Our Ship

In olden days, the great explorers' way
Was to bring back, for general display,
Bones and false gods, and relics of that kind
To edify and civilise the mind.

Thus edified, our wealth creators come
To rescue and refine petroleum;
Some people indolently flee the fuss,
And so the bones now bring themselves to us.

It was a death-scene; now it's Art, and so
The civilised can drive along and go
And view this vessel of barbaric vice,
This relic of an awful sacrifice.

© Philip Challinor

Boat in which hundreds of migrants died displayed at Venice Biennale

Philip Challinor - [Blog: The Curmudgeon] [Philip's Store, Lulu Publishing]  

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles at his blog, The Curmudgeon.

Historical Controls

Our sympathies of course, but we cannot,
In spaces where true Britons take their ease,
Permit a monument upon this lot
To those who might have come as refugees.

Let no-one claim, though, that we would not douse
The flames of hatred: why not put up, say,
A plaque in Fleet Street, or at Northcliffe House,
Commemorating those we turned away?

© Philip Challinor

Royal Parks opposes proposal for London Holocaust memorial

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles at http://thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.co.uk/ His longer fiction is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

The Empress of Ice Cream

Lovelace, count not upon your pride,
And Hawking too must step aside;
Nor should we lift from Turing's fate
The rigours of Clause 28
While tribute's drooling to be paid
To Her by whom our land was made:
That scientist who brought to life
Our present day so free of strife,
Our country green and kind and fair
Where all deserving have a share;
Where each true Brit makes plucky fist
Of being his own capitalist,
And earns each day, in heaps and mounds,
Those Bankers' notes for fifty pounds
Which surely we must decorate
With Her visage whose noble fate
And right-confected destiny
Brought forth Her reign to set us free.
So sweet and smooth and rigorous,
That chemistry of Her and us:
Her formula to win, and win,
And make us white, and cold, and thin.

© Philip Challinor

Margaret Thatcher eligible to be scientist on new £50 note

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Past Glories

From laying of the Treasury to waste,
And slurping of Fitzherberts in his cups,
A King must have a refuge in good taste
To rest his paunch and hold his throwing-ups.

Let silver spurt in blobs victorious,
And golden dragons warm his humble hut;
Let sunflowers blast forth like glorious
Projectiles from his blesséd regal gut.

All overhung with silks, exotic fish,
And stencilled lozenges all beauteous,
He'd foregather and, at his royal wish,
Dispense the fragrance of his gluteus.

© Philip Challinor

George IV's restored Brighton pavilion saloon unveiled

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles at The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available at Philip's Store.

Sunset, Sunrise

The Naval Ensign rises in its glory up the mast
And all Britannia's servants meditate on glories past:
When Nelson beat old Boney for the freedom of the waves,
Or Drake burnt Spanish beard while selling Christians their slaves.
A mighty Empire built on gumption, pluck and all of that,
While duly supplemented by the press-gang and the cat,
Ensured that on its flag the jolly sun could never set
By killing lots of foreigners wherever seas were wet.

But that was long ago, and very much has been the water
That's flowed beneath the bridge since all that salutary slaughter;
So urgent is our present need to keep things ever leaner,
It's doubtful whether these days we could take back one Malvina.
So as the Naval Ensign rises up in red and white,
A small revision in design comes to the sailors' sight.
They stand upon the deck, stout chaps and gallant to a man,
And all salute the mighty flag which reads "Made in Japan".

© Philip Challinor

Job fears as Japanese bid to build Royal Navy support ships

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Pharisee and Publican

To sacred precincts strode one day
A well-established Church to pray;
Alas! in an adjacent pew
A Psychic Fraud was praying too;
So, fearing the just God might see
And judge him by such company,
The Church declaimed: "I thank Thee, Lord,
That I am not a Psychic Fraud;
I thank Thee for the taste and tact
Thou showed in the creative act
Which brought me forth, and to me led
The dupes who buy my daily bread.
I thank Thee for those many schools
Where children learn Thy holy rules,
And all about Thy charming ways
With witches, heretics and gays.
I thank Thee for the sacred praxis
Whereby I share my country's taxes,
And clothe my manifold abuses
In fetching, gossamer excuses.
Thou didst well, in a nutshell, Lord,
In making me no Psychic Fraud."
And, all puffed up with righteous pride,
He toddled home quite justified.
Of this, the Psychic Fraud had heard
No solitary blesséd word;
But, wanting a new home extension,
She talked the priest out of his pension.

