My Milkshake Drives All the Fascists From the Yard

would be the obvious title for this poem

but leave its content redundant - the joke

already made, the bolt shot (or the shake 

thrown) and nobody really buying

a Kelis reference from a guy so not down

with the kids it hurts. Think instead

on the milkshake gagged at the behest

of Edinburgh’s finest: unsold, disallowed.

A clampdown, the far-right pissed

at the soft drink weapon-of-choice du jour:

used to be “bash the flash”, now it’s pour

a milky drink on the ugly suit of a racist.

So think on the milkshakes of Edinburgh

held back behind the thin blue line,

a D-notice in place lest they try to provide

a lactose antidote to the snake-oil peddler

mouthing off with the same old UKIP

drivel rebranded as a sop to Leave.

Imagine what one milkshake could achieve:

the arc, the hit, the spill, the drip, drip, drip.

© Neil Fulwood

Police tell McDonald's not to sell milkshakes ahead of Nigel Farage rally

Neil Fulwood

Neil lives and works in Nottingham. His first collection No Avoiding It is available from Shoestring Press; his second is scheduled for publication in 2019.

Wetherspoons

Wetherspoons

The two women speaking Polish

in this Leave-stronghold pub

are beautiful and stylish,

their laughter natural and good

to hear. I raise my glass.

What finer, what more radical act

than not speak English in a ‘Spoons

and be stylish and beautiful and laugh?

© Neil Fulwood

Brexit has left UK ‘in the grip of CIVIL WAR’, warns Wetherspoons founder Tim Martin

Fox

Miles from field or farm, as far from its familiar dens

and furrows as the pin-eyed deadbeat drunk-stumbling

through the 3AM streets is from Mars, the fox assesses 

the crescents and cut-throughs of the estate, 

the back yards and lock-ups and rat-runs. Nose

lifted to the night air, senses fine-tuned to threat,

the fox is shadowed within shadows, dead still, 

ready to transmute every inch of itself into response. 

Cars and vans stand sentinel, stolid shapes 

to jink between or under at the first sign of anything. 

The deadbeat is stalled in his zig-zag path, confused 

by the canted aspect of a bollard that came second

in a territory debate with a single-decker bus. Or maybe

it’s the human condition that gives him pause to stand,

swaying slightly, eyes like glass slathered with drizzle,

in the grubby penumbra of one of the few streetlights

still shedding sodium enough to see by. The fox looks

beyond him, finds nothing to snarl at or scurry from,

nothing moving but a scattering of litter clouted

by the cupped hand of the wind from pavement

and gutter to fetch up in gardens or snag on gates.

Every window is dark. There is no sound but the sound 

of the wind. The estate is a held breath, a minute’s silence.

Where the deadbeat is standing, still perplexed

by the bigger questions, is where the lad was stabbed

last year, when the estate woke to lampposts corralled

by crime scene tape, technicians in full body suits

scouring for traces. The fox moves millimetrically,

second-guessing the commotion: the deadbeat lurches

and falls, tangled in his own feet, as the wind 

tumbles a wheeliebin. A security light snaps on.

A cat streaks down a driveway. Sirens shriek into being

somewhere near the hospital. The night has found its voice.

Litter swirls and gusts under cars. The fox takes off.

© Neil Fulwood

Knife and weapon offences reach highest level since 2009

Neil’s first collection No Avoiding It is available from Shoestring Press; they are publishing his follow-up Can’t Take Me Anywhere later this year. Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham.

Plan B

Observe. A statue of Christ is helicoptered

in Fellini’s La Dolce Vita to St Peter’s Square.

Meanwhile, in an unproduced screenplay,

a chopper buzzes over the unsexy sprawl

of Grantham bearing an effigy of Thatcher

away from the awayday mob who organised

and travelled and turned up to tear it down.

Keep watching. The entire special effects budget

is about to blow ‘copter and statue to hell.

