Other Poems


Jackie Chan
You are the man,
I’m your number one fan,
And you’re not from Japan.


Dead cow in pastry
Doesn’t sound tasty.
Offal in a crust
Leaves me in disgust.
Lambs limbs in suet
Doesn’t really do it.
Pigs parts pudding and pie,
Chicken in a short crust makes me cry.
Yes I have forsaken bacon,
Veggie vows I now have taken,
But not because I’m kind and good:
I just don’t like the taste of blood.
And is it really only me
That thinks lambs kidneys taste of wee?
Sausage meat you should not refreeze
It’s stuffed in tubes that carry faeces.


My ego is a foot
Put down with a thud on
The cold, hard boards,
Without soft
Warm carpet,
Every morning.

My ego is afoot
With new shoe and sock on;
Scant protection
From the wear
And tear of
Every-day life.

My ego is a foot
In crowds, often stepped on,
Battered and bruised,
To be soothed
By a soak
In a nice , hot bath.

My ego is a foot,
I see where it’s going,
Tip- toeing through
The tulips;
Leading me
Down the garden path.

My ego is a foot,
No powder or pamper
Enough to keep
The fungus
From eating
Away at my sole.

My ego is a foot,
The one that drags behind,
Not my best foot
Put forward,
That would be
My super ego.

HELL’S F_ _ _ _ _ _ KITCHEN
(a hate poem)

Can you fry an egg for me,
Mister Gordon Ramsay?
With a slice of bread for tea,
Mister Gordon Ramsay?
Or are you far too busy,
Swearing on the TV,
Mister Gordon Ramsay?

Hugh Fearnley – Whittingstall
Is more of a pheasant-plucker
Than you’ll ever be,
And young Jamie Oliver
Is undoubtedly more pucker
Than you,
Mister Gordon Ramsay.

When Rick Stein is quaffing wine
With Nigella and A. W. T.
You won’t hear them
Curse and swear on the air,
Mister Gordon Ramsay.

Delia Smith doesn’t take the pith
Out of would be cooks
Who read her books.
She leads by example
When making her pan full
Of food on the Arga –
Going in with her hands,
And exactly twenty-five grams,
Of garam masala.

But with too little sugar
And far too much spice
You stirred up Edwina Curry and rice
With unkind words you’ll someday roux,
Mister Gordon Bleu.
And though we all know
These tirades that you utter
Are in aid of the show,
Though straight from the gutter,
They’ve now become your bread and butter,
Mister Gordon Ramsay.


The farmers of the Glynde estate
Have changed their country ways of late,
Their grass that fed the sheep and cow
Is grazed on by alpaca lips now.


If she keeps calm when your mummy and daddy
Have lost their cool and blame it all on you,
If she still loves you when you’ve been a baddy
‘Cos she knows you can be a goody too;
If she can bake and not get tired of baking
And making wonderful apple pies,
Or always give to you instead of taking
While never caring for the wheres or whys:

If one grandchild is cruelly rejected;
When one grandchild knows only praise and fame;
If she can help them both feel well respected
And treat these two grandchildren both the same;
If she can bear to hear the words she’s uttered
Twisted into something she did not mean,
And watch her bread land on the side that’s buttered,
And have to start again with margarine:

If she can talk, yet keep the donkey’s hind legs,
Or walk with you along a sandy beach,
If when her grandchild teaches her to suck eggs,
She lovingly pretends to let them teach;
If she can fill those bank holiday Mondays
With twenty-four hours worth of family fun,
She can’t be beaten in a month of Sundays,
And – which is more – she’ll be your Nan, my son!


My good friend Janet Glover,
Read “Who’s who” from cover to cover,
In search of Edmund Clerihew Bentley,
Feeling compelled “to look up his old entry”.


To understand the art of Hirst
You have to get inside him first,
To penetrate his soul and motivation,
To comprehend the whole of his creation.

I did resolve the mystery
While studying art history
At the old art gallery in Tonbridge:
The way to the man’s art is through his Gombrich.


As a baby you were perfect
Then someone said
As you were put to bed
“Doesn’t she look cute in her birth day suit?”
And almost instantaneously the world
Got hold of the girl.

As a little sister
You could have approximated the words to supercalifragilisticexpialidotious
And sounded precocious
And as a schoolgirl your kind of cool girl
Would make a fool
Of any teacher.

As an undergraduate
Did you ever socialise outside your class
And end up sounding crass?
I would wager that every teenager
Certainly did
It wasn’t just me.

As a respected colleague
You must have invented
More things that prevented
The detection of your imperfection
From everyone
In the work place.

But as yourself
You are perfection
A collection
Of the one thing that matters and shatters
The popular misconception
Of ‘imperfect me’.


The chefs of the Eastern Bahamas
Use machetes to slice their bananas,
The cooks of Padang
Prefer a parang,
But the Japanese use their katanas.