LOVE LIES BLEEDING

Hi there

Some time ago I entered a local competition to write a love letter.  One of the conditions of entry was that it had to be previously unpublished, so I didn't put it on this blog at the time, although some people did see it .  I don't think it's really what the organisers were looking for and it duly didn't win any prizes but I've now tidied it up a bit to produce a second version which is below.  Hope you like it - and as usual please feel free to forward it to others if you do.

LOVE LIES BLEEDING

The Palace

Thursday

Dear Cleopatra

Well, well. All come to this? One of those effete young men of yours simpered across this afternoon to say you just topped yourself. Bit of a bombshell, that. Look, I know I got a bit angry and I'm really, really sorry, really I am. I've had a lot on lately and I probably did go a bit over the top. It's a bugger, isn't it, because you and me has been the greatest love affair of my life. I was full of plans for us to get married and go and live in the country somewhere, nice little cottage, roses round the door. I'd have been a real model husband, only nipping out now and then for the odd spot of conquering or parading captured enemies in chains.

But now.... but now....I can't face carrying on without you and couldn't do it if I tried, so – big Roman general and all that - I chose death with honour. Turns out I've not got as much honour as what I thought. Took a servant to show me how - refused a direct order to kill me and took his own life instead. Well that taught me a lesson so I manned up and fell on my own sword, except I couldn't make a proper job even of that, so here I am wounded and bloody and definitely on the way out but with a bit of time to kill first, if you see what I mean. Ow! Really shouldn't try to make myself laugh, it hurts too much.

Know who I blame for all this? Mr William High and Mighty Bloody Shakespeare, that's who I blame. Oh, he's got a bit of a way with words, of course he has, I was quite taken by being described as 'the triple pillar of the world', very neat that, specially seeing as one of the other two is that useless twerp Lepidus, but then he has to go and spoil it by adding that bit about me turning into a 'strumpet's fool.' That's you he's talking about, he'd better not come anywhere near me, otherwise I myself might very well his quietus make with a bare bodkin, to borrow one of his better ones from - Hamlet, was it?

Calls himself a poet but he comes up with some funny bloody lines, perhaps poets do. 'My heart was to thy rudder tied by th'strings' I'm supposed to say at one point, odd bloody image if ever I heard one, sometimes I reckon I'd be better off writing my own love poetry without him interfering all the bloody time. Here, what about this one then, specially for you?

Roses are red, violets are blue

Who loves ya baby?

I'm first in the queue!

Strange what goes through your head at a time like this, but I reckon us poets are dead lucky that violets really are blue, well, most are, because the rhyme would be much harder if they was, say, yellow. You'd have

Roses are red, violets are yellow

I'll whisper my love,

Or maybe I'll bellow.

And thank the gods that they're not orange! Did you know that there's no rhyme in the English language for 'orange?' Not great, but the best I could come up with is

Roses are red, violets are orange

I'll cheer our love loudly,

Not whimper or whinge.

Back in your box, Shakespeare! Although why we're doing it in English in the first place beats me, being a Roman general and all. Mind, Rosae albae sunt doesn't quite have the same ring about it, amirite?

Hang about, hang about, I've just had a thought. He's done this before, hasn't he? Idle sod can't be bothered to think up a new plot every time, but it's young master Romeo what does himself in when he hears Juliet's dead, isn't it? But she's not is she? Wakes up just as he dies beside her, realises what's happened, stabs herself with his knife, bodies everywhere, curtain and a great rustling of Kleenex 'cos there's not a dry eye in the house. If he thinks I'm shuffling off this mortal coil with 'Thus with a kiss I die' like Romeo got stuck with he's got another think coming. Mind, perhaps he's not much good with last words. Macbeth got 'Lay on MacDuff,' whatever that means, didn't he, and even Hamlet only got 'the rest is silence,' well of course it bloody would be if he's dead. I'll try to get him to put 'Now my spirit is going, I can do no more.' I rather fancy that especially if you then chime in with 'Noblest of men, woo't die?'

Know what I wish? I wish we had been written by that Christopher Marlowe all along rather than the sainted William Shakespeare; we wouldn't have had none of this messing about. Marlowe knew a thing or two about sticking knives into bodies, and he wouldn't never have left me hanging on like this for the sake of a big sentimental finish in Act 5, or Act V as I should call it. Ow! Done it again. Even the Earl of Oxford, whoever he was, would have made a better job, all loose ends neatly tied up, a lot more gratuitous sex along the way with any luck, everybody happy, Bob's your uncle. Think I must be starting to go delirious. I've no bloody idea who Bob is or why he's your uncle.

