Rainman

At the 2005 General Election Labour polled 9,562,122 votes, 356 seats, or 26,859 votes per seat.

The Conservatives polled 8,772,598 votes, 198 seats, or 44,306 votes per seat.

The Lib/Dems polled 5,981,874 votes, 62 seats, or 96,481 votes per seat.

Do those figures truly reflect a democratic country?

Winter’s wrath, a freezing swipe across my face

Icy fingers wrapped in cloth, body swaddled in discomfort

Pavements, dangerous, crusty foot prints embedded, entwined.

Roads icy, free of snow, lorries scatter distasteful grit

Like angry beasts discarding yesterday’s meal.

Days are long, journeys harsh, night a blessing

Comes too late. Silence. Nothing moves, emptiness.

My world asleep, perchance to dream, I think not.

Waking to an eerie scene, white blanket bloated overnight.

No sign of redemption, icicles dangle, drip, drip, drip.

Tomorrow perhaps may relent on Atlantic’s cooler breath.

http://uk.tv.yahoo.com/07012010/19/jonathan-ross-q...

According to the BBC Jonathan Ross is leaving in July of this year.

It was Christmas Eve. A pristine blanket of snow covered the countryside. Trees, their over-laden branches bowing low in a gesture of obsequiousness to the freezing weather, stood stark against the background of an immense, star-filled sky. A lone fox, intrepid in search of food, hesitantly sunk its paws, one by one, into the deep snow, occasionally stopping, raising its head, sniffing the air. In the near distance a church bell chimed, breaking the hallowed silence, twelve times. The sound of choral singing, permeating the receptive air, froze the fox to immobility, afraid the slightest movement would reveal its stealthy intent. A lonely cloud drifted nonchalantly across the moon, mocking its frail attempt to add light to the scene. The fox waited as the cloud’s shadow gradually approached in undulating waves. Folding into the shadow with consummate ease it tracked towards a nearby hedgerow and disappeared with a gratifying swish of its tail. The singing reached a glorious crescendo; the organ roared its triumphal finale. The hungry fox, its bleak lair cold and uninviting, settled down into a fitful sleep. A silence settled upon the land which held the promise of peace on Earth and goodwill to all men.

Yesterday's Daily Mail ran a story under the headline "Everybody loves me really" Blair goes on to say that "People see nothing wrong with me earning lots of money." He insisted he is very popular, especially abroad. Do you love Tony Blair?

Happiness is a state of mind ‘tis said and mine is in a state.

The reason for this state of mine is simple to relate.

There was this girl you see upon whom I was intent,

It appeared as if our relationship was hot and heaven sent.

We wined and dined and loved each other, of that I'm very sure.

The future sparkled brightly like the diamond ring she wore.

But then for various reasons I am reluctant to report,

She left me for another—disappeared without a thought!

The first I knew she’d gone away was a letter on the table,

“I have found another man,” it said, ‘twas signed “Your loving Mabel.”

I couldn’t understand the sub-text to this tersely written note,

For if she’d found another, “Your loving Mabel” she would revoke.

Sadly the happiness I thought was here until the day I die,

Has melted like the ice cream on top of a hot mince pie.

Five surgeons from big cities are discussing who makes the best patients to operate on.

The first surgeon, from New York , says, "I like to see accountants on my operating table because when you open them up, everything inside is numbered."

The second, from Chicago , responds, "Yeah, but you should try electricians! Everything inside them is color coded."

The third surgeon, from Dallas , says, "No, I really think librarians are the best, everything inside them is in alphabetical order"

The fourth surgeon, from Los Angeles chimes in: "You know, I like construction workers...Those guys always understand when you have a few parts left over."

But the fifth surgeon, from Washington , DC shut them all up when he observed: "You're all wrong. Politicians are the easiest to operate on. There's no guts, no heart, no balls, no brains and no spine, and the head and the *** are interchangeable.

Christmas Day.

It is the night before Christmas and stars bestride the sky,

The air is chilled, nothing stirs, a hungry fox lopes by.

The silence is a blanket laid to comfort those who wait,

To celebrate, to sing aloud, or quietly consecrate

The body and the blood of Christ, his death a blessed deed,

To save us all he gave his life, a sacrifice indeed.

There is no proof the doubters say to verify His gift

But we with faith heed not their words, they are the ones adrift.

Soon those doubts will be cast aside when our saviour doth appear,

His promise we remember on Christmas Day each year.

Darkness creeps in like a stealthy burglar,

Uninvited, filching surreptitiously, the treasured light.

Icy winds whip dying leaves to frenzied contortions

Leaving trees bare. Skeletons stark against the night.

