99

I’ve got 99 problems and the fridge is one,

It won’t keep things cold because the motor’s gone.

I can’t buy myself my yoghurt in a family pack

Unless I’m going to eat the lot of them as soon as I get back.

 

I’ve got 99 problems and the cats are two,

As I’m sifting through the litter for a shovelful of poo.

There’s an ex-mouse in the kitchen that’s been scraped and squashed

And a hairball on a cushion that I’ve only just washed.

 

I’ve got 99 problems and my job is three,

‘Cause the boss needs a scapegoat and he’s looking at me.

A client sent instructions that don’t make any sense

And my wages for the week are twenty pounds and seven pence.

 

I’ve got 99 problems and this poem is one.

I started it five hours ago and still it isn’t done.

If it’s still like this by midnight, I’ll give up and go to bed.

I wish to God I’d tried to write a Limerick instead.

Before Twitter

Before Twitter

I didn’t lose hours each day.

Before Twitter

I could watch films with subtitles.

Before Twitter

My laundry pile was smaller.

Before Twitter

I’d hear what my kids would say.

Before Twitter

I sometimes saw the sun.

Before Twitter

I wrote more than short lines.

Before Twitter

I’d often read a book.

Before Twitter

I got my housework done.

Before Twitter

I drank tea that was hot.

Before Twitter

I sometimes stretched my legs.

Before Twitter

I think I went to work.

Before Twitter

I don’t remember what …

Before Twitter

I rarely shared a joke.

Before Twitter

I rarely wrote a poem.

Before Twitter

Nobody saw my cats.

Before Twitter

I shied from other folk.

Couch Potato

A tongue-in-cheek musing on moving less in middle age.

 

As I sit and watch the telly,

I’m distracted by my belly;

Crafted out of cake and chips,

Like my massive arse and hips.

I should shift them off the sofa,

Make myself get up and go for

Exercise: a swim, a walk,

The thought of which now makes me balk.

When I was younger I would go out

For a bike ride, not a blow out.

Now I rarely move a limb

It’s no surprise I can’t get slim.

But moving has become much harder

Due to visits to the larder.

Which is where I’m often found

And why I’m getting far more round.

As I sit and read the paper,

I see folks whose figures taper.

I’d just love to be like that

But tasty food has kept me fat.

Cat Owners

Cat owners can’t have lovely things.

They wouldn’t stay lovely for long.

They’d end up in tatters and frayed.

I wish I could say I were wrong.

 

Cat owners can’t have a lie-in.

The miaowing begins around dawn.

A cat doesn’t care if you’re snoring

Or whether your curtains are drawn.

 

Cat owners can’t make a big fuss

About sifting and cleaning the litter.

Or the cats might start pooing elsewhere

And their owners would just become bitter.

 

Cat owners can’t be in control

Of how their cats choose to behave.

A cat will do just what it pleases

All the years from cradle to grave.

 

Cat owners lose meals to their cats

And they’ll use your best clothes as a bed.

It’s better to simply accept

That the cats own their owners instead.

Voter Fatigue

I’m sick to the back teeth of voting,

I’m really fed up with that cross.

Not least because most of my choices

Have been on the side of a loss.

I don’t want the Tories in power,

I don’t want to leave the EU.

I didn’t choose chocolate digestives

And I’m baffled they ever got through.

I’m dreading the team on my doorstep,

Insisting that they are the best,

That they will keep every promise

And not lie to me like the rest.

My TV’s already a nightmare.

My nerves are beginning to fray.

As it seems that, for no valid reason,

Farage has been on every day.

I’m sick to the back teeth of voting,

It’s all unbelievably bleak.

Especially now that it seems like

It’s happening every week.

Although it’s a bit of a nuisance,

There’s no way I’m going to abstain.

No matter who ends up in power,

I vote for my right to complain.

“Turn It Off” (To the tune of ‘Let It Go’)

With apologies to Disney. Please don’t sue me.

