Dear Diary,

I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t taken on this job. Everybody is being mean to me while I’m just trying my best to fulfil the will of the people. If only I knew what that was. The numbers and facts are so confusing. I thought it would be easy. But it’s not. It’s so hard! Hard Brexit. That’s all I meant by that.

And now everyone is pushing me this way and that. I’m heading down a one-way alley and I think I might get a kicking at the bottom of it.  Tackety boots are looming and my kidneys are turning to mush. I can feel it in my water.

Everything I said before is coming back to haunt me. Quotes that made sense then being used against me now. As if a lady can’t change her mind. I mean, that’s a foregone thingy. We get to do that. Look at Ruthie. She does it all the time. And nobody picks her up on it. Except those pesky Nats. Always wanting to clarify what was said then with what’s being said now. Things change. Don’t they, Diary?

I mean, if I flip back through your pages, I know that there will be a few things that are difficult to explain. But that’s the nature of politics. We fabricate. Embroider a bit. Lie occasionally. Sometimes a lot. Everybody knows that. I don’t know why some people are making such a fuss about it. Even people on my own side. Infamy! They all have it in for me. Such a carry on!

I think the EU have their knives ready too and I’m going to be carved up as soon as I say Article 50. It’s not looking good, Diary. I feel like I’ve been prepped for a feast and I’m the main meal. It’s not meant to be like this. It was meant to be glorious. Like back in the day. You know, empire and all pulling together under difficult circumstances. Vera Lynn and a singsong. Everybody was meant to rally!

Maybe I should resign. Leave it to those cads that buggered off after the vote. Let them wipe up their own jizz.

What to do, Diary? Tell me. Please. I’m not kidding. I don’t know who to trust any more. Gideon’s gone and got another job and I think he might have it in for me too! Little shit that he is. Probably penning hate mail as I write. What will I do? I don’t know if I can cope with any more facts from my own people. Bad enough the Others getting at me across the floor – bastards, I owe Angus Robertson one for that screeching comment – but having to fend off your own people is too much. Maggie didn’t have this in the beginning. Everybody sucked up her jacksie. I’m being hung out to dry!

I wasn’t all that brill as a home secretary but I thought I could get away with this role. Everybody would support me. Lots of people to back me up and make me look good. But they don’t. Even when I tell them the colour of Brexit some people insist on being obtuse. I need to keep saying the same things over and over and over and over and over again to get them to understand. And still they make out that I’m not being clear. I mean, how clear do I have to be? I’ve practically drawn a picture and coloured it in. And they just don’t understand that the colour is so important. It has to be red, white and blue.

And now that awful woman, with the fishy name, is threatening to take the blue out of my picture. It’s beyond the pale. Just who does she think she is? Anyone would think that she was the leader of a country or something. Instead of the leader of that shower of separatists who want to split my precious. How dare she! I am the ring keeper. The guardian of the one that binds us all. It’s my job. My privilege. I have been chosen. Well not chosen, exactly. I volunteered and the rest were woeful. Chosen by default. Anyway, I’m it. And I know I can do this. I just need to keep repeating positive mantras, try not to say say ah and um too often and I might get away with it.

Diary, I think I need to go call on some friends and get the word out  here and there that the Scots are splitters. Poor splitters at that. Poor I tell you. Incapable. Such a drain on us. Unappreciative of the gracious bounty we bestow on them. Willing to jeopardise my our glorious Brexit. Unwilling to be used as collateral. I don’t even know why we keep them around. Well, obviously, I do, but that shall be our little secret, Diary. Yes, I know that our credit rating looks dodgy if they leave but they don’t know that, do they? Do they? They do. Oh, shit! Back soon, Diary. Wonder if Gordon can remember his lines.


Dear Tess,

Don’t take this personally but I can’t cope any more with your mental meanderings. Word to the wise. Stop. Don't write anything else down. Don't speak. Just stop. 

Don't look for me. To save you from further embarrassment, I've thrown myself onto a bonfire.

Good luck. You're gonna need it. 


Colder Now

Another wee bit of a song happening here, with a bit of stabby finger-pointing going on in a certain direction. Think, ‘Up yours!’

