Category Archives: What Passes for Humour

Damn’ Golfin’ Gals of Muirfield

“Damn’ funny chaps, these golfin’ gals”,
The aged one vaguely remembers
“They’re full of froth with squeaky pals
To trample us when they be members.

“They damn’ well crave their rights with us
By Jove, they’ll mount a frilly revolution
They’d change our laws, just monstrous
Thank God for a cast iron Constitution.

“Our comfy rules can block their pesky plans
To scrub our g ‘n’ t, our pipes an’ whisky
We’ll mount the barricades with all our fans
No gal members here, however frisky!

“The Church, the Lords, MCC an’ many other splendid chaps
Succumbed an’ took the gals at last, as so may we perhaps.”



Coffee, Honey?

‘Honey, d’ya wanna coffee?’
The sister barista shouted
‘An’ shall I add a toffee?’
As in the sun she pouted.

‘I’ll have it strong, I’ll have it now’
The sleepy beauty snorted
‘Forget the toffee, stupid cow’
Was what Facebook reported.

‘It’s comin’ up, it’s comin’ up’
Replied the qualified barista
‘Speak not like that to me, you pup
Or I’ll give you such a blister!’

Such flashy speech between these glitzy, slack-mouthed sisters
Would curdle milk and scald the mood of the gentlest of baristas.


Ewe Beauty!

Hey ewe! Standin’ there
Givin’ me the once over
What’s yer flamin’ game?

Ewe woolly-back, paradin’
Long legs an’ fluffy jumper
Starin’ at me now ‘n’ forever.

D’you want a chase, like?
Through the trees to the gorge
An’ back ‘ere as fast as light.

Ewe are one smart woolly tart
An’ no mistakin’ that, gal
Yer’d make many mincey pies.

I’d race yer to a standstill
If me collar weren’t attached
To me lead me Master’s got.

Or if ‘e’d got another collar
Would yer come home with us
An’ be me pal forevermore?

Mike's tree 2


Motorway Loaves Onward Speeding

Hurtling north on the packed M6
Not chosen as the best of picks
Hurtling onwards at forty or fifty
No space at all to be extra nifty.

Northern loaves south speeding ever
Always onwards, it’s all so clever
Others northbound or east or west
Do they speed to where it’s best?

Slab sided lorries like dinosaurs
Appear to sprint to savage wars
Snarling grills and flashing tails
Pressing north or west to Wales.

Bread lorry sides adorned with signs
Promote their goods with fine designs
With special loaves quite gluten free
That taste like ceiling tiles to me.

Then there’s glorious ‘artisan’
Part of some cunning master plan
To part us from our common bread
Choosing pretentious hype instead.

First French baguette and now Italian
To delight the ever discerning man
Up north, down south or east or west
The lorries rush to consume each test.

Can such fierce and unrelenting action
Do more than feed sad dissatisfaction?


The Wedding Hat

Ever so high on the dusty wardrobe top
Entirely motionless for ever so long
Sat a furious hat in a silent strop
But to whom did this splendid hat belong?

You couldn’t tell what the hat resembled
So wrapped in tissue with its muslin furled
But it missed the wedding then assembled
And lay unused in its own private world.

Now suddenly life changed for the snoozing hat
Down from a height, unwrapped on the table
She heard a voice cry, “Just look at that!”
As hat and wrappings made the table unstable.

Her silky grey tower showed no sign of ageing
No sign of fade and with lace exquisitely plain
Just a lack of occasion worthy of staging
Is this the hour she’ll be resplendent again?

With late hopes of glory improved by a daughter
Whose cool eye sensed an alternative morrow
At Barnardo’s, where the daughter brought her
Beckoned hen nights aplenty to buy or to borrow.

Amazingly so, our hat enjoyed her new hobby
Taking to hen nights with consummate ease
A drenching by Prosecco and arrest by a Bobby
Couldn’t alarm her, she’d become a real tease.


The Wedding’s Off !

Give back the rock
Send back the frock
The wedding’s off
The wedding’s off!

Urgent action take
To freeze the cake
The wedding’s off
The wedding’s off!

Cancel the flowers
And hats like towers
This wedding’s off
This wedding’s off!

Forget those classy photo-shoots
Email those who are in cahoots
There’s now no need
No need for greed.

No need for fancy, sleek limousines
Or many vulgar unpleasant scenes
All’s cancelled now
There’ll be no vow.

The Vicar’s booking terminated
And all that we have instigated
The church and all the rest is off
And afterwards what’s posh is off.

My God, the fab reception must be scrapped
The vol-au-vents and veggie burgers bapped
Such extensive and expensive waste
Of all the finest dining taste.

The role of mother-in-law suspended
And all that artificial joy pretended
All over now though she’s in shock
All over now for her snazzy frock.

Return all bookings for the honeymoon
There’s none to celebrate or swoon
But hold on fast! A twist exploding!
A thunderbolt that needs decoding.

