On Your Bike, Blair!

Cautious and I sleep easy in our beds, separate beds (not that it matters), knowing that our daily efforts make the world a better place to live. Sadly those around us seem determined to trash the place.

Our esteemed Prime Minister decides upon the perfectly reasonable step of charging people for taking their gas-guzzling, squirrel-squashing, asthma-triggering, planet-warming, penis-extending, road-raging tool of capitalist oppression out onto the nation’s cycle ways, otherwise known as roads. Unfortunately, he then allows his own website to be used for people to wish to express an opinion on the matter. Guess what? Things all get a bit Sheridan and over 1.8 million people sign a petition saying they don’t want to pay. People of Britain, you have been conned. Duped by marketing suits in red specs who have convinced you that your car will allow you to whizz around the Highlands without seeing another soul or take your family windsurfing and park right on the beach. The reality, brothers and sisters, is quite a different matter. You will be sitting in a sweltering tin box behind a huge truck belching out noxious gases in traffic jams 15 miles long, as your mobile phone rattles in your glove compartment and your arteries harden by the minute and all for the privilege of getting to work to stoke the fires of capitalist greed. It is time to break free.

Our friend from Shropshire who started the petition believes charging is “sinister and wrong”. We doubt that it is more sinister than an online petition that is hosted by the target of the petition. Just fill in your email address and contact details it innocently asks. So, you give the government your contact details as you complain about a matter of government policy. I think not, comrades. Mark my words, they will use this to come round your house and confiscate your laptop as a weapon of the revolution. Which, of course, it is. Do not be fooled. Mr. Blair now knows that road charging will cost him 1.8 million votes and he knows exactly who these people are. To us, that is as sinister as whale-skin trousers.

The petition also suggests that money should be found to improve roads to ease congestion. Maybe we missed a meeting, but Cautious and I can’t quite see how making something easier to use will encourage people to seek an alternative to using it. Congestion will be eased by getting the evil motor car off the road, not by making bigger roads. It is time, brothers and sisters, for a library driven transport revolution.

Under new LLF proposals, we aim to take road charging to radical new levels. Those with 4×4 cars have clearly more money than they need and will be charged 16 times the rate of the average family car. Nissan Micras will be exempt, as will Trabants, for they are revolutionary and quite cool. All those using the roads for cycling will be given library fine waivers and “Love me, love my cycle” t-shirts. The enormous state wealth generated from charging will be used for installing libraries on trains and to fund trips to China to politely ask them to stay on their bikes. While we are there, we will also be looking at ways in which mobile library services can be migrated to a rickshaw-based solution. Come and join us, you know it makes sense.

Tommy’s Ode to Joy

On the occasion of Mr Tommy Sheridan announcing that he may form a new socialist party after infighting among the members of the SSP prompted by salacious and unfounded tales of his private life. Mr Sheridan has been found by a court of law to be not guilty of random and wanton shagging. These are (not really) his words.

Naebody knows where ma johnny has gone
It was here jist the other day
I’ve got two left in the packet
But I’m worried aboot DNA

It’s ma party and I’ll say goodbye if I want to
Lie if I want to, unzip ma fly if I want to
You wid sigh too if it happened to you

Been fighting Trident and the war in Iraq
Leave me alone for a while
Till I find that lost johnny
I’ve got no reason to smile

It’s ma party and I’ll buy a Thai if I want to
Gie her the eye if I want to, stroke her thigh if I want to
You wid try Spanish Fly too if it happened to you

Ode to the wee man

On the sad occasion of the death of one of Scotland’s favourite sons, the much-loved mountaineer, author and broadcaster Tom Weir.

Don’t put away your bobble hat
Climb God’s mountains
Talk the craic
Take lost angels by the hand
Guide them through their own land
Charm them,
Inform and entertain
Show them the Way
And make them smile

Ode to Tommy Sheridan (Allegedly)

On the undignified occasion of the court case involving Thomas Sheridan and the News of the World.
But why the fuss? In the words of Karl Marx, “From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs”. And Tommy needs a shag.

