at spinning webs
And raindrops hang on every thread
They’re sticky and they catch my lunch
I eat them up with lots of crunch
You’ll sometimes see me in the bath
Or in a corner of the ceiling
Don’t worry if you cross my path
Don’t swat me ‘cos you’ll hurt my feelings
I know I dash across the ground
It’s just the way I get around
A bit like a horse without it’s rider
I’m just your friendly, neighbourhood … spider
Hi there – wherever you’ve come from, a very warm welcome to words hanging out to dry. Have a nose around, read a few things, comment if you like and be sure to pop in whenever you’re passing.
You’ll find all manner of bits and bobs here, which I’ll try to organise in an accessible way – poems (children’s and more grown up stuff), commenty stuff, comedy material and possibly the odd song. Most likely very odd, actually. Hope you enjoy them.