Month: May 2014

Fasterchef Lionel

In the Fasterchef final
Livewire Lionel
Showed none was faster
At cooking pasta
(It was very al dente
As he didn’t cook lente).
He’d steam rice
In a thrice,
Brussels were hustled
Whilst he bustled with mussels.
Lionel was the man
Who put the brisk
Back into brisket
(He really took the biscuit).
He became a celebrity
For the celerity
With which he’d make
His famed Casserole of Celery
And Salad of Chickpea
(ie prepared very quickly).

In every mouthful
You could taste
The haste.
That’s why he was

Clive of Suburbia

Clive’s a brass-knocker examiner,
A doughty door-hammerer,
Selling Wikipedia Britannica
With suburban street stamina.

He goes from door to door.
His feet feel sore and raw.
He’s just turned forty-four,
More or less (for less is more).

He’s a doorstep smash-and-grabber
A gilt-edged gift of the gabber,
He got the moves, he got the glamour,
He got more jabber than MC hammer.

To Clive there can be nothing easier
Than selling self-authored pseudo-academia,
Fifty leather-bound laptops of Wikipedia,
With a month’s free access to Virgin Media.

The Ideation of Beauty

Come with me, Cleopatra of the cloistered night,
And together let us onboard dynamic collaborative tools
Whilst contemplating the eternal.

The footsteps of such excellent falsehoods fade
As we leverage the underlying global paradigms of emergent verticals
And mere echoes of the immortal remain.

We measure out our lives in cappuccino cups,
Evolving scalable synergies to deploy a roadmap of swim lanes,
A paean to pain and such terrible beauty.

Truth’s tragedy tattoos itself upon the face,
And the establishment of an automated lead qualification process
Forces an urgent insouciance of a life unlived.

The air turns to a sudden unseasonal winter-stillness,
Robust go-to-market strategies for content-enabled services are sought,
And the robin wakes, sings, and sleeps once more.

King Kenny

Top pocket, middle or bottom,

Kenny wouldn’t fail to pot ’em,

He was the King of Deep Screw

And the Firm Follow-Through,

The fabled Clark Gable of the Table

(Tho’ not as good as Auntie Mabel,

Three-time champ from Kettering,

Whose safety play took some bettering).

Kenny could have been a contender

But he could never quite remember

The order in which the colours got potted

Even when they had all been spotted.

Yellow green brown




Was the thing that held young Kenny back


that day

he balked at

baulk, smashed up

his cue and ate his chalk.

Jeremy Clarkson Poem Number Eleven

Eeny, Morris Minor, Moe
Catch a Clarkson by his toe
If he hollers, don’t let go,
Eeny, Morris Minor, Moe.

Jeremy always seemed
Like such a nice bloke,
The way he’d drive,
The way he spoke
(About feckless Mexicans
And sloping Asians,
Jeremy had a quip
For all occasions!).

Who would have thought
There could be any basis
On which to label
Him a racist?

Unhappy Birthdeity

Despite what some think
It must be a little deficient
To be God of the Universe,
Omnipresent and omniscient.

I mean, for a start,
You would always know
When some of your mates
Had decided to throw
A surprise party
To mark the occasion
Of the 13.8 billionth birthday
Of your creation.

It wouldn’t be hard
To make that deduction
Given the big increase
In candle production.

And you’d always know,
No matter the packing,
What the gift was
That you were unwrapping.