© Philip Challinor

She didn't see it coming: psychic arrested for $800,000 fraud

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Plus ça change

Friends, Britons, plebs! Please calm your fears.

This greatest change in fifty years,

This liberation from the lock

Of Earth's most evil trading bloc,

This glorious raising of our station,

This breaking of our island nation

From all that stops us standing tall -

Will not change anything at all.

There will be no excess of tax

On squillionaires whose humble shacks

And spikes point out, for all to feel,

That vagrancy has scant appeal.

We'll still be stable, strong and free

To jail the ghastly refugee

As hordes from overseas confess

The foaming wonders of our Press,

While students take their happy route

Into the Army to pick fruit

And shirkers choose if they should heat

Their homes, or let the children eat.

Our values will remain the same

(If not, we'll all know who to blame):

Keep calm, continue without fuss,

Be proud that you are One of Us;

Go forward, let the future come -

Just like the first day at the Somme.

© Philip Challinor

Brexit 'will not change kind of country Britain is', vows David Davis

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Bear Arms

Comfort Zone

The military mind, as we all know,
Is disciplined, methodical and slow.
Although it likes its toys all gleaming new,
In most things it prefers the tried and true:
When fighting for the freedom of the West,
The older bogeymen are often best.
Thus, once again, we're ordered to beware
The rumblings of the ruthless Russian Bear:
That empire's seeking of its evil ends
Might soon deprive us of some Nazi friends.
It last attacked us – well, don't mind the date –
But let's to arms before we are too late
To tame the deadly threat that NATO faces
From right inside our worldwide ring of bases.

© Philip Challinor

Russia is biggest threat to UK since cold war, says head of British army

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.


Priorities

Russia develops instruments of war.
In this sad world of poverty and pain,
such money could be used for so much more.
Russia develops instruments of war,
bigger and better than it had before,
to kill and injure, subjugate and maim.
Russia develops instruments of war
in this sad world of poverty and pain.

© Jenni Hyatt

Reality Check: What's happening to defence spending?

Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.

Two For Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

I am a boy of four or five –

Father Christmas is real and alive!

By bed-time on Christmas Eve

he’s loaded the presents onto the sleigh,

he’s taken off from the cold North Pole,

he’s flying fast through darkened skies,

reindeer straining at the reins,

jingle bells ringing, he is bringing

presents for all good girls and boys.

He’s bringing me my Big Present.

I want it more than anything else;

he’ll leave it under the Christmas Tree,

I know I’ll find it waiting for me.

He’s coming to fill the empty stocking

I’ve just hung up at the end of my bed.

He only comes if you’re asleep.

But I am awake and I can’t sleep

and the more I try, the more I can’t sleep

and I’m becoming crosser with me.

Perhaps – he came already, saw I was awake

and flew on by without stopping;

and now he’s gone and won’t come back,

and I’ll be getting no presents at all!

Sob, sob, sobbing, I go downstairs

to Mum and Dad, who say ‘Don’t worry,

Father Christmas hasn’t come yet.

Go back to bed. You’ll soon fall asleep

if you don’t try too hard.’

I hope they’re right and before I know it

I’ve slid down the slide to the Land of Nod.

When I wake up,

there’s something heavy

at the end of my bed and,

though my room is still

more dark than light,

I can see well enough to see

it’s my stocking!

Father Christmas has been!

There’s a cracker sticking out of the top,

the stocking’s all lumpy and bumpy

and it’s full of lots

of I-can’t-guess-whats!

Underneath the Christmas Tree

my Big Present is waiting for me.

© Richard Devereux

NORAD Santa Tracker 2017 LIVE: Find Father Christmas' location on Christmas Eve as his reindeers fly over UK

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.


Holy Office

Silent night, holy night!
Bright and calm with jets in flight,
As the servants of our lords
Cleanse us of the migrant hordes,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night!
Sky a passport-blue delight!
Cherubim in white Kevlar
Unto hells conveniently far,
Hustle the migrants away;
Hustle the sinners away.