A fox, oft brazenly fearless, now afraid to leave its lair,

Earth, once softly pliable, rigidly denying the deer’s imprint.

Grey clouds looming, buoyed aloft on ubiquitous icy air.

Soon the snow begins to fall, clothing the land in a splendid dress

Of white organza, protecting hibernating animals below.

Frozen lakes sparkle in the rising sun, mist slowly rises in distress.

Crunch of boots upon the snow, farmers search for animals lost,

Footprints scarring the pristine blanket laid assiduously over night.

Daylight fades without warning, icy jewels adorn the frost.

Winter’s long, incessant journey slows nature’s timepiece to a creep.

Spring is but a distant longing in the hearts of those who sleep.

I need to win the lottery before it is too late,

Until I win the lottery I’ll share with you my fate.

The credit crunch has left me broke and living on the dole,

My job is gone, my wife is gone – she’s scarpered with a Pole

Named Mariusz, who helps her with the cooking.

She says he’s bright, he treats her right and so much better looking!

The only thing I own that’s worth a mention here

Is an old push bike, some shoes I like and a half-full bottle of beer.

To say I’m on my uppers does truly state my plight

But never mind, I’m in a bind, some cash can put it right.

So here I go, one pound I’ll blow, on yet another Lotto,

If it comes up I’ll take a cup and drink until I’m blotto.

So I’m looking for the jackpot to ease my cares and woe,

And when fate strikes, I’ll ditch my bike and off to Spain I’ll go.

When I’m there I’ll buy a villa with a view across the Med,

And in the grounds there’ll be a pool, and grass on which to tread.

I’ll dine on albondigas (that’s meatballs to those untutored),

And drink the wine from every region in bottles quaintly fluted.

I’ll learn to converse in Spanish and wave my arms around,

And lisp in all the right places to reproduce their sound,

Then I’ll woo a senorita, make love all through the night

So all I need is a jackpot win, for my dream to turn out right.

You never answer my emails,

You never react to my texts,

You’re one of life’s fortunate females

I’m one of life’s browbeaten wrecks.

Your name is on Friends Reunited

MySpace carries all of your news,

You hog the headlines on Bebo

And Flickr has photos to choose.

I’ve seen you on OK Cupid,

Your charms are up there for weeks.

When I tried I looked really stupid,

Especially on Vampirefreaks.

I’ve given up answering your Twitters

No more Fubar to ask for a date.

I’m determined to overcome jitters

And rely on the vagaries of fate.

Our soldiers fight an unwinnable war

Where history shows none have flourished.

Multiple armies have fought before

And left, frustrated, humbled, punished.

Young soldiers lost, so short their date,

Death’s knell tolls a sorry lament.

And buglers sound the unmerited fate

Of those who fell, now absent.

Too soon they say to call a halt,

Terrorists there abound.

A feeble lie that does insult

The soldiers on the ground.

Bring them home, the people cry,

It is sensible but instead

Politicians ignore and continue the lie.

While coffins arrive with the dead.

I’m allergic to a host of things including insect bites,

They stem from long lost childhood days and itching in the nights.

I’d scratch and scratch until I bled and then I’d scratch some more,

Now there’s nowhere left to scratch, my body’s one big sore.

Another allergy I harbour is one with which I grapple,

If I eat a bunch of grapes, a banana or an apple.

My skin rebels, it turns bright red, resembling a tomato,

Affected too, my voice, once deep, becomes a rich vibrato.

Allergies are funny things; they have no rhyme or reason.

I ate a plate of mussels once (admittedly out of season).

But nevertheless upset they did my delicately balanced belly

So now I stick to simple things like marmalade and jelly.

The worst of all from my point of view is having to be wary

Of bugs and fruit and fish and anything that’s hairy.

For once I sat myself upon a horse and found to my chagrin

I itched and itched and itched some more, from my bottom to my chin.

So now I’m very careful in avoiding things that make me to itch,

I sometimes wander round the house unclothed, wearing not a stitch!

This doesn’t cure the allergies or save my reddening skin,

But it certainly makes my poor wife blush when she lets the neighbours in.

The smile on your face, the light in your eyes,

The glow of your cheeks, the depth of your sighs.

The warmth of your love, the smell of your hair,

The bliss when you speak, the chill when you stare.

The pain when you take, the joy when you give,

The ache in one’s heart, so hard to forgive.

Now that it’s over, it’s easy to cry,

The reasons are many, no need to ask why.

When love punctures deep, the wounds they remain

Forever unhealed, prolonged is the pain.

The years spent together, so sure it would last

Then all’s torn asunder with no thought of the past.

Why does it happen, this stab in the heart

Two lovers inseparable and then torn apart?

A mind full of memories, of cause and effect.

