Poetry Corner – The Tofu-eating Wokerati

Who ended the career of the great Todd Carty?
Who forced us to withdraw the sweet blue Smartie?
While you were all grieving, who forced us to party?
The tofu-eating wokerati.

Who removed the toxic inks from Sharpies?
Who’s the modern Senator Joseph McCarthy?
Who forces us to take cash from the oligarchy?
The tofu-eating wokerati.

Who assassinated Russell Harty?
Who said you can’t drive after a bottle of Bacardi?
Who is the real Professor James Moriarty?
The tofu-eating wokerati.

Cooking With Casuals: Air-fried chicken thighs

My wife is a vegetarian and that makes me pretty much a vegetarian also. But given the chance, I still love fried chicken. Unfortunately, the best fried chicken shop in the world which wasn’t so far away from us closed down during one of the Covid lockdowns. Nobody else comes close, so I’ve had to improvise and while I don’t generally like to brag about my cooking, I reckon I’ve nailed it. And I owe it all to the glory of the air fryer. We got one a while back, may have been in lockdown 1 and I’m still experimenting with it.

What you do is chuck some oil, equal (large) shakes of paprika and sage and a healthy twist of black pepper in a bowl, throw in a load of chicken thighs and make sure they’re all nicely coated. Set aside and let it all marinade.
Into the air fryer with ’em at about 190C. Cook for 10 minutes skin side down, then for about 17/18 minutes skin side up.


Air fryer goes ping, chicken is ready. And it’s really bloody lovely.

Poetry Corner – mCAT

My cats are twats.
A duo of dickheads,
A pair of prize pillocks,
A brace of bellends.
My cats are twats.

My cats are twats.
A couple of cockknockers,
The tosser twosome,
Prat partners.
My cats are twats.

My cats are twats.
Toolboxes in tandem,
The fabulous furry fuckhead fraternity,
A deuce of doofuses.
My cats are twats.

Poetry Corner: Jeff

People pissing in bottles and jars
So you can ride your white cock to the stars.

Destroyed our high street, ruined the place,
So you can ride your white cock into space.

This is the end game? When there’s no more tax to avoid,
You ride your white cock to the void.

Added nothing to understanding our sense of place.
It’s just you in your white cock in space.

Poetry Corner: snip

Very nice lady matched me online
And we got to chatting. We
Spoke online all day, all night until,
Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ask her out. We met up, had a
Couple of drinks, talked and
Talked for hours. It was great. Wind it
On a couple of years, we’re getting married, but neither of us want
More kids. Anyway, how’s
Your day going?

Recognising privilege

On the back of the awful (not the word, but I don’t have the words) case of Sarah Everard, the stories every woman has been sharing in the aftermath, I got to thinking.

Some years ago, I was walking home from the pub. It was late. Very late. Walking in the same direction but faster than a young woman, as my shadow drew into alongside hers she turned and launched a furious tirade at me, exact details of which are lost in time. In short, I was intimidating her by my presence and I should cross the road. It being six lanes, I said I wasn’t going to do that, asked her to wait in the brightly lit spot while I passed as wide as I could on a reasonably wide piece of pavement, then we could both continue on our way. And it angered me. I know I’m a big soft lump, and while she couldn’t possibly know that, it seemed grossly unfair to be labelled as a danger. I really didn’t understand.

Some years later, but still some years ago, I was accosted by two lads on my road. It was an attempt at a mugging. I told them to fuck off. I know I’m a big soft lump, but they couldn’t possibly know that. What they did do was attempt to rob someone standing over six feet tall and of reasonably large build. ‘Pick your battles, lads’, I thought. They fucked off. Then the penny dropped.

I – you, us (as men) – can’t have it both ways. I can’t congratulate myself on seeing off two muggers merely because I’m a sizeable bloke and not appreciate how I may look to a woman on her own. I can’t say to myself ‘they don’t know I’m a soft sack of shite’ regarding those muggers without the self-awareness to also say ‘she doesn’t know I’m a soft sack of shite’ regarding that lass who bawled me out.

I haven’t got answers. I guess that all I’m saying is be aware. And be better. Learn. This is on us, men, far more than it is anyone else. We have to be better.

Poetry Corner: Shove it

Committing Britain to austerity in perpetuity
For the sake of an ideology
You didn’t agree with until recently.
Cower to those with power,
beg for crumbs thrown from ivory towers.
Cut our throats to beggar the European bloc.
Sod ‘em off but to us they’ll flock… 
For what? innovative jam and a war-time obsession?
For ten German bombers and twisted history lessons?
Isolated backward island built on phoney nostalgia,
A failed idea of exceptionalism
Of Anglo-supremacism.
No conviction.
Your conviction is fiction.
You project yourself as ready, willing and able
By parroting the myth of being strong and stable.
Your profession of stability masks your obvious inability.
Fathead Boris Walter Mitty in high office sitting pretty.
Scruffy twat blue, go brush your hair,
Use general taxation to hide an affair.
Reward for previous misdemeanours
Is to destroy our rights on behalf of the leavers.
Line well-lined pockets is your one mission,
Let centenarians fund basic provision,
Let your mates set the rates,
The proles can’t even eat cake,
Pockets emptied by your mates on the take.
Call you out, you cry “uncivil debate!”

Well you can shove that up your arse.