Panavision’s finest from a dozen angles

have the fireball covered. The footage

is an editor’s wet dream, inviting montage,

slo-mo, the full bag of film-making tricks,

the image repeated into iconography.

Let it go. None of this was ever shot. None

of those who deserved it were ever shot.

Che’s just a screenprint on a student’s wall

while he gets his end away to Nicki Minaj.

The revolution was kicked to the kerb,

social justice pause-buttoned in favour

of a night down the pub and a dirty kebab.

Plan B. A smattering of blue heritage plaques

to mark the murkiest moments of those

who govern us. This is where a shiny suit

bet the country against a losing hand.

This is where a tweed jacket sank a pint

and smirked and bleated about immigrants.

This is where a buffoon with a Union Flag

dangled from a wire like a Poundland Bond.

These are the not-so-big boys who did it

and ran away. And this is the z-grade

Thatcher tribute act clutching the hot potato

as if it were the Holy Grail, endlessly parroting

“The thing means the thing means some

weak approximation of the thing.” And this

is Parliament where the whole edifice is crumbling

even as it takes back control. Placards

jink above the crowds outside. MPs post selfies

from the No lobby. This is Parliament and these

are our honourable friends. This is where

it all went to hell. This is where it all went to hell.

This is where it all went to hell. This is where it all

© Neil Fulwood

Brexit ‘plan B’: we’ve got a date for the next debate – but no idea what MPs are debating

Neil lives and works in Nottingham. His first collection No Avoiding It is available from Shoestring Press; his second is scheduled for publication in 2019.

NOW PAY ATTENTION, CHILDREN

“Nun lieber Kinder, gebt fein acht ...” - Rammstein

Now pay attention, children:

hug your teddy bears,

close your eyes,

squeeze them tight,

there’s footsteps on the stairs.

Jacob and his nanny

prowl these darkened rooms.

They’ll tell on you

and watch you stew

and titter in the gloom.

Jacob’s old already,

he wears a prefect’s badge,

he’ll blame you

and he’ll cane you.

He likes a girl called Madge.

Or is it Mags or Margaret?

You know the one I mean:

the nasty perm,

the endless term,

her every breath obscene.

And when you grow, dear children,

you’ll recognise your boss:

the suit and tie,

the beady eye,

the profit and the loss.

The profit, incidentally, ‘s his,

the loss is yours, my friend.

He’ll work you hard,

the knacker’s yard

will be your dismal end.

Now he’s speaking in the House:

received pronunciation

makes it seem

that what he means

is spiffing for our nation.

His Eurosceptic Brexit’s hard

(that’s not the only thing!)

When we crash out

we’re up the spout,

but he’ll be rich: ker-chhhhing!

His nanny’s waiting in the wings,

her smile a shriek of joy,

her husk the host

of Maggie’s ghost;

she cheers her dear dear boy.

© Neil Fulwood

'The most remarkable woman': How Jacob Rees-Mogg's nanny, who protected his children from Class War activists, has worked for the family for 52 years

Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. His first collection No Avoiding It is available from Shoestring Press; his second is scheduled for publication in 2019.

Britain-Fest

Britannia’s pawned her trident and her shield,

Both flecked with rust, they didn’t fetch much brass.

The British lion’s fucked off to some far field,

To dream nostalgic dreams in veldt-like grass.

It’s 2022: fried rat and tripe’s

The national dish; we’re fighting over scraps.

It’s slowly coming home to John Bull types

That Brexit Britain’s fifty shades of crap.

We’re out of Europe, crippled by the bill

And no-one wants to buy what we don’t make.

Britannia’s mangy lion is dreaming still

And crown and state dislike the word “mistake”.

The MayBot’s will be done: a grand event

To set the doubters’ doubting tongues to rest.

Pomp and glory: a statement of intent.

Something Victorian. A Britain-fest!

So roll up, folks, roll up. Come, one and all,

Help celebrate this septic isle’s story.

The latest chapter’s likely to appal,

Full of UKIP pricks and boorish Tories.