So easy to remember, so long to reflect.

Knee high to a grasshopper, that’s how I used to be,

But I’m much taller now that I’ve reached sixty-three,

My family’s genes determined the pace at which I grew

Trouble is they didn’t work until I turned sixty two.

It matters not that I am wee as Scots are apt to say

For I am English, through and through, and wee I do all day.

And that’s because my bladder’s small, incontinent that’s me,

Without warning, clear the way, for the nearest lavatory.

Being small and diuretic is a combination I deplore

Instead of Pinot Grigio, I’ve switched to Pinot More.

Rather than a pint of beer to satisfy my thirst,

I sip a little eau-de-vie until I’m fit to burst.

Small is beautiful, so ‘tis said, is a phrase I oft recite

Whenever someone’s being rude to me about my lack of height.

I merely smile, stand up tall, and look them in the knees.

From way down here it’s hard to see the forest for the trees.

I want to be a celebrity, I possess the essential tools,

I know exactly what to do, I’ve noted all the rules.

First of all, forget the brain, leave it back in Peckham

Then learn how those in Essex speak, like Posh and David Beckham.

The next objective is quite clear, at least so said my lovely mother.

‘Get yourself on television, on something like Big Brother.’

Providing I emerge victorious, from that demanding feat

Next step then is a photo shoot with OK, Hello and Heat.

Once I’m on the covers of those three glitzy magazines,

I’ll contact Simon Cowell (dressed in nerdy, chest-high jeans)

To grab a spot on X Factor or America’s got Talent.

Once that’s done and I’m a star, you’ll realise I haven’t

A thing to say that’s worth a jot, but I can state most highly,

‘The job is done, I’ve got to run, I’m off to dine with Kylie.’

Knee high to a grasshopper, that’s how I used to be,

But I’m much taller now that I’ve reached sixty-three,

My family’s genes determined the pace at which I grew

Trouble is they didn’t work until I turned sixty two.

It matters not that I am wee as Scots are apt to say

For I am English, through and through, and wee I do all day.

And that’s because my bladder’s small, incontinent that’s me,

Without warning, clear the way, for the nearest lavatory.

Being small and diuretic is a combination I deplore

Instead of Pinot Grigio, I stick to Pinot More.

Rather than a pint of beer to satisfy my thirst

I sip a little eau-de-vie until I’m fit to burst.

Small is beautiful, so ‘tis said, is a phrase I oft recite

Whenever someone’s being rude to me about my lack of height.

I merely smile, stand up tall, and look them in the knees.

From way down here it’s hard to see the forest for the trees.

I need to win the lottery before it is too late,

Until I win the lottery I’ll share with you my fate.

The credit crunch has left me broke and living on the dole,

My job is gone, my wife is gone – she’s scarpered with a Pole

Named Mariusz, who helps her with the cooking.

She says he’s bright, he treats her right and so much better looking!

The only thing I own that’s worth a mention here

Is an old push bike, some shoes I like and a half-full bottle of beer.

To say I’m on my uppers does truly state my plight

But never mind, I’m in a bind, some cash can put it right.

So here I go, one pound I’ll blow, on yet another Lotto,

If it comes up I’ll take a cup and drink until I’m blotto.

So I’m looking for the jackpot to ease my cares and woe,

And when fate strikes, I’ll mount me bike and off to Spain I’ll go.

Great Britain

Cornish pasties, Devon cream, Yorkshire pudding, Suffolk bream,

Scottish whisky, Cheddar Cheese, Lancashire hot-pot, Earl Grey teas.

West Country scrumpy, Shepherd’s Pie, Blackberry crumble, Drambuie from Skye.

Kentish apples, tomatoes from Jersey, salmon in rivers (not the Mersey).

Cumberland sausages, Dover sole, Bakewell tarts, toad-in-the-hole,

Welsh Bara Brith, English booze, Scottish smokies, Irish stews.

Whitby crab, Lamberhurst wine, Kate and Sydney -- cockney rhyme,

Hereford Cider, Worcester sauce, fish and chips, Ramsden of course.

Ploughman’s lunch, a pair of kippers, mussels, cockles, whelks, crab’s nippers.

Eat it once, forever smitten, it’s the food methinks that puts the Great in Britain.

Our First Kiss.

Darkness hides my chosen path, clouds my ability to see,

But darkness can be swept away if I may rely on thee.

You and I together will be beacons -- flames to light our way,

Revealing well our chosen path, avoiding deviations, leading us astray.

We’ll take the path we’ve chosen, now hand in hand and free

Of everything that held us back, the future’s you and me.

As life proceeds and shadows fall, let us remember this.

The light we saw, that showed the way, was lit by our first kiss.