Monthly Archives: May 2013

Waiting For GodKnowsWot!

Dramatis Personae



Mr. Whippy





Act 1


Scene     Bus Stop in the wilderness.


SD:         Carrot and Turnip are waiting at the bus stop.


Carrot:   Is that you?


Turnip:   I’m not sure. I could be, but maybe I’m not.


Carrot:   (nods head) Good!


Turnip:   Good? What is there that is good about anything?


Carrot:   I can’t.


Turnip:   Can’t what?


Carrot:   Go anywhere at this moment in time.


Turnip:   And why would you want to stay?


Carrot:   ‘Cos I’m… waiting.


Turnip:   Waiting? What are you waiting for?


Carrot:   I’m waiting for godknowswhat!


Turnip:   Oh, that’s alright then.


End of Act 1


Lights dim, then just before blackout they brighten again.




Act 2 (starts as Act 1 ends)



Scene:    Bus Stop in the wilderness.


SD:         Carrot and Turnip are waiting at the bus stop. Turnip is studying the bus time-table.


Turnip:   It says on this sign that godknowswhat will be along this very evening, or tomorrow evening, or maybe even yesterday evening!


Carrot:   And there’s me thinking that you can’t read.


Turnip:   I can’t, and that’s a fact!


Carrot:   It’s a sign of the times!


SD:         Turnip takes a very close look at the bus time-tables.


Turnip:   It never used to be here


Carrot:   ‘We’ never used to be here.


SD:         C & T look around, then look at each other, then hastily look away and around once more, turning away from each other in a circle returning back to their start position, then both look intently to Stage right.


SFX:       Sound of ice-cream van and horses hooves / coconuts that dopplers towards them from Stage Right and then away to Stage Left from C & T – they follow it with their eyes and body actions.


Turnip:   (looking at C, then back to Stage Left) He’s not going to sell many going at that speed!


Carrot:   (still looking Stage Left) Watch out!


SD:         C & T cower away from Stage Left.


SD:         Small Boy walks on from Stage Left holding and licking an ice-cream. Small boy crosses stage and exits Stage Right.


SD:         C & T watch the Small Boy’s progress across the stage, and end staring after him to Stage Right.


SD:         Lights Fade to nothing.


SD:         Lights come up and C & T are waiting at the bus stop. Turnip is studying the bus time-table.


SD:         Small Boy walks back on from Stage Left carrying sign upon which is written the words “The End!” Small Boy stands Centre Stage flourishing the sign to the audience.


SD:         Applause (hopefully)


SD:         Lights Fade to nothing.


SD:         Lights come up and Carrot, Turnip and Small Boy are Centre Stage. They bow to audience, and each other.


SD:         Applause (hopefully) – and the possible throwing of carrots and turnips, but not small boys, on to stage.


SD:         Curtains / Lights Fade to Blackout.


SD:         Lights come up and C, T & Small Boy are Centre Stage. They bow to audience and each other.


SD:         Applause (hopefully)



In A Word – It’s Absurd (Diarised) by Mike Adams



In A Word, It’s Absurd – Mike Adams

D’you know I’m being diarised

now that’s a first for me

the consultant comes to see me

on Friday, half past three

Yes, I’m really being diarised

What’s that? I cannot guess

 I hope it’s not expensive

Is it on the NHS?

It doesn’t seem enchanting,

to be diarised that is…

Should I take lots of glucose

or those giant pills that fizz?

I just don’t like the sound of it

I’m not sure I could spell it

I’m nervous and uncertain

there’s trouble – I can smell it

I telephoned the lady

She’s the one that planned it

and said for my advancing years

surely someone should have banned it

She told me not to worry

said she’d done it all before

and some men quite enjoyed it

and most came back for more

I’ve never once been glorified, nor rarely have been memorised, I was damn nearly mortified when my poisoned thumb was cauterised.

Of course I’m never plagiarised but frequently I’m ostracised as well as son and daughterised and often have been immunised but I’ve never yet been diarised.

I know that I’ve been circumspect, I said that I was nervous, but maybe that’s just me.

I’ll tell you all about it,

on Friday after tea.

To Wkomsoever may find this…

Suicide Note

She scratched the words in onscreen ink of a dubious link to a suicide note

To be affixed to the helloed hem of a Facebook page – or an unfollowed blog –

Then forgot to post.

She’d never meant to be… well… spent

And now she’s haunting our lives like she’s wholly ghost.

Who knows the whys the wherefore when she went.

A Poet’s Passionate Plea to His, As Yet Unpenned, Poem

Rise! You poem of a difficult birth;

And rhyme, you creation, with all forms of hilarity and mirth;

Seek fulfilment in the order of your words of wonder;

Satisfy the needs of one whose poetic muse has been torn asunder


Win every poetry prize that there is, was, or is yet to come;

Strike politicians, sportsmen, broadcasters dumb;

For no particular reason, but the silence would be nice;

Even reading you backwards, would make ‘people’ think twice:

So ”rosebuds ye Gather’, and ‘lives our up Spice!’


Be a credit to your father, receive plaudits immense;

And, as you’re my poem, please try and make sense.


Take your place of pride in anthologies wise;

Reach for the stars in poetry’s vast, twinkling skies;

Because of your clever diction, your winning refrain,

Cause a reader to halt, and re-read you thrice, and thrice thrice again,


You could be ‘that’ poem in a poetry book on everyone’s shelf,

If only you could help me a little, and, please, write yourself!



The, As Yet Unpenned, Poem’s Response to A Poet’s Passionate Plea


You lazy sod, who do you think you are? God?

Put in a bit of effort, and you may be less of a clod!