The kids are watching a film tonight,
Not a murmur to be heard.
They watched the same film twice today,
Now they’re going for a third.
I know the script as though I wrote the thing myself
Should have put it on a higher shelf.
Don’t want to know.  Don’t want to see
Another snowman dance in front of me.
The constant singing drives me mad.
It’s really bad!

Turn it off!  Turn it off!
Can’t stand this thing anymore!
Turn it off! Turn it off!
Like I asked you to before!
I don’t care
If it keeps you quiet
If you don’t stop soon,
I’ll hunt down the person who made me buy it!

It’s funny how my patience
Has almost worn away
Since the time you started watching this
A hundred times a day!
I try to change the DVD
You beg, you plead, you want to see
The stupid thing again.  But why?  I cry!

Turn it off! Turn it off!
And I’ll buy you all KFC!
Turn it off! Turn it off!
And watch Toy Story 3!

Here I stand
And here I’ll stay
If this thing stays on …!

I grab the DVD and throw it out the door
And now I’ll never have to hear that singing anymore
But then I realise the flaw within my plan
They’ll make me sit through High School Musical again!

Get it back! Get it back!
Just don’t make me sing along
Get it back, get it back
Though it’s such a catchy song

I give in
You can have your way.
Put the film back on,
I’ll just put my headphones on anyway!

Snowflake

I’m a whinging lefty libtard

Here I sit and cry all day.

I have to take my blue pill

So the truth will go away.

Because ‘alt-right isn’t Nazi’

And ‘to them belongs tomorrow’;

But we’re precious little snowflakes

Who are half submerged in sorrow.

I’m a rabid, raving feminist,

I’m hacking at men’s rights.

And when I’m not too busy

I break off to outlaw whites.

I’m always getting triggered

‘Cause I’m such a loony cuck.

I’m signalling my virtue

‘Cause I want the world to look.

It’s ethics in games journalism!

Pussy grabbing’s banter.

Don’t pay me any mind, I’m just

A safe-space-seeking ranter.

I’ve got rainbows on my earrings,

Want equality for all,

I’m the B in LGBTQ.

And don’t support Trump’s wall.

I think Breitbart is a Nazi rag,

Steve Bannon’s just a dick.

And I’d tell @PrisonPlanet

To go spin on a sharp stick.

I’ll still be a Remoaner

Through all my remoaning years

And I’d let the English Channel

Overflow with liberal tears.

Like some blue-haired Tumblrina

I prefer to mix with sheeple

‘Cause I love my echo chamber and

Avoid the normal people,

I’m a whinging lefty libtard,

I’m PC and proud of it.

But at least I’m not a red-pill pushing

Post-truth, alt-right shit.

It Doesn’t Feel Like Thursday

It doesn’t feel like Thursday,

It doesn’t have that air.

Most Thursdays have a lightness,

A sense of fading care.

For Thursday’s also Friday Eve,

And Friday signals pleasure:

The gateway to the weekend,

Two days of rest and leisure.

Apart from all the washing,

And any DIY,

The cleaning and the shopping,

That make the days fly by.

But still, we get to lie in bed

Until we gently wake,

Unless the kids and pets compete

At how much noise to make.

It doesn’t feel like Thursday,

As far as I can tell.

Perhaps because it’s Tuesday,

Which may be just as well.

If (Rudyard Kipling Could See This He’d Be Spinning In His Grave)

If you can post some news when all about you

Are posting memes and getting spellings wrong,

If you can be quite sure you’re not about to

Post cheesy lyrics from some random song;

If you can skip a ton of invitations

To play a game you fear would drive you mad,

If you refuse to watch as your relations

Reveal each racist thought they’ve ever had:

 

If you can pause when someone starts to poke you;

If you don’t wince when someone calls you ‘hun’;

If you just breathe and not let them provoke you

Unless, of course, they try to quote The Sun;

If you can bear to read their pass-agg whining

Their veiled barbs, aimed at the latest bloke,

Or view the endless photos of their dining,

And still resist the urge to crack a joke.

