Christmas Bah Humbug! A poem.

The season of Goodwill must be on us,
For piles of pavement pizza abound,
As drunken office clerks
Lurch dazedly around.
They have been unleashed, released,
From the devilish-dark denizens
Of Messrs Pulpitt and Pugh plc. or A N Other.

So off they stagger;
heading homeward bound,
Depositing their bloated loads
on cold, hard ground
The puke always contains carrots,
though none could be found
On a sparsely spread buffet
Bought that day by Rita from accounts,
From M&S via an office whip round,
Of course the boss dug deeply,
And proudly produced a solitary pound.

Then off they go by tube, bus or train
To suburbia and their home ground;
There to be verbally beaten
by a punctilious partner
With that immortal phrase:
"You're drunk! Have you eaten?"

Comments

The Protein Man of Oxford Street- Stanley Owen Green.

I wrote this Obituary piece for The Guardian about Stanley Green while I was an undergraduate at Goldsmiths' College. I contacted The Guardian and asked them if I could submit it for publication. It was sent off to them and I waited in eager anticipation for their reply. It was published on Wednesday January 26th 1994, the Editor made no changes or additions except by adding some photographs (the photographs used here are later additions by me): "A Consuming Passion.... Stanley Owen Green who has died aged aged 78, was that tall thin man with steel-rimmed glasses who marched it seemed for an eternity up and down London's Oxford Street. It was his banner that made him famous, held high above his head and proclaiming "LESS LUST FROM PROTEIN" in large white letters. Underneath the banner he endured the taunts of sticky schoolchildren and the spittle of office workers alike, to bring his unique, indeed puzzling message to the people of London. He later wate...

Childhood

I don't remember any of the good times, They were few and far between, Only the bad times, The three week sulks, The temper tantrums, The silence of meal times, The brooding menace of each waking day, The not knowing how each innocent word, Would fall on those temper attuned ears, The rare smile, The rare laughter. Above all, The silence.

Lord Farage

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I often think.

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