I don’t care what you say

I don’t care how you say it

Don’t give a damn ’bout what you’re sayin’

Have no reason to believe it


All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, I’m colder now

Don’t need your words, don’t need your act

Found something better than your broken pact


I don’t care how you feel

I don’t care how you play it

Don’t give a fuck what you’re feelin’

Have no reason to conceal it


All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, I’m colder now

Don’t need your words, don’t need your act

Found something better than your broken pact


I don’t mind if you die

I don’t mind how you do it

I won’t give a damn while you’re dyin’

Have no reason to cry or mourn it


All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, I’m colder now

Don’t need your words, don’t need your act

Found something better than your broken pact


Too late to care or to pretend it

Too late to say that we can mend it

All your lies and broken vows

Were cold back then, dead to me now

Don’t want your words, don’t need your act

Dissembled slogans, broken pacts

Pretence of unrequited hearts

I don’t care, we’re through, suck on that fact


The lunatics have taken over the asylum. I’m finding myself agreeing – most oddly – with old-school Tories on how mental everything is surrounding Brexit. I’m looking at yer wummin down below and thinking, ‘No fuckin’ way is that representing me here or anywhere.’

Then I see our Mhairi, 22 years young, sticking up for folk who need defending and doing it in that house of wankers and I know, 100%, that they can all take a running jump off a steep cliff and I won’t lift a hand to stop them now.

Uptight arses, the whole lot of them. Maybe Mhairi was saying, ‘You’re talking shite, hen.’ Maybe she wasn’t. Listening to the shite that was being talked, I tend to think that she was, for it was exactly what I was thinking myself and it is exactly what is being said here every time another arse drops a load. Clean up in Westminster. Drowning in their own shite, so much more to follow and I’m past caring. So much colder now.

Routes To Nowhere

Never got his kicks

On Route 66

By the time he found the will the way was gone

Met his highs with different load

Than freedom trail on Mother Road

Find your kicks, son, where you must belong


Never climbed the highest towers

Never ate on different shores

Routes to nowhere lead to nowhere fast

Charts and plans have had their day

The borders closed till come when may

Get your kicks, kids, some of them won’t last


Never took her hoped-for trips

Slip between the cup and lips

By the time she found the way the walls were done

Met her match in alleyways

Same old route on different days

Find your kicks, doll, where you don’t belong


Never sailed the oceans wide

Never saw beyond inside

Sixty-six and seven seas bone dry

Dust and ashes far and near

Scattered lives shed lost chance tears

Get your kicks, kids, most of them will die

That Something

A wee bit of a song going on here. It’s the driving home late from work effect, humming away at nothing till words come along to join in.

You gave me angels, I gave you devils

You gave me magic, I gave you spells

You gave me something I have no name for

And the truth is you do it very well.


You gave me fortune, I gave you bad luck

You gave me future, I gave you past

You gave me something I could not fathom

And the truth is it could not last


You gave me freedom, I gave you sentence

You gave me wildly, I gave you tame

You gave me something to remember

And the truth is I can’t forget your name


You gave me insights, I gave you hidden

You gave me friendship, I gave you fears

You gave me something that makes me wonder

And the truth is I’m sorry for those years


You gave excuses, I gave you guilt trips

You gave forgiveness all the same

You gave me something I’ll always treasure

And the truth is I’d do it all again


You gave me pleasure, you gave me purpose

You gave me reason, you gave me zest

You gave me something that was so special

And the truth is you gave to me your best


You gave me feelings I’d only dreamed of

You gave me open, I gave you lies

You gave me something I’ll always live for

And the truth is I’ll love you till I die


You gave me something that now I long for

And the truth is I’ll need that something till I die

Positively P****d Off

Be positive, they said

For life demands it

The polar opposite

Will crush your soul

Diminish hope

And drain your life of meaning

Well, who was I to disbelieve that goal


So positive, I said

Shall be my watchword

I’ll guard against the negative, resist

Persist in seeing what is good in others

Then look again

In case I somehow missed


The hearts that don’t know love

For life is woeful

The lonely who are begging for a friend

The shy ones and the brash

The dour and doleful

Positive would be my aim and end


But now, I’m positive

The world is full of arseholes

I’m positive they’re breeding as we speak

Passing on genetic disposition

To talk from anal crevices

That seek


To undermine the hope

And good that’s out there

To fight for fighting’s sake for that’s their thing

To ridicule what’s different

Like they’re perfect

I’m positive they’re called the alt-right wing


They’re negative with minus in their favour

I’m positive they’ve lost the plot

What’s more

I’m positive that, unless we kick their arses

They’ll be running round

And knocking on our doors



That we all believe in one thing

That liberty and freedom are passé

Spreading hate

And whipping up a frenzy

I’m positive I don’t want to live that way


Be positive, they said

For life demands it

Potential opens up and life has cause

I listened then

I still believe it

And I’m positive they need a good kick in the baws

For You

If we could all love thus…

Poesy plus Polemics

danc Photo from

if I could but dance

I’d lead you through waltzes round rays of the sun

and speed you through polkas, mazurkas on end

if I could but jump

I’d pluck the bright stars to adorn your fair hair

and tuck the moon tenderly into your lap

if I could but run

I’d race the fleet winds across mountains and glens

and chase down each songbird for your serenade

if I could but walk

I’d stroll with your hand in mine up country lanes

cajole the world’s blossoms to sweeten our way

if I could but stand

I’d fold you in close like I did when we met

and hold tight forever your heart against mine

(originally posted April 2013)