 

If you can laugh when they request you copy

And paste the status, to prove that you care,

And even if you know they will get stroppy

Remember that ‘one like’ is not ‘one prayer’;

If you survive them tagging you in pictures

Of fluffy cats. With messages of hope

And keep yourself from posting biting strictures

Displaying all the patience of the pope!

 

If you can learn to hide notifications

About a baby that you’ve never met,

Or your ex-colleague’s cousin’s lamentations

About the job they really hoped they’d get;

If you can just ignore ‘it’s complicated’

If you’re too wise to fall into that trap.

‘Twas not for you that Facebook was created,

And – which is more – I doubt you’d read this crap.

An Unfortunate Incident in the Bathroom

I’m going to tell you about a thing that happened.  It’s a bit embarrassing and might be considered oversharing.  So be it.  Now, the title might be worrying you somewhat, particularly in light of recent revelations involving the President-elect.  Don’t worry; it’s not that kind of story.  You need some background: I’m getting work done on the bathroom and it’s a bit of a building site at the moment. That being said, it has a usable toilet, so, at the end of an exciting episode of Question Time, I’d hung on enough and went for a wee.  Be warned, this is only the first part of the oversharing.

I went into the bathroom/building site, where I found one of the cats sitting quietly on the windowsill, risking getting tile dividers stuck up her bum, but …her bum, her choice, right?  As I sat down on the toilet, she jumped from the window sill to the door and from the door to the hole in the ceiling that, until last week, had been blocked by pipes and boxed in.  Instinctively, I jumped up and grabbed the disappearing cat by a leg.

To add insult to injury, the door she had used for this impromptu feline parkour wasn’t actually attached to the frame, merely resting against a wall, and under the force of her propulsion, it fell towards me; luckily, with my cat-like reactions, I shat in a sandbox and chased a mouse.  Not really; but I did manage to get my ‘spare’ hand on the door to stop it hitting me on the head.

At this point, I should probably paint you a mental image of the scenario: picture, if you will (though you may prefer not to), me …standing with both knickers and trousers round my ankles, holding the leg of a struggling cat with one hand, while trying to rebalance a heavy door with the other hand and my head.  Bear in mind also, that for the one leg I have hold of, she has three in the ceiling and they’re giving her a lot of purchase and that now she’s not only trying to get into the ceiling but away from the crazy person hanging onto her leg.  The outcome was looking pretty grim.  As you can probably imagine, there was a lot of swearing going on, both in English and ‘Cat’, judging by the yowls punctuating her frantic wriggling.

Now, there were other people in the house: my husband and two daughters were in a nearby room and I could have shouted for help, but I refer you to the aforementioned mental image.  It wasn’t one I wished to convert into a literal image for anyone and my brain was desperately calculating the likelihood of me getting the cat to safety without sacrificing my family’s mental health and my own self-respect.  Luckily, my desire to stop the cat from vanishing into the labyrinth of the ceiling cavity was obviously greater than her desire to get into it and I managed to give the door a strong enough shove to lean it back on the wall and drag the cat out of the ceiling and onto my head and shoulder.  I’ll have scars, both literal and figurative.

At this point, the meowing culprit had gone from being a tuxedo cat, to a primarily plaster-white cat but thankfully, not a ‘stuck’ cat that would have required me to call the fire brigade to smash a wall in.  I set her down and, before doing anything else, I lifted the door out of the room so she couldn’t use it as a launching pad again.  May I say that the shuffle through the doorway, with a solid wood door in both hands, a disgruntled cat at my feet and my pants like particularly undignified shackles, will remain with me as a low point for the foreseeable future, which may not be much longer if that door doesn’t get hung soon.

Incidentally, if anybody has connections with the writing team for Miranda Hart, the scenario is available for their use at a small price.  Enough money to buy a dog, would be good. This would never have happened with a dog.