Divine providence won’t write your poetry for you; No excuse,

You need to put your assets into gear and your pen into use.


All the glory? All that kudos? All the praise?

When you’ve done nothing but out of windows gaze.

I’ll tell you one thing, my lad; all your other poetry’s been abysmal,

Why should people believe that you wrote a decent poem that isn’t dull and dismal!


Stick to your day job, if you have one of those,

But, you’ll probably tell me you sit and write prose!

You could be a poet, if you really tried really hard,

But wishes don’t make fishes, nor your poetry make you a Bard.


So, maybe your next poem will be the world’s finest sonnet;

But, considering your skill with a pen or a quill, I wouldn’t bet a single fig on it.

To Whom It May Concern… by Graeme Sandford


To whom it may concern


Please can you excuse *insert name here* from having to endure any amount of seriousness today as he / she is currently recovering from a bout of intense thinking which requires a large amount of recuperative therapy to his / her little grey cells.


Please could you be careful to ensure that everyone is advised to laugh and giggle around him / her as it helps to keep his / her happy mood going


Much appreciated


Jess Language (miss) CEO and boss-lady

By The Book by Graeme Sandford

By The Book (150 words max. challenge)


It read: 


 ‘Buy the bestselling author of MacCafferty’s Cat (soon to become a fantastic slow-motion picture) and MacCafferty’s Other Cat.


Heimlich Manoeuvres Publishing brings you the sensational new read:

MacCafferty’s Other Cat’s Goldfish


You’ve preened over the original, lapped up the sequel, now it’s time to cough up a furball of money to enjoy the fish dish of the year.


 By the book, now!’



“How many posters have you had printed, George?”


“Well… umm… ten thousand for a nationwide ad campaign.”


“And don’t I always tell you to check your spelling and grammar?”


“Yes, and my grandma’s fine.”


“That’s not funny, George. You’ve just wasted a huge ‘fireball’ of money on these misspelt posters.”




“Precisely. Attention to detail is a key component of our company’s reputation. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ‘sock’ you.”


“Don’t you mean ‘sack’ me?”


“No, George, I’m definitely going to ‘sock’ you.”








A Recipe for Sauteéd Shakespeare by Graeme Sandford


Take one Puck and griddle the Earth, mid-simmer, for forty minutes, with acorns to taste.

Add a pound of flesh, take arms, end them, use every man after his dessert, without waste

Insert your Guildenstern and your Rosencrantz heads first, as you must;

Ingrate a little Lear of Corn., preferably wind-blown from the heath, for the crust;

Sieve a freshly blooded Montague and a young Capulet into the mix, checking expiry dates.

Blend in, if you can, one ripe Caliban with water and berries, or if unavailable a Trinculo or Stephano (Caliban’s ‘mates’)

If the flavour seems somewhat sweet to you, a pinch moor of Othello’s handkerchief can be folded in

Dust nightly with a spot of Lady M. to garnish, or cheat by using leaves from Dunsinane.

Serve i’ the heat, accompanied with Caesar salad, Dogberry sauce and I pray you watch

How a rich and full-bodied Malmsey will accompany this nicely – but don’t serve with Scotch!

Lost Poet’s Prayer by Graeme Sandford


There is a whole lot of nothing in my head;

It’s what serves as my daily bread.

I’d seek deliverance from the Good Lord above,

But he don’t deliver to the one I don’t love.

ImagePhoto by Graeme Sandford

Wuthering Heights (Heathcliff’s Viewpoint)

Imagepicture courtesy of – go there and say “Hi!”


Aye, we’d been out on t’ wiley, windy moor again

Where we’d rolled and fallen on t’ ground.

I admit I’ve bit of temper, but, she were all jealous like –

Too hot, too greedy                                

I had to leave her!

She were all posessive, you know.

We had a love / hate relationship.


Then there were these nightmares

She said they were reet depressing and got her down

She had to go – and there were her stammer: “wuthering, wuthering,

Wuthering Heights.” she used to say… eventually


“Heathcliffe”, she called, “It’s me, Cathy” as if I didn’t know who it was, but would I have her back?

Not surprised she’s cold, dressed like that, and why can’t she come in through the door like a normal person?


Oh yes, it does get dark – at night, ‘and’ it gets lonely – when you’re on your own

On the other hand,

She pines a  heck of a lot,

And she is a bit dependent on me

She’s coming back, well. it’s her choice, I think she likes a bit of rough – well you’ve got to be cruel to be kind, so I says

And as for being the ‘only’ one , well, that’s hardly likely!


She’s out at all hours, traipsing ’round t’ moors

She’ll be back soon with another one of her ‘ideas’

Call this ‘home’ – that’s nowt but a lot of stammering.

W,w,w,w,w,w, wuthering Heights, indeed


“Heathcliffe”, oh, she’s back, “It’s me, Cathy” I know who it is, but will I have her back? Like ‘eck I will.

I’m surprised she hasn’t caught a cold, dressed like that (it wouldn’t keep a whippet warm), and if she tries to get throught that window again…


Oh I’ll let her have it, alright, if she tries to grab my soul away

What does she want it for, anyhow.

Yes, I know it’s you, Cathy


“Heathcliffe”, Oh,no, not again, It’s that Cathy, doesn’t she ever give up, bothered if I’ll have her back?

She’ll catch a chill, she will, and look at the mess she’s made of my window, fancy her having a go at it with a crowbar – w,w,w,w, women!





32nd April – 32-04-2013 by Graeme Sandford


Okay, I hear what you say

“Move away from the laptop –

Put April away, please stop!!”


Your wish is my command –

So I’ll acquiesce to your demand.


All passengers ‘off’ the April-go-round

Do you hear what I say –

It’s May, already!