Anyway, what I'll do, as a kind of final romantic gesture, I'll get some of the lads to carry me round to your place, if that's where you are, and lift me up so I can bleed all over you and very possibly die in your arms. The box office manager will like that even if nobody else does. But I'm starting to get visions now, delirium again I should think, because once I've gone I reckon you're going to get some wrong'un or other turning up with asps in a basket, and you'll take an asp and put it on one of those lovely breasts of yours and let it poison you. Wouldn't be surprised if you're getting a bit soft in the head by then as well and start talking to it. I'll see if I can get him to give you 'Dost thou not see my baby at my breast that sucks the nurse asleep?' - being a bit of a poet I'm quite proud of that, wonder if he'll do it?

I'm rambling like a delirious old fool. But straight up, there's no getting away from it, the end is nigh. The lads have come for me. One last kiss, one last embrace, one last tear, alright loads of last tears, one last declaration of undying love. Try to remember 'Noblest of men, woo't die?' won't you, it'll go down big, I promise.

I'll leave this letter here so someone finds it soon. Bit of a bugger it should end like this, but I now see I love you more than I thought possible, more, as it turns out, than I love life itself. Cleopatra, here I come!

Ave atque vale and all that and I'll love you till the day I die. Well, you know what I mean.

Antony

ANAGRAM CORNER

We haven't had one of these for ages, but Antony and Cleopatra presented quite a challenge........

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

AT ONE...... CAP'N AND TAYLOR

BRAZEN BORIS

Hello, and welcome to the latest edition of the Autolycan.  I thought I'd better get it out quickly before something else happens and I have to change it all!  It's not easy being a political commentator.

As ever, I hope you like it and please feel free to pass on if you do.  Although you may find that like me you now can't get the tune out of your head........

BRAZEN BORIS

after THE BRITISH GRENADIERS

Some talk of Mrs Thatcher's and some of Tony Blair's

Of Churchill's and Disraeli's and all their great forebears.

Of all these reputations there's none you have to fear

Like that of Brazen Boris, the British Brexiteer!

They never said that Parliament was the greatest show in town

Or claimed that it was paramount then tried to close it down.

Such arguments would be dismissed and never re-appear,

Until, that is, the coming of the British Brexiteer.

None of these ancient heroes e'er stood up to declare

That a border with the Irish both was and wasn't there.

They never would be skewered by the Impasse of the Year

But no such qualms afflict the baleful British Brexiteer.

The Old Etonian rhetoric is crossing new frontiers,

Though girly swots are proud to be the PM's chosen sneers,

Take Back Control! Get Brexit Done! will raise a raucous cheer

The slogans and the soundbites of the British Brexiteer.

He said we'd strike the greatest deals; we'd all get rich and plump.

But now it seems perhaps we won't - it's up to Mr Trump.

The pound is looking dodgy and the outlook's quite severe -

“Don't be so gloomy – just believe!” – the British Brexiteer!

John-Claude, Michel and Donald can scarce believe their ears,

While Boris blusters on and sacks a score of mutineers.

His cohorts bay and stamp and shout, the nation's close to tears,

And this has all been going on for years and years and years!

And this will all be going on for years and years and years!

LEADING QUESTIONS

Hello, and welcome to this edition of The Autolycan, which I hope will help the Conservative Party elect a new leader.  At the time of writing I think there are a dozen candidates, but who knows what it could be by the time I click Publish.

For my American friends who may think they've got enough problems of their own without following all this too closely, perhaps I should say that the front runner at the moment is said to be our esteemed former Foreign Secretary, Boris Johnson.  Or to give him his full name, Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.  The de Pfeffel apparently comes from some minor German baron several generations back in the family tree.  Johnson is noted for his Latin tags, and for Latin specialists out there - and I know there is at least one - you should take up any complaints about accuracy with Google Translate rather than me.

And should anyone doubt it, 'contumelious' is a real word!

Hope you like this and, as ever, please pass to others if you do.

LEADING QUESTIONS

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, you said you didn't want to lead the Hundred Acre Wood Gang any more because everyone said you were the Worst Leader they'd ever had. You Cried a bit, but the Gang said they wanted to choose Someone Else. They would have to have an Election.

All the animals agreed that they'd have to have a Bit of a Think. So Pooh-Boris went and sat on his Favourite Log in the whole forest and scratched his chin with his Thinking Paw to show how hard he was Thinking.

There was a sudden rustling in the leaves and Govelet came scampering up to announce Something Important. But Pooh-Boris held up his Non-Thinking paw.