Silent night, holy night!
True Brits quiver at the sight
While the lesser, alien breeds,
With their dark un-Christian creeds,
Wait on this holiest morn,
Wait for the knocking at dawn.

© Philip Challinor

UK to deport Afghan torture survivor on Christmas Day

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Jesuit Diplomacy

Your civil conflict's been so long

That some would almost say it's wrong.

There can be room, nevertheless

For some divergent godliness.

The road to peace is arduous,

So I'm not here to make a fuss:

My Church has not lived to these times

By telling Power of its crimes.

Some platitudes, and then I'll run -

For that's what my Christ would have done.

© Philip Challinor

Pope Francis fails to mention Rohingya in Myanmar speech

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Fox in Stocks

Look, sir! Look, sir! Britain mocks, sir.
Let's play tricks with Dr Fox, sir.
Ticks and tocks from Brexit clocks:
British tradesmen shake in socks.
Brexit tricks and Brexit shticks:
Fox gets kicks and gets on wicks.
Brits in shocks and Fox in stocks:
Fox locked up where no-one knocks.
Britain mocks at Dr Fox:
Fox with nix and in his box.

© Philip Challinor

Liam Fox ridiculed for being only member of new UK board of trade

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Forgotten Heroes

Not only those who fight and die

But those who watch a screen and sigh:

They also serve who push a switch

And leave the field with mental twitch.

The bravest feat of British arms:

To game away their moral qualms;

For, if we doubt these propositions,

What medals then for politicians?

© Philip Challinor

UK drone pilots to get medals for killing from 2,000 miles outside the combat zone

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

Up the Flagpole

Cadabra! Now we've wrested back control

Of our great Empire's ever-whiter soul,

We certainly cannot let what we do

Be limited by what is merely true.

We thus declare a mystic, phantom border

To call the Irish Free State back to order,

And guide recalcitrant and foreign nations

To better knowledge of their obligations.

Today's technology, we do admit,

For our great purpose is as yet unfit;

Yet with our wizard spunk we'll sort things out

By waving our appendages about.

Shall not the glory of these wondrous acts

Bring triumph over Brussels, fear, and facts?

© Philip Challinor

UK accused of 'magical thinking' over Brexit plan for Irish border

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles at http://thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.co.uk/ His longer fiction is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

Grenfell

we march in silence

we sign the petition that comes around, that is going off to the Prime Minister raging against the years of neglect that led to Grenfell

we sign the petition online, raging against the closure of Ladbroke Grove library so that a private prep-school can take its place

we read that the councillor who made that decision already had his 3-year-old child enrolled in that school

but we march in silence

we take walks in our lunch-hours around the area and see the skyline littered with cranes, that at night time look like the red-eyes of a sky-monster

the same cranes that are rebuilding this area, after it has been pulled down and evacuated, with chrome and glass balconies that have million-pound price tags attached to each flat

but we march in silence

we live in flats all of our lives; flats that our mothers and grandmothers lived in on tenancies that they owned but which now will be passed onto our children for a period of 5-years before they get reviewed out of them and moved onto the streets

but we march in silence

we see our old youth clubs being knocked down, our libraries shut, our playgrounds shut, the same playgrounds we played kiss-chase in and smoked our first cigarette in, drunk our first can of beer in, playgrounds our children cannot play in anymore because there are construction workers in them, turning them all into more blocks of luxury flats

but we march in silence
not because we aren't angry
not because we aren't raging
but because we hope that everyone else will understand
that it is because we have no voice anymore

© Martin Hayes

Silent marchers pay tribute two months after Grenfell disaster

Martin Hayes has lived in the Edgware Road/Paddington area all of his life. He previously has had a collection of poems published by Smokestack Books called "When We Were Almost Like Men".


The Judge to his Mistress

Prime Minister, first off I'd like to say
I hope your little three-week holiday
Works to restore your weary, Christian soul
And keep you from the crude, indignant prole.
I trust, besides, that you will have no fear
That I should seek to be, or to appear,
The people's enemy: a man of law
Expert in legal stuff and nothing more.
Those poor expendables, so sadly burned,
We'll bury, with the proper lessons learned;
And rest assured, I'll play no tawdry game
Of politics, by distributing blame.
I shan't presume to say where bucks should halt
If Ministers of State have been at fault.