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The Art Of The Screw

I’ll be the church you really want when praying in your pew

I’ll bless the ones that worship me and recognise my due

I’ll promise paradise for those who beat out my tattoo

I’ll guarantee your just reward if my faith you will pursue


You’ll be the brave apostles of a world I’ll build anew

You’ll see that I am saviour though I know not of virtue

You’ll chant and follow where I go, just thoughts you will subdue

You’ll have license, I’ll provide, to be the worst of you


I’ll entertain your idol dreams with yarns I’ll spin for you

I’ll make you see what I can see with lies you think are true

I’ll make you question common sense and all that you once knew

I’ll do it all to camouflage I haven’t got a clue


You’ll beg for muck that I’ll provide and even form a queue

You’ll slurp up shit and spout it forth denying that it’s poo

You’ll hear the things you want to hear that suit your point of view

You’ll swallow all my prophecies and stick to them like glue


We’ll build the walls you crave to build between the them and you

We’ll flout the laws of liberty, that statue we’ll eschew

We’ll scorch the constitution and write a new menu

We’ll offer racist bigotry, for supremacy argue

We’ll be the pride of furthest right, together we’ll count coup

You be mine and I’ll be yours until I’m done with you

I’ll be lord and you’ll be fucked, now writing

book-cover_liGhost Writer Required/Apply White House Trump Tower

I Need To Say This…

Donald Trump is an idiot.

Who constantly speaks in superlatives the way he does?

Who repeats almost every word and phrase as if talking to morons?

Who brags about themself the way he does?

Who justifies themself so much and contradicts themself so often?

Who lives in cloud cuckoo land and pretends it’s real?

If he’s not actually a two year old then he has to be an idiot.

America, for God’s sake, and ours, get a grip.

You have an idiot as a leader.

Or a two year old.

Neither of which is suitable to make decisions for a country.

I’m not being mean. Truly, I’m not.

I’ve taught for almost thirty years and I can honestly say, hand on heart, I’ve never come across the most backward child who couldn’t communicate more effectively. Even if it was only in pictures. Or they were mute and signed. They made more sense.

He’s on the TV – again – right now.


‘Wall….a great wall…negotiated by me just like I’ve negotiated ….”

‘Illegal immigrant violence…of which there are many…’

‘Bigly’? ‘Big league’? Who knows?

‘Many, many, many more…’

‘Decades and decades and decades…’

‘Never been a presidency like mine….’

You’re no’  kiddin’!

I just can’t.

How can you, America?

The man is an idiot.

Please get him checked out.

He’s talking shite. Every time he opens his mouth, he talks shite.

‘I called Mexico. It was a very confidential, very classified call.’

‘Flynn… was not very satisfactory to me…he didn’t tell the vice-president….then he didn’t remember….’ but I’ll defend him anyway.


No, not okay.

I read an article today from The New York Times that encapsulated perfectly the essence of Brexit Britain. An outside perspective that gets it when so many here are buying into the blinkered belief of a great and glorious empire once again striding across a global stage. And a parliament ineffectually doffing their caps to the notion that ‘it’ll all work out’.

It won’t.

They’re idiots.

They would be the biggest idiots if it weren’t for yer man.

Chief among them has to be Donald J. Dummkopf must have been coined for him.

I’m sorry. But it’s true.

Take it from an outsider looking in.

It’s like a plague. A tremendous plague! Huge!

On both our houses.

At least some of your papers are questioning idiocy. Ours, for the most part, are just going with the flow. La, la, la, can’t hear you. Not listening.


Can’t live with them.

Shouldn’t be governed by them.

‘The public don’t know if it’s true or not because they’re not involved….I’m involved….been involved with it all my life….Fox are honourable people…the hatred….the panel…the venom…(from yours)…At least, it doesn’t get good ratings…I’m having a good time…I’m just telling you (the press) you’re dishonest people….should I let him have a little more time?….sit down….here’s the thing…I know when I should get good and when I should get bad…the public doesn’t believe you people any more…if you were straight….CNN story after story is bad….

‘The leaks are real…the news is fake…’

Sorry. What?

This is your president.

I’m mortified for you.

Terrified for all of us.

Send him back to nursery. Give him back to Geppetto. Or whoever’s pulling his strings.

America deserves a real boy. We all do. Gender optional.