The main enclosure’s decked out to the max,

‘Made in Taiwan’ flags and Poundland bunting.

Here’s Nigel Farage clutching pint and fag.

What dozy git let that rotten —

Moving swiftly on, the Rees-Mogg tent is

Open for tea and monocle repairs.

A pale sideshow freak ex-‘The Apprentice’

Is spouting racist bilge, but no-one cares.

Theresa’s Big Top Circus fails to thrill,

The Johnson tent contains a floppy dick,

Folk stumble off the Gove Train looking ill

Or chuck away their fried rat, feeling sick.

Prince Harry’s due on soon. He’s followed by

A fly-past of the RAF’s last planes

(A huge formation V-sign in the sky)

And then a marching band unless it rains.

There’s more joy at a violent coup d’état

Or Christmas spent with turkeys while they’re plucked

Than this damp squib that’s Brexit’s last hurrah:

The Festival of Britain Now We’re Fucked.

© Neil Fulwood

Britain to hold post-Brexit festival celebrating culture, sport and innovation, Theresa May announces

Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. His poetry has been published in various journals, zines and anthologies. His debut collection No Avoiding It is published by Shoestring Press; he is currently working on volume two.

Crow Oop North

(after Ted Hughes)

God tried to teach Crow received pronunciation

Crow said: “Tha needn’t bother.”

God tried to drag Crow to an RSC production

Crow watched Last of the Summer Wine reruns

God brewed a fragrant pot of Earl Grey

Crow got a mug of Yorkshire tea down him

God suggested Pimms on the lawn

Crow ordered a pint of bitter

God had a DVD of Morgan Freeman narrating his life

Crow had a signed photograph of Sean Bean

God thought Crow was a bolshy sod

Crow thought God was a soft bastard

© Neil Fulwood

Pied crow with Yorkshire accent filmed in Knaresborough

Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. His poetry has been published in various journals, zines and anthologies. His debut collection No Avoiding It is published by Shoestring Press.

Harry and Yanny and Meghan and Laurel

Laurel hangs bunting and arranges balloons
in bunches of red, white and blue
while Yanny tots up the cost of the celebrations
and cuts funding to front line services.

Laurel sets out place mats with crown motifs
and double checks the seating plan
while Yanny moves on anyone not wrapped
in a flag or clutching official merchandise.

Laurel gets teary-patriotic-drunk
and gasps at the dress
while Yanny takes a Stanley knife
to the sleeping bags of the homeless.

© Neil Fulwood

Homeless people in Windsor have belongings removed to be stored ahead of the Royal Wedding

Laurel or Yanny explained: why do some people hear a different word?

Neil Fulwood is the author of media studies book ‘The Films of Sam Peckinpah’. His debut collection, ‘No Avoiding It’ is published by Shoestring Press.

 

… the thistle jags our hearts,

take these roses

            from our bloodied hands.

                        - Carol Ann Duffy, ‘September 2014’

 

 

The analogy fails.

                           There are no flowers

in Whitehall. All that grows in the hothouse of Parliament

is rhetoric test-tubed under licence to Montsanto,

tendrils of falsehood pushed up from a coalition

of mulch and manure – verdant on the surface,

hard iron beneath.

                                    There are no flowers

in Fleet Street. Thrown bouquets are the business

of bride and bridesmaid; the media’s after

something harder and faster – the meaningless congress

of friends with benefits: friends, in this case,

in Number Ten.

                                    There are no flowers

in George Square, only voices united in Flower of Scotland

up against skinheads and Rule Britannia, Nazi salutes

and the Saltire burned, the knife and the boot

and mounted police. Hands are bloodied, but flowers

aren’t offered.

                                    A crown of thorns

is biked up by courier, postmarked London,

wrapped in promises already broken.

Carol Ann Duffy writes referendum poem

© Neil Fulwood

 

'The News, Allegedly'

The news today is Israel’s stoic

refusal to yield to vastly lower

numbers. You’d think it was heroic,

the tireless bombing, the apartheid.