Tommy the Commie
Man of his words
Power to the people
Espeshully the burds
(Allegedly)

Tommy the Tiger
He’s grrrrreat
A socialist, a sexualist
And definitely straight
(Allegedly)

Tommy the Marxist
Tells workers to unite
Nowt to lose but their chains
Tho handcuffs are alright
(Allegedly)

Tommy the Suntan
Wi his face so red
Has a large majority
And a party in his bed
(Allegedly)

Obrigado Portugal

An ode to our friends and European neighbours Portugal. Not for any particular reason, you understand. Just because they are great.

Nellie Furtado
Sardines and fado

Carmen Miranda
An Algarve veranda

Phil, Luis and Jose
A nice Mateus Rose

Magellan and Vasco
Christiano Ronaldo

Sam Mendes and Pessoa
Three penalties out of four

Now even Presbyterians
Are loving the Iberians

It’s such a grand locale
Oh obrigado Portugal

Obrigado
Obrigado
Obrigado Portugal

Ode to Andy Murray

On the occasion of tennis superstar Andy Murray upsetting the sensibilities of the English nation by saying he’d not support their bid for World Cup glory.

In deepest, darkest, poshest Surrey
Wee Ingerlunders are in a flurry
They rant and rave but he disnae worry
You’ve got to love wee Andy Murray

Andy Murray
Andy Murray
Andy Andy Murray
He’s got shite hair
But we don’t care
Andy Andy Murray

Wi a barnet like that I’ve got a hunch
He’s a refugee fae the Hair Bear Bunch
But he makes the Inglish spew their lunch
And Henman’s got a face yid love to punch

Andy Murray
Andy Murray
Andy Andy Murray
He’s got shite hair
But we don’t care
Andy Andy Murray

He widnae back Ingerlund as a last resort
He’d rather hae VD or a genital wart
But jist to show that he’s a guid sport
He’ll wear a Portugal top on centre court

Andy Murray
Andy Murray
Andy Andy Murray
He’s got shite hair
But we don’t careAndy Andy Murray

Anyone But England

Written on the occasion of the 2006 World Cup and in the wake of ‘controversy’ over Wee Jack’s declaration of support for Trinidad and Tobago.

What’s so bad
About supporting Trinidad?
If ah may say so
Ah can follow Tobago
If ah want

Ah’m the kind of guy
That quite likes Paraguay
And if it suits my needs
Ah’ll be behind the Swedes
So shut it

Italy or Ukraine,
Brazil, Switzerland or Spain
Poland or Japan
Germany, Ghana or Iran
Whoever

Any eejit can see
I’ll be supporting A.B.E.
And if that’s sad
Well it’s just too effin bad.
So there

Ah dinnae care
If I get a row fae Tony Blair
I’m Scottish to the hilt
So get it right up your kilt
Ya bass

C’moan T and T
C’moan Russell Latapy
Anyone But England dis for me
A.B.E.
A.B.E.
A.B.E.

Ode to sunshine in winter

Written on the occasion of my very important visit to the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne.