© Philip Challinor

Grenfell Tower inquiry judge tells Theresa May his priorities

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles at http://thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.co.uk/ His longer fiction is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

Royal Pardon

A Prince should act with dignity, not cut ungainly capers,

Unless he wants his manhood to appear in all the papers.

Such was the case with Harry, who cavorted just for fun,

And whose weapons-grade equipment duly showed up in the Sun.

It was awful, it was horrid, it was not the kind of tone

That the Murdoch press expected of a chip from off the Throne.

But now he's back from serving in a lovely bit of war –

And how the tabloids' tone has changed from what has gone before!

A helicopter pilot may by hazard come a-cropper,

When partying in Vegas, by the flashing of his chopper.

But journalists forgive a Royal taking off his togs,

If he should go to Asia and blow up sufficient wogs.

© Philip Challinor, 2013

 Harry the Hero

http://www.thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.com

Mhttp://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

Political Police

These common voters! Really, what's the use
Of letting them elect some senior cops?
The turnout's limp, and so the mandate flops,
And turns poor Dave that nasty shade of puce.

Upon their head be it, next time the boot
Must be applied to gipsy or to darky;
Or some untasered terrorist malarkey
Impels the Met to start a turkey shoot.

They do not do their duty at the polls,
That gracious gift of democratic Dave
To brighten Britain's economic grave:
Democracy is wasted on the proles

© Philip Challinor

None of the above: electorate spurns David Cameron's police polls

My Weblog: http://www.thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.com
My Books: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

Safe In His Hands

This patient here is far from spry;
He's overdosed on PFI.
His system took an awful kick
From excess treatment of the sick.

He's sixty-four with dreadful pain?
I'll just relieve him of his brain.
He'll be much happier, you'll see,
Without it. Well, just look at me.

And, since we're in improving mood,
Let's do an extra bit of good!
The patient has a minor cough?
Let's carve him up and sell him off!

He's suffered terrible reverses
From excess payment of his nurses.
The rot's gone to his very guts,
And must be cured with deeper cuts.

It seems he's haemorrhaging cash:
My surgeon's skills I'll up and flash!
We don't need doctors here, you know -
My chainsaw and my buckets, ho!

Hunt's patent snake-oil treatment will
Most likely cure, or maybe kill -
Dear public, why this foolish fear?
Do you not see there's profit here?

You surely cannot still believe
That I'm the sort who would deceive?
I'd never privatise by stealth -
I'm NewsCorp's Minister of Health!

© Philip Challinor

Two hospitals could be privatised at struggling South London NHS trust

Weblog: The Curmudgeon - You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry.
Books: Philip Challinor's Books

The Cleansing of the Temple

Into the temple Jesus went
And said, "Don't covet or resent
The wealth of usurers and thieves.
For every camel that believes
The Nicene Thingummy, say I,
We've shortcuts through the needle's eye.
Partners and allies are my thing;
Proceed, gents, with your chaffering."
The money-changers, most devout,
Then took the poor, and threw them out.

© Philip Challinor

Occupy protesters chain themselves to St Paul's pulpit

Weblog: The Curmudgeon - You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry.
Books: Philip Challinor's Books

Posthumous Collaboration

The darling of the critics' hypes
As present fashion swings,
He painted lots of squares and stripes
And coloured blobs and things.

A joined-up scribble makes of this
Great work a greater one:
The only masterpiece of his
A grown-up might have done.

© Philip Challinor

Rothko painting defaced at Tate Modern

Weblog: The Curmudgeon - You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry.
Books: Philip Challinor's Books

Seriously Pleasant

How pleasant to know Mr Lear,
Who has got an Ashmolean show!
He's just turned two hundred this year;
Not many remembered it, though.

That child is unlucky and rare
Who none of his nonsense absorbs;
But adults have wonder to spare
For his ornithological daubs.

Though he failed at the Spanish vernacular,
At all the globe's corners he drew;
His landscapes, it seems, are spectacular,
And (possibly) runcible, too.

Though sadly their fame is belated,
How fortunate that they are here!
In ways that are yet under-rated,
How pleasant to know Mr Lear!

© Philip Challinor

It's not all nonsense: exhibition shows the artistic side of Lear

Weblog: The Curmudgeon - You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry.
Books: Philip Challinor's Books