You’d think Gaza was impregnable,

that not a single Palestinian had died.

You’d think that if you listened

to the BBC or got your dose

of current affairs from any of Britain’s

daily papers. You’d be used to vague

reportage lacking in context, you’d

be used to such headlines as HAGUE:

HAMAS TO BLAME FOR ESCALATING TENSION

IN GAZA AND ISRAEL, as if

the prognosis of a Tory politician

with interests in arms manufacture

was the acceptable moral face

of the UK’s flagship broadcaster.

You’d be used to ISRAEL HITS SECURITY

HQ AND ROCKET SITE and you might not

think to question why subjectivity

is prevalent, why an editorial bias

has outweighed the simple business

of accurately, neutrally, relaying facts.

Here’s what they’re not reporting,

the BBC, CNN, Reuters, gutter press

and broadsheet op-eds: suffering,

casualties, overwhelming bombardment.

Here’s what they’re not discussing:

children dying, disenfranchisement.

Today’s news is Israel. This is the BBC.

Join us live for half the story.

Question everything you see.

© Neil Fullwood

http://www.nottinghampost.com/Harry-Paterson-feel-Gaza/story-22043078-detail/story.html

Nobody Expects the Poetry Inquisition

            Paxman called for an “inquisition”

            in which “poets [would be] called

            to account for their poetry” …

                                    - The Guardian, 2 June 2014

Entries are now being accepted

for the Auto-da-Fé Open Poetry Competition.

This year’s adjudicator: Tomas de Torquemada.

Tomas has published several pamphlets,

including the Alhambra Award-winning

Confess, You Heretic Bastard. He takes

a keen interest in contemporary arts

and has personally put many free thinkers to death.

Rules of the competition: poems may be

on any subject, but special consideration

is given to religious themes. (The organisers

of the Auto-da-Fé Open Poetry Competition

accept no liability for midnight visits

from the Inquisition.) Poems should not be longer

than 40 lines. Poets should be able to withstand

at least as many lashes. Contrary to the usual rules,

poems should be clearly marked with the poet’s

name, address and details of immediate family.

First prize: you get to keep your life. Second

prize: only one limb removed during torture.

Third prize: a comfy chair after your day on the rack.

Entry fee: three pounds of flesh per poem.

© Neil Fullwood

http://www.theguardian.com/media/2014/jun/01/jeremy-paxman-poets-engage-ordinary-people-forward-prize

Neil Fulwood was born in 1972, the son of a truck driver, the grandson of a miner. Nobody can figure out where the whole poetry thing came from. His interests include reading, movies, and visiting inns and taverns of architectural interest. It still amazes Neil how many people confuse this with pub-crawling.

The Grayling Damnation

The Grayling Damnation
It was a misunderstanding:
someone had seen too many
1950s prison movies, taken
it too seriously - the old stool
about a cake with a file in it.

Celebrity cookbooks were the first
on the hit list. Then anything
with a tang of the culinary:
A Moveable Feast. Cakes and Ale.
A Clockwork Orange – too close


to a Terry’s chocolate orange
for anyone’s liking. Poetry
was a definite no-no: too much
to taste and savour. The classics
were hauled in and interrogated:


The Count of Monte Cristo,
The Prisoner of Zenda, several
slabs of Russian miserablism
about crime and punishment
and the state of prisons.

The decision was unanimous:
this stuff was dangerous.
Never mind the Victoria sponge
with its jam and cream and hacksaw
filling, words were the whetstone

on which minds could be sharpened.
© Neil Fulwood

Prison Book Ban

 

 Neil Fulwood runs the film review blog The Agitation of the Mind (misterneil.blogspot.com) and is a member of the Alan Sillitoe Committee, a group dedicated to raising funds for a permanent memorial to Alan in his hometown of Nottingham. Neil co-designed their website www.sillitoe.com.