Good Lord! Reverse all recent actions
The wedding’s on, what contradictions
Get set for massive retro-action
Fast forward fragrant satisfaction!

The rock, the frock and all the rest
The flowers, the Vicar full of jest
Shall save the day and let us pray
Just as before, let others pay.

The mother-in-law and all her rivals
Can weep and pray for marriage survivals
And make more hay in the shining sun
Who’s the culprit with the smoking gun?

Who’s to blame for this freak disaster?
The best man’s as pale as alabaster
It must’ve, could’ve, will’ve been him!
What madness struck? And on a whim?

Or may it have been the groom or bride?
Perhaps there’s something they’d wish to hide?
For all our sakes give them a break
For pity’s sake, for heaven’s sake!

However, now this electric story’s ending
And all our comic disbelief suspending
Love conquers all and all may yet be well
Love conquers, while we are within her spell.

These shocks resolved, there yet remains the thought
That we, as humans, are forever caught
Within the turmoil of some celestial game
Wherein our fates are tossed for others’ fame!


Teddy’s Fortune At Last

I’m just a plain old teddy bear
Long in age but short of hair
Who has been launched far into space
By a furious friend who thought it ‘ace’
To hurl me at another child
Who ducked and launched me back and smiled
Then shot me through the open door
And so I skidded on the wooden floor
Then kicked away by angry Dad
By now I’m feeling desperate sad
Fiercely captured by the family dog
I thank the God of Steiffs I’m not a log.

But loved and licked and guarded true
My terrier friend treasures me anew.


Nightmare Nursey

Do you ever get that uneasy sense of dislocation?
And feel the world just wishes to impinge
On idle fascination with your chronic inflammation
As nurse advances with the ultra big syringe.

Such jumbled thoughts quick tumble in rotation
As Nursey’s jab is more than just a twinge
She shows a grinning pleasure at my agitation
Her reloading of the jabber makes me cringe.

She comes again to jolt my dry mouthed palpitation
And cannot understand what makes me whinge
She grimly says she has to save me for the nation
That I may just recover when next I’m on the binge.

O keep me from the close designs of nightmare Nursey
And latch me on to one who shows true quality of mercy.


Note: To all nurses and to all those who admire nurses, including me, – I’m only joking!


Castles In The Air

Beware, beware
Those flying castles
Lying in wait
Somewhere beyond
The garden gate.

In their defiance
Of Einstein
Like the rest of us
Is gravitationally
A prisoner.

But they
Freed from a tiresome whim
Of a fanciful god
Just beyond.

They might plague us
Hoping to entice us
To hop aboard
Sallying forth
Across the Forth
To circumnavigate
Wild galaxies.

Depositing us
In their own time
That might not be our time
In an unglamorous heap
Trapped once more
With Einstein
And his descendants
In an E=MC2 morass.

Castles in the air
Might or might not
Be a good thing
For me.

Reaching Fifty? Bitter Sweet

Reaching fifty? Oh, what a bore!

Stunners glancing at the floor

Seeing me wrinkly and so mature

Devalued by my roaring snore

No longer flashing up a score

A frumpy grump and what’s more

Returning laden from the corner store

Unpacking Domestos, not Allure

Finding joy in a household chore

The mirror reflects a mother-in-law

Rush for the bedroom make-up drawer

Hot tears well up as they have before.

Now stop it, stop it, just don’t get bitter

Foundation first, but where’s the glitter?


Who Might This Be?

Sad the vain man who never ran
Smoothing his mind with an oil can

Whose ideas never could be budged
Never made slippy and never fudged

Never sweet thinking in our cleaner air
But somehow trapped under the stair

Never alive to each morning’s story
Trapped in a vortex whirling in fury

Finding grave fault so passionately
My God! In the mirror, can that be me?

The Untruthful Chorus Master

Sang the chorus master to his choir
‘I don’t quite know where I’ve been to
I’ve written this song that might aspire
To a masterpiece born in the lean-to’.

The choir responded with something tonal
That their chorus master was a just a fraud
For the composer was surely Señor Gronal
Coming not from a lean-to but from abroad.

‘Get out of our sight!’, trilled all the sopranos
In harmonic support thundered baritones too
The tenors as one threw over-ripe tomatoes
The Master fled for his life as he hid in the loo.

Melancholic the tale of this Master of Chorus
Whose untruthful claim I’ve set out before us.

Did Your Hair Wash Nicely This Morning?

Did your hair wash nicely this morning?
Or was that peroxide melting the bowl?
Were your curlers not shouting a warning?
That where once there was hair, there’s a hole!



Barbara of Mill Hill

Barbara, Barbara,

Swooning near the candelabra

Always suspected she was only

One or two misunderstandings

Away from being accepted

As an Opera

In her own right.


The Barber

Of Seville



At the end of a trill

To enlighten her.


