Finaglers’ Devices


Bigger plans afoot than senseless, stupid

Perception seeks and sees manoeuvred sin

The meanwhiles gather, rapid with intention

In situ, gaseous masking, febrile spin


Disbelieve the engineers, finagling

Devices, masterminded, coast to coast

Fools in place, distracting jesters, hoaxing

While masterminding prize that’s valued most


Counted heads and costed revolutions

Epic portraiture in snapshot ink

Of war in peace, acceptance in the psyche

Governance, by gaslight, doublethink


As Charged

Atoms that are loaded with potential, packed and brimming

Intentional infusions stocked and stored

Batteries of power, impregnable, informed

Ready to release of own accord


Costs have been recorded, bills accruing, payments due

Demands invoiced in columns that can’t match

Subscriptions to democracy pending rights renewed

Interest lost and gained, small print attached


Entrusted with a duty, that’s the theory, though no proof

Accountable inculpate, by design

Responsible as reprobates, acting outwith laws

Pretending to the jury that all’s fine


Careering in a stampede of confusion and illusion

Battle plans undrawn but troops deployed

Empire of the naked, Churchill’s children, through a peephole

Nothing to be seen till we’re destroyed


Heroic unto heraldry, pennants charged by sin

Unfurled but hanging limp at arm’s length

Wisdom gone in wind rush, petty racists of a flag

Diminished by the loss of common sense


So, atoms that are loaded with potential, packed and brimming

Intentional infusions stocked and stored

Batteries of power, impregnable, informed

Ready to release of own accord

Carpe Diem

Oh, ye saboteurs, of all that you survey

By lies and licence, pedal what you pray

Truth always find its path and come what may

Your end is imminent, prepare to pay

In honesty, you could have saved the day

But hubris holds and governs all you say

A tongue, so forked, forfeits the right to sway

Make ready now, an army comes to slay

In rectitude, for all whom you dismay

The tide yet turns, reclaims sands on which you play

On distant shores the voices have their say

And, closer still, we wait to claim the day

To others, seeking justice, fairer play

Make ready, be prepared, to seize that day

No accident that angst has found its May

A shelter here for all who seek a better way

Oh, ye saboteurs, who thought to have their way

The time shall come, be sure, we’ll have our say

‘Please invoke some parliamentary rule.’

Easier said than done when it turns out that devolved government isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.

We will not go the path the Tories seek to go.

The path that UK governments have chosen time and time again.

Against our will.

Against our vote.

Against our sense of morality.

A country that does not elect right wing rule will not follow right wing rule.

Becoming more right wing by the day

We will not.


Our history decrees it so.

Our experience underlines it.

We will have self-rule.


We will make our own decisions.

Decisions based on collective good.

Decisions made by us.

Not on dictats selected for us.



It shall come to pass.

Carpe diem.

Never their day.


Seizing now the day that is yet to come.

The day that says no to their distorted idea of how we should live.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

Now may not be here but it is on the horizon.

It’s near.

Nearer for our children than for us.

Seizing for them.


I hate that the world revolves around economics.

Hate isn’t too strong a word.



I would rather leave the oil where it is and embrace renewables but even that is being undermined by UKgov.

Just as relationships between the nations here have been undermined for generations.

Peddling a myth that divides.

That we, here in Scotland, need England to survive.

We don’t.

But we have more than oil.

So did the rest of the UK till it was sold off to the highest bidder. Privatised under Tory rule. Then globalised to a higher bidder. Creating a rentier economy at the expense of infrastructure. At the expense of regions all over the UK.

I hate no one.

No one.

Sure, there are nutters here who do hate the English. Like they’re some collective breed. Same as there are nutters in England who believe Daily Heil lies about Scottish scavengers/traitors/cybernats. There are nutters all over the world. Hating on whoever they’re told to.

I repeat. I hate no one. Most do not.

If your papers tell you otherwise, you’re reading the wrong papers.

Listening to the wrong news.

My god, I wish it could be different.

But while we want what so many across these isles probably also want – a just society – it cannot be while our voices drown in Westminster.

Fifty-six MPs advocating change cannot compete fairly against hundreds happy with the status quo.

Cannot change what needs changing.

We have to begin here.

In Scotland.

In our own back yard.

We are a country, whether some acknowledge that or not.

Yes, it will be tough.

We know that change is tough.

But tougher yet would be complaining and not trying to change it.

I am working for the change I want to see.

Seizing the moments that lead to the day.

We all can.

Please do not give up. Wherever you are.

Please. Seize.

My heartfelt and sincerest sympathies for those in these isles who want what we want and cannot make it so by dint of no worthy opposition. Neither can we while tied to the UK. Arithmetic makes it so.

The kettle’s on. You’re welcome here.

And the weather isn’t as bad as you think if you’re from northern climes.

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.

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.

