The British Dream

Do you dream British?

Do you wake up thinking Jerusalem and jam

Wipe your plates with royal faced tea towels?

And take the bright red bus to a dull, dull office?

#TheBritishDream: when u think 'it is a coat day' so u wear a coat and it turns out it was indeed a coat day and u are a good temperature

Do you start your day with a pinky-fingered Earl Grey or a

builder’s brew stirred with a splash of fake cockney

and just a small spoon of casual xenophobia?

#TheBritishDream: slightly better weather on bank holidays

Do dreams have a nationality?

Does Uncle Sam prod pillows and

whisper sweet everythings about all those amendments?

#TheBritishDream: getting through a self-checkout without ‘unexpected item’ in the bagging area

Does the right to bear arms

comfort and cuddle our cousins as they

zee zee zee til morning?

#TheBritishDeam: a channel that plays Del-boy falling through the bar 24 hours a day

Do they bounce outta bed, with their cuppa Jo

And go off in their Cadillac in the pursuit of

life, liberty and happiness?

#TheBritishDream: finding a Kit Kat with no wafer in it

#TheBritishDream: sausages and mash Desperate-Dan style

#TheBritishDream: a nice cup of tea and a sit down

#TheBritishDream: changing queues and finding the one you have moved to, does, in fact, move faster

#TheBritishDream: doing an entire speech without interruption, without pranksters, without heckling, without coughing, without letters droppin

of

© Jane Slavin

Theresa May offers the ‘British dream’ but speech turns into a nightmare

Jane Slavin is a former journalist, now council press officer, living in Plymouth. In her spare time, she is falling in love with words again by making her own stuff up!

Bomb hoax bridegroom

Barristers in gowns stood where bridesmaids should have been.

No priest here, but a judge presiding over a ceremony

where they swore to tell the truth, the whole truth,

Not a promise for richer or for poorer.

Was it the seating arrangements?

Or the matching chair-covers, with burgundy ribbons,

Or those wretched sugar -almond favours, that no-one eats,

Or the fear, fear, fear of failure and ordinariness?

Was it the slow, seeping away of that sweet girl who said ‘yes’

into an obsessive princess,

dancing a trance of tasteful torture?

Was that what made his memory wither?

The must-haves, the pre-nuptial pamper, the weekends with the girls, the menu taster, the invitations, 

the place settings, the notes, the in-laws, the out-laws for the far away table, the dress,

the undress, the bib, the tucker, the speech,  the hair, the hen, the stag, the hangover.

The money. 

When all he wanted was to put a ring on her finger.

And be with her.

To be with her.

And breathe. 

© Jane Slavin 

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/forgetful-groom-neil-mcardle-who-made-hoax-bomb-threat-to-register-office-is-jailed-8897491.htm

 Jane Slavin reads, rants and writes - and is performing at Forked - Plymouth’s Apples and Snakes event on 21 November – yikes!

Janner Bird Goes East

Janner-bird woke one morning
to find it had all gone Pete Wong.

Her burr-buttery vowels had melted,
she’d lost her seagull song.

No more squawking ‘where’s that to’
Nor ‘all reet me lover’ calls.

Janner-bird’s mouth had headed east,
she didn’t like it at all.

East, further than even Exeter!
Way, way up the line.

Her tongue had gone all oriental. 
It wasn’t a very good sign.

One helluva headache was all it took
to make this maid Mandarin

She didn’t like Chinese when eating out,
now it was what made her stay in.

Heads scratched science over
her flat-lined sentences and vowels.

They knew what the condition was
but a cure, they didn’t know how.

Her friends dive-bomb the Sundial as always,
plunging beaks into burgers and fries
Janner-bird sits at a distance, watching,
a look of regret in her eyes.

Big, bosomy gull-gals still screech
Check wags in the mags for the looks.

Mistake inane for fame and fortune, while
Heat has become their style book

But these wannabees are still grounded
And janner-bird’s had the last laugh.

Her new voice has got her on TV
and the pages of the Telegraph. 