'I am having a Bit of a Think' he said, pointing to his Thinking Paw. 'But now I've had a Bit of a Think, I think I'd be Top Hole at being Leader. Sum Optimus! So that's it,' he finished grandly, 'Quis erit, erit!'

Govelet didn't like to ask what a Quiseriterit was and thought it would be safer to ask why Pooh thought he'd be Top Hole at Leading the Gang.

Pooh puffed out his chest importantly and placed his Right Paw against his Left Breast.

'I, Pooh-Boris, am a Big Beast' he said. I Lead where others Follow. I have Name Recognition. I am a Riddle wrapped in a Mystery inside an Enigma.'

Govelet quaked a little.

'Above all I have Charisma' continued Pooh.

'And I am a Small Animal who can't do Riddles and I'm not a Nigma' said Govelet, sadly. 'Do I have Charisma, Pooh?'

'No.' said Pooh, 'You do not have Charisma. You have the opposite, which I shall call Charisn'tma.'

'Why is Charisma important?' asked Govelet, quietly.

'Because there is another Big Beast in the Forest called Fa-Rabbit' said Pooh, hoping to sound apocalyptic. 'Fa-Rabbit has his own Gang but wants to Take Over most of ours as well. Only I can beat Fa-Rabbit.'

Pooh didn't notice Govelet raising a Quizzical Eyebrow.

'The Thing Is,' Pooh went on, 'we have told everyone we will leave the Hundred Acre Wood so that we can Take Back Control, but we haven't.'

'No,' agreed Govelet, 'we haven't.'

Pooh put on his serious face.

'Leaving the Hundred Acre Wood is a sine qua non' he said.

Govelet tried hard to pretend that he understood.

'But doesn't Fa-Rabbit want to Leave as well?' he asked.

Pooh nodded.

'Yes,' he said, 'but he is a parvenu, a Praesedisse Nuper Veni Johnny.'

This time Govelet didn't even bother to pretend.

'A Johnny Come Lately' explained Pooh loftily.

'Is he a Threat?' asked Govelet.

'Yes,' said Pooh, 'he is a Threat. He has lots and lots of Friends and Relations who follow him everywhere. He is a Populist. He is not One of Us. In fact, I have made up a Special Hum about him which will Damage his Chances.'

Govelet winced, but tried to look interested as Pooh put on his Poetry-Reading Voice and recited:

'I've got into a sort of a habit

That whenever I think of Fa-Rabbit

I just want to rush up and grab it,

And be rude and insult him. A bit.'

There was a long pause.

'It's not quite right yet, is it?' said Govelet, really quite Bravely.

'No,' agreed Pooh, 'it's not quite right yet.'

He furrowed his brow as hard as he could.

'But we must Take Back Control from the Hundred Acre Wood' he said at last.

Govelet thought that as a last line for Pooh's hum this was even worse that the first attempt, but then he thought he'd better not say so.

He changed the subject and asked who would help Pooh become leader of the Gang. A triumphant smile crossed Pooh's face.

'Follow me!' he cried excitedly, and they stomped off into the forest to a Special Place where an Owl was perched in a tree.

'Hello Owl, old chap,' began Pooh 'can I rely on your Support?'

'Fie!' scolded the Owl. 'Play not the poltroon with me, sirrah!'

Govelet looked blanker than ever at this.

'Th'art naught but a baseborn fandangle, a malapert picaroon if tha thinks tha can trifle thusly with a gallant of my degree and puissance.  Gadzooks.'

'Please Sir,' trembled Govelet ' we thought you might be able to help Pooh become Leader of the Gang since you can Read and Write and Know Things like what an Iso-ser-sloss-alees Triangle is.'

The Owl surveyed him with an aristocratic air.

'Indeed I can and do, egad' he retorted 'and what's more I can Spell my own Name.' And then slowly, and Not Without Difficulty, he spelt out the letters one a time, R-e-e-s-W-o-l.'

Rees-Wol sat back on his branch with a look of immense satisfaction.

'Please, Rees-Wol, will you help me become Leader of our Gang?' enquired Pooh in what he hoped was a careless way.

'Marry,' began Rees-Wol, 'but I am seized of the Besetting Paramountcy of leaving the Hundred Acre Wood.  Think me not Contumelious but needs must we Excogitate. We must not show ourselves hugger-mugger. Forsooth.'

Pooh nodded. 'Omnes enim unum omnes' he observed, hoping desperately that this was the right phrase to use.

Rees-Wol ignored him.