Contenders, Ready!

So, it’s one of thon Fridays. Not had one in ages. Months. Quiet night in. A wee hauf. Been right aff it this while back. Until last week’s Burns’ Supper. Found my feet again. Right at the bottom of my bed. Laptop on my lap, as it happens. So, that’s why, eh? Who’d have thunk of the most obvious? D’uhh!

Most obvious. There’s a thought.

A thought I keep thinking.

Keep thinking.


Think why.


Why would the Tories, the most self-serving party that ever disgraced these shores quite happily roll over to the loss of income on their doorstep for the potential – faintest potential, given all things – that hordes of non-Brits (it’s a thang, doncha know?) would come a-rushing to ‘do deals’.

‘Oh, do a deal with me, Mother Homeland! I be dying for you to look most favourably upon me agin. Deal me! Deal me!’

‘Get in line, meboy! There are queues – veritable queues, I say, to be gone through. Can’t just go a-rushing in and making deals willy-nilly.’

(‘Yes. We can. Shh! Hush, hush! Need to know basis.’)

‘Oh, jolly good! Hey there! You, old boy! What was that you were saying about ‘’do me’’? I might just have the job for you. What ho! Tally ho! Rule big momma! Big momma’s on the stage. Come ye, of lesser worth and seek our patronage!’


Yeah, that sort of scenario.

Now, either they’ve taken complete and utter leave of their senses which, by world reckoning, may be the case or….

…they’re up to no good.

Have you ever had good news that you just couldn’t keep to yourself?

You know the kind.

‘New job! Promotion! Go meee, go meee! Sort-ed!’

‘Just won a fortune on the lottery! Help me celebrate! Drinks are on me! Go meee! Go meee! Sort-ed!’

‘Found ancient Roman artefacts in my garden! Fuckin’ millions! Ace! Go meee! Go meee! Sort-ed!’

‘Cancer? That bastard? I’ve just found the cure! And it’s easy! Stop worrying! Go meee! Go meee! Sort-ed!’

Compare with.

‘Sit down. I have news.’

‘It’s like this….’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got this in hand.’

Brexit? No probs. 12 point plan, I’ve got. Pretty pictures. Look….squirrel…Go me…. Go me….Sort of…..’


I ask you, when, when in the history of all that’s Tory did the Tories ever do anything, and I mean anything, that they had to if it wasn’t self-serving?

And that’s not just me that’s saying this. Oh no. History does. Go take a look. I’ll wait.


Find anything?


Something that says, ‘For the greater good this shall be done.’?


Neither have I.

So, why, exactly are they pointing a loaded pistol to their own heads – and ours – and stating, ‘I feel lucky.’

We punks aside, for that would be their definition of the lesser mortals that inhabit the lower stratosphere, why would they commit an act of such obvious self-sabotage?’

What’s in it for them?

What. Is. In. It. For. Them?

Now, I have theories.

Guess work. Based on shit and stuff.

‘That’s my shit. That’s their shite. This is my stuff. They can get stuffed.’

What’s in it for them?

Apart from votes that will fly with the wind once, you know, the actual negotiations take place.  If anyone left, in Britain, has the cahones they were born with.

‘What do you mean, ‘’No’’?

‘Do you know who I am?

I have friends in high places.

Special relationships.

I’m somebody.’


Yeah, coulda been a contender. But I sold my soul to the company’s goal.

My question?  Whose company?

And what’s their mission statement?

Cherchez la raison d’être.

It is not for nothing.

You can bet my hauf on it.

So, one of thon Fridays.

Am I bitter?


What goes around, comes around. Had it coming. Old boy.


I’ll be in training after tonight, you understand. #Contenders

The Illusion

Same song, different day
Carnival is still in play
Donald Trump and Theresa May
Shit and sawdust strewn our way

Ever apt it seems


Below are the words I wrote to one of Johnny’s amazing tunes. It’s called, ‘The Illusion’.

It made me think of the circus (which I hate). And politics. And we, the people. This world of ours.

I hope you enjoy the results of this particular collaboration.

Some people may be offended by some of the images. What can I say? I’m offended by them too.

Here is the circus, here is the street,

Ringmaster has found the beat,

Try to keep up with his song,

Try to march in time along.


This is the game we all play,

Carnival is now the way,

Jugglers, clowns perform, we pay,

Sideshow stalls have won the day.


See, look, the Big Top, there go the lions,

Whipped to submit, they stride in time,

Prancing ponies do their thing,

All well-trained for circus ring.