G’day mate
Fae the land down under
Miles awa
Fae the latest blunder

The Parly’s shut
I hear it’s fallin doon
Just as well
That ah’m oot o’ toon

Nats and Tories
Are rattling their sabres
Ah so whit
Ah’m watching Neighbours

Ah’ve a new hat
It’s got loads o’ corks
Ah’ve a braw villa
Paid for by the Warks

It’s nae junket
It’s fair hard work
Keeping a face
Withoot a smirk

Oh advance
Australia fair
There’s snow at home
But ah don’t care

Two down, two to go

Howya
It’s day three and I’m sitting here with a smile the size of Cork on me bake. Jaysus but it’s been deadly so far.
Tuesday was brand new and I was laughing me cacks off at the faces of the English eejits who thought they were all in on this steamer for Sweet Wake to romp the first. You’d have thought their Queen had found crap in her cornflakes.
Serves them bleedin right. They were jumping on a bandwagon that wasn’t theirs only to find that the poor thick Paddies had pulled the wheels from under them and had all piled on to Nicholl’s nag instead. Lovely so it was.
Then didn’t Brave Inca go and win as well and we started the hooley of all hoolies.
I was circling over Shannon before me afternoon snack, off me face by the start of the last race, futhered by the end of it and absolutely stocious by dinnertime. Joe Mangled so I was.
Man but I was gumming for some scran to soak the black stuff up. In the end I lost count at two steak pies, a bit of beef, a gansey of mash, ten pints of plain, two plates of ice cream and a wafer thin mint.
Jaysus I was so full that I could only manage half a pack of Jaffas and a couple of Bushmills for dessert then a Bill Murray before I hit the hay. To be fair the Peggy Dell in the room was atrocious but I was so ossified that I couldn’t have cared less.
I had a head on me alright the next morning but a quick dump, a shave and a Paddy Power and I was right as rain. Well I was till I got a dose of the scutters and left the bog looking like the Somme and smelling like Best Mate. It was Guinness apple tarts all the way to the course I tell you.
Another fine day Wednesday was too though. I did Newmill and Star de Mohaison and me pockets were heavier than a priest’s conscience. Of course cousin Donal and the Buncrana boys did the last of their euros on Moscow Flyer and the sentimental gobshites were last seen heading for the easyJet standby desk, their wallets as empty as Tony Dobbin’s ballbag. As useless as tits on a bull the lot of them.
Ah Cheltenham is deadly so it is. Even the bleedin bookie’s benefit stealing home at 33s in the last couldn’t take the shine off it.
I spent the night with Barry Geraghty who was buying black and burgers for every bucko he knew. He scooped his share as well so if you are after backing Ambobo in the stayer’s hurdle then you’d better be hoping that either he had a right good dose of the diuretics or had brekkie at Eddie Rockets.
Ah Jaysus there I go talking about food again. I had half a pig between a few baps a good hour ago but I’m fair gummin for some more. There’s a grand carvery next to the champagne tent and I could do some proper damage over there.
Hungry? I could eat a bus driver’s arse through a security grill.
See youse at the track.

Sweets for me sweet, Noland for me honey

Howya
Jayus I love the smell of a scam in the morning. First Tuesday of Cheltenham and there’s already a whisper for a hit on the sods with the satchels. A whisper? It’s a bleeding roar.
You’ll know that every Paddy is supposed to be on Sweet Wake in the opener, convinced that he’ll rattle up like a good thing. Ah sure and Mr Meade is supposed to be setting us up for a week of black stuff and dancing. Or at least that’s what we want the Jammy clients who aren’t on God’s side of the sea to think.
Sweet Wake is a decent nag all right but sure she might just be terrible unlucky. Oh it will break our poor oul Irish hearts if she is, so it will. Me arse and Katty Barry!
Sweet Wake has as much chance of winning as I have of being named anorexic of the year. It’s not got a baldie.
A scam? Does the Holy Father himself wear a big hat with a swastika on it? Youse better believe it.
Or maybe this is all just a bit of craic to put the plastic Paddies off Sweet Wake so the real things can clean up and we’re not backing Paul Nicholl’s nag at all? Ah work it out for yoursels. You’ll know by a quarter after two anyways.
The craic was deadly down here last night, every last man talking fluent Guinness. Jaysus but the place is black with Irish. It’s busier than a priest’s trousers at first communion.
Me cousin Donal and the Buncrana mafia were the biggest gobshites in town as per usual, knowing every winner of every race and promising to buy up every hoor in London if Missed That wins the second. Dense as bottled shite the lot of them.
If Ruby can’t bring Mr Mullin’s nag home with every other horse looking at its arse then they will be home long before St Paddy’s and not have the price of a doxie between them. Feckin eejits
For meself I liked the look of Monet’s Garden in the same race but I’ve been put off a bit by the fact that Tony Dobbin is riding the thing. Dobbo’s had a few jumps too many recently if youse catch me drift. Never out the bleedin saddle that one. Nah the ape is too used to coming second these days. Monet’s Garden, Rose Garden… Dobbo will trim any bush as soon as look at it.
And have youse heard about JP McManus? Word is the big man is going to be laying a million English pounds on Brave Inca to win the Champion. Beef news begorrah, steal me custard creams and call me peckish. A million smackeroos? Respect to the big fella but me Gary Glitter would be would be going like a threepenny sponge if I had that kind of money on a nag. Mrs O’Farrell would also be after me mickey with a cutty knife but that’s another matter.
Anyways, I’ll need to be going on account of how it’s nearly lunchtime and me stomach thinks me throat’s a Protestant and starving it out of spite. I’ve had nothing but a packet of Jaffas and a package of tatos since breakfast and I’m as weak as a salmon in a sandpit.
Hungry? I could eat the lamb o’ Jaysus through the rungs of a chair.
See youse at the track.