I have just listened to the poet laureate (Karen Stuffy – check this for me later, please) reading a poem what she writ to commemorate the death of Henry Allingham.
I couldn’t make it beyond the first 20 seconds.
I am putting it on record here that no matter how famous I may become - if my words here are recognised for their inherent genius and become part of the English Literature ‘A’ level syllabus, if I am chosen as the first president of the People’s Republic of Britain, if I save 50,000 children from suffering and pain, if I discover a cure for Thatcherism – I do not want this dull trollop spouting her gonad-aching tripe on the occasion of my death. In fact, now that Adrian Henri is no longer with us (“You make me feel like a septic bowel, You make me feel like Enoch Powell, Enoch, we hate you”) I could well do without any poetry to mark my contribution to the well being of the planet, thank you very much.
On the other hand, our dear friend Donn has composed a nice essay today. Please sit comfortably while you read it.
When you have done that, try to complete the limerick I began in the title, or send me a nice Clerihew about Ms Chuffy.