Fire-eaters and trapeze acts,

Contortionists, acrobats,

Bearded lady…

View original post 272 more words

Fighting For



Why are you fighting, why do you foam

What are you fighting for

Why petted pout and tetchy tantrum

The slamming of all open doors

Has someone pained you with their lying

Stolen your toys or treats

Why crocodile tears, the threat of more crying

The stamping of petulant feet

Who has affronted, who has offended

Sensibilities, pride or your dress

Or have you broken fences that cannot be mended

Grow up now and own up, confess

Have you hurt your friends, insulted their name

Been a bully, a braggart, a pest

Are you really culprit and won’t take the blame

Have you really tried what is best

Why are you fighting, what is your cause

And who are you hurting the most

Where common sense in all that is lost

Your brain in meaningless boasts

Time to reflect on the nature and meaning

Why no friends now come to your door

Why are you fighting, what are you fighting

Just who are you fighting for

Blue Peter Style



Ah’m gaun fur tae build up the nation

A prood wan, an empire wance mair

Some blue tac, a glue stick, a big daud ae string

Noo shift, ah need room oan that flair

Ah’ll start aff wae cairdboard an’ scizzurs

An’ pictchurs fae histury books

Ah’ll leave oot the dregs, an the scunners

An’ maist ae the failures an’ crooks

Ah’ll build a collage fu’ ae colour

Variations ae rid, white an’ blue

Ah’ll rim roon the coarners an’ skim aff

The big chunks that urnae aw true

A bunnle ae straw tae make figures

Gentrified coattails an’ hats

A few scraps ae fox fur, some sequins

Tae make it mair 3D an’ aw that

Ah’ll need scrunched up paper mashy

Tae mould oot a landscaped backgroon

Buckets an’ pots ae white washin’

Ah’ll splash it an’ throw that aroon

Rosy clickbait fur rustics an’ townies

A haystack, high hedges, mair straw

Theatres an’ restaurants, museums chock fu’

Jeez, ah’ve goat this, nae bother at aw

Better fling oan a few thistles

A shamrock or twa an’ a leek

They’ll no’ accuse me ae partisan, nope

Well, they might but ah’ll no’ let them speak

Ah ken whit ah’ll dae fur illusion

Ae reality an’ aw ae that guff

Ah’ll sign it as if ah’m an expert

A piss artist who knows aw hur stuff

Ah’m chuffed that it’s lookin’ quite lifelike

If ye squint at it when it’s hauf daurk

Bugger an’ dammit ah’ furgoat the best bit

Dabbin’ oan paint wae wine coark

Well, that’s me an’ ah think it looks smashin’

Kinda Picasso in Blue Peter style

Ah think ah’ll gie up ma day joab at this rate

Patrons ae pish wull come miles

Tae see me in artistic creation

The panache that ah bring tae ma art

Aw ah need noo is a title

They came, they saw ‘The Brain Fart’






Barmy, the farmer, had a few precious eggs

And bales of dry hay in her barn

But nary a neighbour would purchase her goods

So Barmy was filled with alarm

What to do, what to do, with her clutch of fine eggs

How to handle them and keep them whole

Barmy came up with a spiffing idea

A crazy, impossible goal

She’d juggle those eggs, keep them all in the air

While she caught them and ran for some hay

The hens they looked on with incredulous eyes

And a sense of impending dismay

Their future was rising and falling by turns

As they peeked from behind cushioned wings

What the hell was the farmer, that barmy auld git

Doing with their precious things

They fussed while she ran from farmhouse to barn

Not a basket nor pot to piss in

Calling to all who were standing nearby

‘I’ve got this. I used to be quite a good catch.’

Just look at her go on those pins

Her neighbours were watching and couldn’t believe

Why she’d threaten the treasures she had

Why she’d risk them being scrambled, poached, boiled or fried

While she wobbled about looking mad

Barmy was pleased with her dexterous display

Though she grimaced with effort and pain

And wasn’t amused as a commentary ran and cries of

‘Hey, try that again!’

Barmy, determined, kept her eyes on the prize

Ears cocked to the hens as they clucked

If only they’d trust her, she thought to herself

As she ploughed through a pile of cow muck

Knee deep in shit, she muddled right on

The barn was nearly in sight

Another few steps and a hurdle or two

She could do this! She would! Well, she might…


Alas, for poor Barmy, the barn was on fire

All that hay had gone up in smoke

No straw to clutch to, not a scrap to be found

And the smell of it gave her the boak

The haze from the burning puddled her eyes

She mistimed a throw then a catch

Cluck, cluck went the hens. Oh, fuck went the crowd

And she dropped the whole bloody batch

With no barn on horizon, no hay to be had

No eggs except for their mess

Barmy and everyone else on the farm

Were purple with pain and the stress

Barmy was broken, just like the eggs

She crumpled then, lay down and cried

Up to her neck in a mound of manure

But no one could say she’d not tried

So that was alright, she’d given her best

All through the jeers she could hear

Other folks’ eggs and other folks’ shite

Aw, bless her, the poor silly dear


Never take on what others will not

Never gamble with what you have got

Never forget old lessons when taught

All that’s thrown is not always caught