'Pish, but to become Leader you need a Strong Message, inter alia' he went on. 'You want to Sum It All Up in a Word or Two, by my Troth. An Acronym usually works.'

'A Nacronym?' repeated Pooh, 'what's a Nacronym?'

'Where you put the first letters of words together to make a new word. For example, your Full Name is Pooh-Alexander Boris, or PAB.'

A sly look crossed Govelet's face.

'But it doesn't work so well when you add the de Pfeffel in, does it?' he sniggered mischievously.

Pooh glared at him furiously, but Rees-Wol looked disdainful. He addressed Pooh directly.

'So, what do you want to do, prithee?'

'To Leave the Hundred Acre Wood' said Pooh earnestly.

'Hmm. That won't do. Let's say Exit the Hundred Acre Wood, XHAW. When?'

'Oh, soon.'

'So......XHAWS.'

'Really,' mused Pooh, the Time Is Now. Geronimo!'

Rees-Wol was lost in thought. Then 'That's it!' he exclaimed. 'XHAWSTING! That's your Nacronym and your Slogan – We Are XHAWSTING!'

So Pooh and Govelet went running off shouting 'We Are XHAWSTING! Come and Join us!' and before long they came to a part of the Forest near K-Eyeore-byn's Dark and Gloomy Place. 

K-Eyeore-byn had never been in their Gang, despite having sided with it lots of times in the Past, and when they went to see him they found him sitting on a Fence.

'Ah.' said K-Eyeore-byn. 'Pooh-Boris and Little Govelet come to see me. There must be some Mistake, it won't be me you really wanted to see.'

He chewed glumly on some lentils.

'Can't stand Lentils,' he remarked, 'but then that's How It Is. Please, don't Sympathise. Oh. You weren't.'

'Why are you sitting on a Fence?' asked Pooh. 'It doesn't look Comfortable.'

K-Eyeore-byn swished his tail morosely.

'No,' he said 'it isn't. But I am Making a Point. It is Not Clear if I will get off the Fence or not. That is Significant.'

'What of?' asked Govelet.

'I don't know. I am waiting for Someone to Tell Me. I have my own Gang and they Advise me' he finished, glumly.

He was lost in thought as he chewed a bit more.

'They called it my Creative Ambiguity Fence and said it would make me popular' he said, and laughed a bitter laugh. 'Ha!'

'That was a bitter laugh' he added, bitterly.

Pooh and Govelet marched back to Pooh's Favourite Log for a Bit More of a Think.

'I am in a Mess' intoned Pooh. 'You are in a Mess. We are all in a Mess. I need Help. From other Forest Animals, perhaps? Woozles? Jagulars? Heffalumps?'

And then Govelet, Govelet himself, a Small Animal who hadn't got Charisma and who never went to the Right School had an Idea.

'Pooh will like my Idea', he thought. 'But Pooh will not understand that it will make him look Silly.   And if Pooh looks Silly perhaps I can become Leader of the Gang rather than him. Even if I don't have Charisma.'

'Pooh,' he said in a Small Voice, 'Heffalumps are Big and Strong and have Clout and Influence. It's got to be the Heffalumps.'

Pooh pictured himself proud and victorious at the head of a majestic herd of Heffalumps.  He nodded. 'Thank you, True and Loyal Friend.' he said 'Heffalumps it is. How do I get them to support me?'

'Promise them anything you like. You don't have to Keep your Promise.'

'So......Rees-Wol said we need a Slogan' mused Pooh, “Vote for Pooh and the Heffalumps,” perhaps?'

'No,' said Govelet, decisively. 'You have great Name Recognition – you said so. We must Exploit your Name Recognition.'

'How?'

Slowly, Govelet drew himself up to his full height and looked Pooh squarely in the eye.

'Your Campaign Slogan' he said, 'will be “Vote for Pooh and the de Pfeffelumps.”'

'That should do the trick' said Govelet to Pooh, but inside he thought 'that should do the trick!'    

                                               **************************               

'And who did follow me?' you asked. 'Was it Pooh or Govelet or Someone Else?'

I smiled a Knowing Smile.

'Wait and see' I said.

THE SCARY TWADDLE OF A PRIME AND MODERN MINISTER

Hello, and welcome to a special edition of The Autolycan.

The Gilbert and Sullivan Trump clearly hit a chord with a few people - on both sides of the Atlantic - and thank you for all the kind comments.  Unfortunately though we are not without our troubles on this side of the water and in a spirit of even handedness I thought I should have a go at what W. S. Gilbert might have made of it all.  Normally I like to take a day or two to allow time to revise these writings a bit, but on this occasion I thought I'd better publish it straight away - God knows what the situation will be in a couple of days' time!  Feel free to add your own verse!

