Tennis: the reigning champion is a non-entity, robot-trained
And fed on a diet of numbers,
15-love, 30-love, 40-love, Game!
With baseline serves fired from precision arms
And a slack-jawed face blanked by too many years of counting money -
Ah, the passion!
The crowd turns
To watch a sparrow landing
Or a cloud spill some rain.

Golf: hypnotised by the telly we have to watch dragging bores
Claw their way round,
Only the brightness of their jerseys
Preventing us from dropping off the precipice of our excitement.

Baseball: 3 a.m, the world asleep,
Commentators chew on names,
Inject excitement into fat men with fat bums,
Home runs,
Girly Rounders,
No one seems to care it’s dumb.

Rugby: the buggers run in the rain
In Wigan
In mud -
If you ask me it’s a bit of a dud.

Ice-hockey: frenetic pace,
Pucks hurtle invisibly around icy arenas,
Padded shoulders thump each other,
‘If only these sticks were guns!’ you can hear them think,
‘We’d finish you losers off completely!’

American football: indistinguishable from their military tactics,
Philistines advance in massed ranks,
Brute force against brute force -
Size is everything.
It’s a battlefield out there,
But foreign spectators just don’t care.

Athletics: lean women who can’t menstruate
Jostle with sprinters in lycra-clad pornography
As high-jumpers whose legs finish a mile away
Crowd out rowers with blank, square-jawed faces,
Skiers who can’t forgive Eddie,
Swimmers with elongated bodies
And squat dwarves pumping weights.

Boxing: two shits you wouldn’t want to meet in a bar
Obey rules -
And that’s the achievement.

Basketball: tall men, long arms,
Jumping high,
No charm.

Cricket: and the sound of willow hitting someone’s balls,
A Bouncer to take off his head,
Arguments with the umpire resulting in knives drawn
And a riot in the beer-bellied crowd.

Football: the national game,
Ruled by turkeys, played by drones,
Watched by cardboard boxes -
Force-fed on money, its gut’s exploded,
Sex-starved shenanigans by the ruling elite fill empty pages …
Ah! But wait -
Women’s football shows flair and imagination,
Not yet ruled by the corrupt or watched by Tracy’s boyfriend,
It leaps off the screen
With a scream that yells, ‘You better bloody well watch me!’

Wrestling: two Queens ham it up for the cameras,
Massaging each other’s shoulders afterwards.

It’s a melange of images,
Faintly disturbing -
I switch off the T.V.

I’m sure you can explain
This colour by your diet:
But is it also on your tin
When your owner goes to buy it ?

Why are your turds so squishy
When I bring them home inside:
What is it in your dishy -
And was it well before it died ?

All these little calling cards,
Scattered on the ground -
Has no one ever told you
Not to leave them lying around ?

If only your poor owner
Had the brain power of a flea,
They wouldn’t leave these messes
Lying here for me.

See ?
I’ve been there,
Done things,
Cursed curses,
Kicked ass,
Fired guns
And blown up buildings.

When I sulk
I travel the world,
Shoot strangers,
Create mountains,
Fly to the sun,
Ride on planets,
Drift on the seas,
Wash the face of the moon.

When I sulk
I pick up loose women,
Drive fast cars,
Hurt cats,
Make Nobel discoveries,
And win prizes.

Yes – when I sulk
I really, REALLY sulk,
Sulk ’till all traces of my sulk have gone,
Sulk ’till the earth is filled deep with gloom
And trees wished they could all die,
Sulk in an all-out battle of Will between all worlds!

Then, feeling better, I meander back in,
Casual-like,
Insouciant, as if nothing’s happened,
(Or ever could)
Keeping all my dirty little secrets
In one small smile
I hide behind my face.

When I sulk I really, really REALLY sulk.

Oct. 2001

But now the Anti-Plane-Tree-Commandos have arrived!
Heroes of this desperate hour,
Chainsaws buzzing,
Oblivious to danger,
They stalk the terrorist trees!

Hurrah! To the Anti-Plane-Tree-Commandos!
Hurrah! To the breweries!
Hurray! To high speed!
Death to the Plane Trees!

Following the frequent deaths of motorists too drunk or speed-crazed to negotiate bends in French roads a group called the ‘The Anti-Plane-Tree-Commandos’ decided to take the law into its own hands. You really couldn’t make it up

 

From The Independent

 

Friday, 10 August 2001
By dead of night this week, a group calling itself the Anti-Plane Tree Commando sawed down 66 trees on a minor road in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The same group, believed to consist of local motorcyclists armed with power saws, destroyed 96 plane trees on another stretch of the same road, just north of Tarbes, in June.

 

According to one survey, nearly one in 10 of the 8,000 road deaths in France each year involves collisions with trees.

 

In a letter sent to a local radio station this week, the Anti-Plane Tree Commando said it had been forced to put pressure on the government, because “things have not advanced since June”. The same letter called on people all over France to take chainsaws into their own hands.

 

Arguments over the compatibility of such trees with motor vehicles are not new. President Georges Pompidou – traditionally seen as a friend of the car – wrote to his Prime Minister, Jacques Chaban-Delmas, in 1970, opposing the suppression of roadside trees. “France does not exist solely for people to drive around in cars,” he wrote. “The requirements of road safety should not disfigure the French countryside.”