Oh, where to look?


Perhaps the attic

Pursuing this most

Operatically dramatic

Of puzzles.



Dat Macbeth’s One of Us, La!

When Macca came ter Liverpewl

‘E turned around an’ said

Dem judies at de Grafton

Wud look dead good in bed.

Wid all dat fancy talkin’

Wid all dat fancy slang

‘E got a mind ter sling dat kilt

An’ join dat Scouser gang.

An’ so Macbeth, ter break away

Came ‘ere ter feel more free

Came down ter start a takeaway

An’ make a mint in Wavertree.


From den till now ‘e wasn’ foreign

An’ dat’s because ‘e ‘id ‘is sporran.

Grafton Judies Hail Macbeth

Grafton judies clocked our Macca’s charms

An’ hasty-like slammed in fresh bubble-gum

Many judies shimmied in ‘is red an’ ‘airy arms

An’ fantasised about ‘is crackin’ kilted bum.


But Macca couldn’ grasp de Grafton lingo

Our chewin’, darlin’ judies quickly uttered

Mobbed by grisly grannies ‘ere for bingo

Many a falsie bosom ‘eaved and fluttered.


Our sweatin’ grannies licked der cherry lips

An’ gasped dey’d never seen a better feller

Clockin’ ‘airy chest an’ ‘airy arms an’ ‘airy ‘ips

As Macca fled, three judies snarled ‘Yer yeller’.


Our Macca couldn’ hack it back on gruesome Dunsinane

Or in de Grafton, Speke, Sefy Park or even Penny Lane.



(The second, and concluding, sonnet concerning Macbeth,

who journeyed south to become our Macca.  He became

a proud Liverpool Scot.)

Amalda, Booze and Party-time Collide

Unfortunate Amalda Potts

Dosed up on beer and cider

Unpleasantly she got the trots

Only drunks would sit beside her.


She vowed a vow to end all vows

She vowed a vow to heaven

She vowed she’d drink what came from cows

At least till half-past seven.


But Amalda Potts, a tad unstable

Demonstrates her party trick

Dumping mates beneath the table

Hailed the hottest party chick.


So youthful pleasures, booze and party joy

Are swell or Hell for flirty girl and giddy boy.




( A cautionary sonnet warning of incendiary powers

at work when flirty girls, giddy boys, booze, and

party-time collide. )

Miss Amanda Milinthrop the First

Miss Amanda Milinthrop the First

Developed a substantial thirst

Resulting in her looking bleary

Hoping mates still find her cheery.


She loves the thrill of gin and tonic

Although affected something chronic

Dancing on or slumped under table

To cope with booze she wasn’t able.


Miss Amanda Milinthrop the very First

Screwballed when she’d slaked her thirst

Swigged from Three to well past Eleven

And woke up dead just outside Heaven.


The moral of this tale will maybe shock

A crazy mind won’t let you safely rock.


Sweating Leopard Awaits the Physio’s Jab

Leopard 3

The patterned leopard, sweaty at the Clinic
Waits with lolling tongue as dry as chalk
Spotted fur drenched as he tries to mimic
The bravest cat who ever walked the walk.

Twitchy whiskers betray one lumpy, jumpy cat
As crawling minutes tick and deadly seconds tock
Awaits a call to pad towards the Physio’s mat
To take that fearful jab and not to show the shock.

Greeny-yellow eyes quite slowly narrowing with fear
The leopard’s sleeky ears now flattened to his head
As footsteps come and beckon him to slink in here
Where preparations are in hand to give the jab of dread.

But then, a blessed shock engulfs the quaking, trembly beast
Fine Physio has neatly changed his mind and smiles farewell
No jab required and, joy of joys, the leopard’s quick released
No need now to crawl or quiver but gladly rescued by the bell.

What is the lesson for our ruffled, furry friend let off the hook?
That in his paws there lies the chance to live life by the book.


[My recent experience at a local Clinic.  Expecting a gruesome
Cortisone jab for days previously, the time arrived and all the usual
pretence at nonchalance built to a nervous crescendo. The
subsequent escape to freedom without the jab brought heady joy!]


Poorly Leopard

Lying weakly draped on our grand settee
Where the hell is that leopard taking me?
That leopard who with the sharpest claws
Held high the World in his spotted paws.

Growling, croaking, so overcome by germs
Groaning at nurse to bring this ‘flu’ to terms
Battling to hold leopard’s sickly paws aloft
Insisting this feline has not yet gone soft.

But still a prowling, graceful, bristly beast
Who’s dynamite when not feeling creased
Sharp, fiery whiskers and rough, licking tongue
Dappled cat’s flattened ears so sickly overhung.

Memories of health pass leopard’s misty eye
As he pads to the fridge for the naughtiest pie.

[A common experience for many of us who, in the jaws of ‘flu’, can only hope for a comfortable return to health……….and quickly, please!]