Hope you like it - please pass it on if you do.

THE SCARY TWADDLE OF A PRIME AND MODERN MINISTER

PRIME MINISTER

I am the very model of a Prime and modern Minister,

Apologies to those of you who find that rather sinister.

I've orders from the riff raff and the plebs and proletariat

To wave two fingers rudely at the Euro Commissariat.

My Cabinet is blended in a mix that's wholly caution-ate,

Though thickos, snakes and weasels are now wholly disproportionate.

They want me gone, I know they do, they haven't got a bloody prayer

I'll kick their arses all the way from Cromarty to Finisterre!

ALL

She'll kick their arses all the way from Cromarty to Finisterre!

PRIME MINISTER

I've dashed all over Europe in a frenzy of activity,

But met with frozen smiles and disbelief and negativity.

And when I bring my deal to our ancient, hallowed H of C

I might as well rely upon Feng Shui and astrology.

The Cabinet has trapped me in a blind and hopeless cul-de-sac

Then turned on one another like a hundred ferrets in a sack;

With Leadsom, Hunt and Grayling there I wonder who needs enemies,

If I'd my way I'd give the bloody lot of them lobectomies!

ALL

If she'd her way she'd give the bloody lot of them lobectomies!

PRIME MINISTER

There's Boris lying low like some nefarious accessory,

I don't know why his parents didn't use a better pessary.

I'd gladly find a place in an Antarctic penitentiary

For the Honourable Member for the middle eighteenth century!

There's not a single one of them who's better than reptilian,

It's up to me to try to sound a little bit Churchillian!

ALL

It's up to her to try to sound a little bit Churchillian!

PRIME MINISTER

I've had a lackey working through the text of all those speeches

But I find I've naught to offer but to fight them on the beaches.

Or put things off for months of pointless arguments and tussles

Which is not a proposition that will woo the lads in Brussels.

This Brexit thing has now become calamity and tragedy,

Perhaps I'd better bugger off and leave it to Her Majesty!

ALL

Perhaps she'd better bugger off and leave it to Her Majesty!

THE PIRATE OF PEN-RANTS

Hello

Yes, I know it's been a long time since I posted anything on here - so long in fact that I've almost forgotten how!  I'll try to get back into the swing of it.

But a headline in the New Yorker piqued my interest, and for some reason put me in mind of Gilbert and Sullivan.........

Hope you like it, and please pass it on if you do!

THE PIRATE OF PEN-RANTS

DONALD TRUMP, PIRATE-IN-CHIEF

                                                                              The New Yorker                                           

When a President's engaged in his employment

Surrounded by his sycophantic clans,

His capacity for nepotist deployment

Exceeds by far the average honest man's.

A simple clicking of my tiny fingers,

And a member of my family's preferred,

And though the smell of shadiness still lingers

Objections won't be entertained or heard.

I've Jared and Ivanka and young Donald in my court

Not one of them an honest artisan,

So for discipline and dominance perhaps I really ought..........

To make Stormy Daniels leading courtesan.

Ahhhhh....

When venality and graft and shady dealing's to be done

The Commander's lot is such a happy one!

When a candidate with zero imperfections

But a wearisome opponent he must quell,

He must make sure he somehow wins elections

No matter what the lies he has to tell.

The stupid Dems put up this crooked dame,

So I'll hound her all the way from a to zee,

And I'll toss out streams of bile and dirt and blame,

Then lock her up and throw away the key.

And the country's being flooded by a sea of crooks and thieves

And all they know is steal and kill and brawl,

And it really doesn't matter whether anyone believes me..........

When I say we're gonna have to build a wall.

Ahhhhh...

When boorishness and oafishness and cheating's to be done

The Commander's lot's a really happy one!

I'm the fittest man who's ever been your leader,

I'm tough and smart and oh so devious.

And anyone who labels me 'non-reader'.......

You're dealing with a stable genius.

I've done more in months than any man before me.

My achievements shine and sparkle such a treat,

So, you'd better get the message and adore me

Or I'll vilify and trash you with a tweet.

So, shameful but unchallenged, I am free to make the weather,

Why I'm still the boss is quite beyond my ken,

So you'd better shout and yell and rage and get your act together...........

Or you're gonna find I'm voted in again.

Ahhhh....

When getting rid of conmen or of tyrants must be done

The Commander's lot is NOT a happy one!