 

And the poet, Raymond Queneau, wrote at about the same time: “Plane trees no longer grow beside the road. They have emigrated to calmer places. They have had enough of cars hitting them in their trunks at full speed. They have had enough of hearing all the ladies and gentlemen accuse them of being responsible for all life’s dramas.”

Oh Queenie, how we miss your smile,
As those horses walk their mile,
Whilst the troops look grimly sad
In their regal attire clad.

Ah, Queenie, don’t know if you know,
I never watched all of the show,
But turned it off in grim dismay -
T.V. was rearranged that day.

Queenie, I believe you were
Married to a Royal ‘Sir’
And walked around within the Blitz,
Loving Englanders to bitz.

I understand you had some wealth
Which probably kept you in good health,
And that you died within your sleep -
Enough to make a grown man weep!

Oh! Queenie person, I’m not sad,
I hope that wouldn’t make you mad -
An easy life, and that’s for sure,
Broken by a sedate war.

Oh Queenie love, no disrespect,
The T.V schedules are a wreck,
And crocodile tears are widely flowing,
Maudlin, false, as queues keep growing.

The British now are at their best,
As your body’s laid to rest,
Queuing up to see for free
What Britain loves – ceremony.

Oh Queenie, Queenie, why we mourn
Is for a past that has long gorn,
A simpler time, without the need
For increasingly high speed.

Queenie dear, oh Queen my love,
You’re in that palace up above,
But here on earth we muddle by,
Aware that we too will one day die.

And so we grieve for what has passed,
And realise that WE won’t last,
And though we knew you distantly
Your death’s really no catastrophe.

Farewell then, and farewell dreams
Of life in gentle slo-mo scenes -
Then welcome back reality,
In all its painful nitty-gritty.

2002

Women drag knives down each others’ backs,
Stick in the small-minded safety of the group,
Raucously protect their stupidity with vicious rage -

I know what women are.

Women are two-timing, hard-faced liars thinking only of themselves,
Manipulative snakes in the grass,
Daubed fools knowing it all in a nightmare of errors.

I know what women are.

Women collect shoes, marry crooks for money, incite their men,
Use their mind-skills to evade personal responsibility,
Are jealous, mean-spirited, calculating and cold.

I know what women are.

No no no!

Women are not like that!

Women are full of love,
Dream for their children,
Race boats,
Cross rivers,
Climb mountains
And perform complex surgery on brain-dead men.

Women sing with soft voices,
Scream with laughter in the bar,
Dance round midnight fires on sandy beaches
And crawl home exhausted in the early hours.

I know what women are.

Women fart loudly, belch proudly,
Pick their noses, eat scabs,
And look immaculate to the boss.
They pray for peace,
Braid hair,
Cuddle toddlers,
Eat too much chocolate
And throw computers out of windows.

I know what women are!

Women are brilliant!

2009

I’ve ballooned nude across the Andes,
And hopped to the cold North Pole:
I’ve strapped myself in a rocket ship
To achieve an impossible goal.

I’ve spent a fortune on the backup
(And more on the T.V show);
All I want is to look a bit brave,
With applause wherever I go.

I’m an attention-seeker,
Though I only go where it’s safe -
I’ve thrown all my money at science,
In technology I place my faith.

I’m a rich adventurer,
I’m fed up with it all:
I’ve thrown in my lot with the real heroes
But instead I just look a fool.

July 00

Of course he’s mounted now,
Head stuck on a piece of wood,
And a photo of the place he was found,
And there they stand – on him – on the ground.

A splendid chase, and fun was had by all!
The dogs barked as they picked up his scent,
Tracking him along some wall -
A glorious evening, well spent!

And now we stand, drinks in hand,
Admiring the bold forehead, the proud snout,
Imagining his bellow of rage, the last shout
As he dropped heavily in his last stand.

Ah! Fond memories, our host tells us, wiping away a tear:
You should have seen their surprise
When we popped up from behind his armchair -
Him and his old dear !

Men drink and are routinely unfaithful,
Can’t see beyond the ends of their dicks,
Have faces like hams and wrinkled cardboard
Or are bold, sweaty and frightening -

I know what men are.

Men drive fast cars,
Like motorbikes,
Will kill for the sake of twopence,
Shoot off their mouths,
Fart, bellyache and grumble.

I know what men are.

Men are insane,
Out of control,
Vicious,
Or ‘poofy’, ‘pansies’,
Vain and vainglorious.

No no no!

I know what men are!

Real men are the ones that don’t buy the magazines that say these things,
Don’t go down to the pub for a mindless drink,
Can even (apparently) occasionally think!

I know what men are.

Men cuddle babies and can stand up for themselves in fights
With their wives (and sometimes win).

Men are prepared to challenge:
Preconceptions
Misconceptions
Adulterated thinking,

Men
Will go the extra mile
(Not always on a motorbike, but it helps),

Men
Like to be cuddled, caressed and have loving, faithful sex,

Men like emotions,
The crisp leaves of autumn.
Cats.
Machines.
The sky.
Stars.
Buildings.
Women.
Love.
Fishing.
Being,
Staying at home.

Men are not monsters.

I know what men are.

Men like to be involved.

They like passion and commitment.

They like fun and horsing around
(Though not necessarily horses),
Men like little children (not always to eat),
They know how to change nappies,
Tell a story
And create dreams.

Men are brilliant!

I know what men are.

Oct. 2001

A humorous poem about men. We’re not THAT bad
And here’s a companion poem about women