© Jane Slavin

The woman from Plymouth who woke up with a Chinese accent

Jane lives in Plymouth. She likes playing around with words and recently started performing them through Apples and Snakes. Scary but good fun. Her Twitter is @janieslavin

Who killed Cock Robin…

Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the man from the ministry.
with my semi-automatic,
I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die?
I, said the marksman hired.
Through the cross wire,
I saw him die.

Who caught his blood?
I, said the factory owner.
In a plastic bowl,
I caught his blood.

Who'll make the shroud?
I, said the civil servant,
For food health and safety,
I’ll hide behind that shroud.

Who else has gone?
Why, cried the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.
205 skylarks, 35 song thrushes,
81 meadow pipits and 200 blackbirds.

No birds of the air
To a-sigh or a-sobbing,
All shot – under licence,
Just like poor Cock Robin.

© Jane Slavin

Defra killed Cock Robin

Jane is a former journalist, now council press officer, living in Plymouth. In her spare time, she is falling in love with words again by making her own stuff up!

Tom

Tom Daley’s nicked my parking space.
Again.
I watched him from my room.
“Show us your permit!” I wanted to shout,
but didn’t.
Tom-tied, I gawped as he steeled himself,
blocking out the rat-run traffic, stacking up behind him.
Breathed in, out, focussed.
Lifted his arms to grasp the gear stick.
The Mini wheels tumbled backwards, two and half times – maybe three –
I’m not sure, it was so quick.
Target tarmac hit, but deftly missing the curb.
Not a ripple in the puddle as he tightly executed
the perfect parallel park.
Got out of the mini,
smiled, strode off.
What a driver.

© Jane Slavin

Daley wants to be GB super hero

Jane Slavin lives in Plymouth and Tom does actually park on her street, when he’s not off winning medals.

Two Fox Tales

The Committal

We buried the fox cub a little before dusk,
heaving him from where he fell
to sprawl, as though in sleep,
between the dustbin and the wall.
Sharp-nosed he was, still fiery-eyed,
his flanks unflinching warm;
and the ripe earth gaped as we eased him down
where his belly blazed as white as any lie.

I found him where he’d crawled
and hunkered down to breathe his last,
a splash of red against the green
I was not used to see.
That morning he’d ran fine and free
and stared into the sun;
but he was stony dead and still
as those dull stones
you piled upon his head.
‘They’ll keep him safe and sound,’ you said.
‘No dog will dig him up.’

And no dog has or will;
he rests there still
on the lawn’s near edge
where blackbirds strut and stab.
That first night, though, when I woke
to fret and stare into the dark,
I’d swear there was a scuffling sound
a stone’s throw from the wall;
and then, across the hill, I thought
I heard some creature bark.

© Abigail Wyatt

Daring cub curls up in schoolboy's bed for a SNOOZE
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Abigail is the 2012 winner of the Lisa Thomas Poetry Award. Her collection, 'Old Soldiers, Old Bones and Other Stories' , will be published by One Million Stories early in 2012.

Mr Fox Goes to Town

He took the tube from Walthamstow.
Flashed his Oyster card
and his teeth.
Sat down.
Tapped his iPhone.
Checked the birds catching the early words on Twitter.
Licked his whiskered, furry lips
and smirked to himself.

Those urbane foxes get everywhere.

© Jane Slavin

What the Fox?!
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Jane is a former journalist, now council press officer, living in Plymouth. In her spare time, she is falling in love with words again by making her own stuff up!

 

Proud parents of the unvaccinated Americans

We, the proud parents,
invite you and your little ones
to the party.

Bring nothing with you,
just an open mind, a few dollars
and the belief in your right to do right by your kids.

We’ll supply lollipox for licking,
saliva-saturated sweet things
for tiny tongues to rasp, grasp and grow warm.

Gob-stoppers.  Got ‘em, too.
Sugar-coated, ready to blister bodies,
tainted tissues to blow and inhale.

Big government, big business.
Is the real virus we’re fighting,
the candy that can kill.

Ours saves you from them.
Screw their warnings,
this noxious nanny-ism.

We, the proud parents of the unvaccinated,
with antibodies
will overcome this anti-American plague.

© Jane Slavin

Chicken Pox parties do more harm than good, says doctor
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Jane is a former journalist, now council press officer, living in Plymouth. In her spare time, she is falling in love with words again by making her own stuff up!