This land: home.

Vikings raided, settled, and persuaded;

Flags waved, distances faded.

Outliers passed over seas – islanders no more;

Old words and legends floated on seas of time.

Joy and separation folded together;

Historic sights of sites recalled;

Steps go up, and up, and up;

These dots of green on rock feed our souls.



                                This land: home.

Streets Apart I

Soap Street needs a wash.

High Street is looking low.

Bank Street took my dosh.

Fast Lane is moving slow.

Maine Road has closed down.

Swan Street is full of geese.

Paradise Close makes me frown.

Winter Hill, I wore no fleece.

The Road With No Name has a sign.

Sandylands is grassy still.

Bendy Lane runs in a line.

Calm House, what a thrill!

Scotland Hall Road, hall-less.

The Soapbox, stood down.

Ice Rink, only at Christmas.

Circus Walk, devoid of a clown.

Welcome to Manchester.

Now get out!

Test.

It’s like there is nothing left. I’m drained.

Between the breeze and the wind, upended.

Struggling against the tide as it drifts away.

Pushing on, step by step, yet sinking and never gaining ground.

The sapped life comes and goes. A moment’s joy evaporates.

I could have been better. It could have been better.

But, it’s not. It isn’t. It could be. I know it could be.

It could also have been far worse. It Feels this way.

Nothing worth doing is easy, right? So they say.

It hurts. It really bloody hurts. Like loss. Yet there’s no loss. Just hurdles.

The sky glows under a bright moon as lanterns drift upwards.

A glimmer. Just a flicker. That hope.

That energy I see in their faces. I can do this. I must. I will.

Just as faiths test their masses, I must believe. I have too much to lose.

For this, I am lucky.

The Return of the Whippyman?

[INTENSE MUSIC BUILDS]


Liam Gallagher as Narrator (deep, commanding voice):


In a world where precision meets power…

 
Where every touch can change the course of history… 


One man stands at the heart of the action.



[CUT TO: A football pitch, Ilkay Gündoğan in slow motion, controlling the ball with effortless grace]

Narrator:


He’s the maestro, the conductor of the beautiful game. 


From Dortmund to Manchester, and now to Barcelona… 


He’s taken on the world’s greatest challenges.

[CUT TO: Gündoğan threading a perfect pass, the crowd roaring.]

Narrator:


But it’s not just skill that sets him apart… 
It’s the vision, the leadership, and the heart of a champion.



[CUT TO: Gündoğan lifting the Champions League trophy,  eyes focused.]

Narrator:


This August, get ready to witness the next chapter… 
As Ilkay Gündoğan steps onto the grandest stage once more. But where?

[CUT TO: Close-up of Gündoğan, determination in his eyes.]

Ilkay Gündoğan (voiceover):


“This isn’t just a game. It’s my passion, my life. And I’m just getting started.”



[FINAL CUT: A powerful shot of Gündoğan striking the ball, the screen fades to black.]

Narrator:


Ilkay Gündoğan. 
The midfield maestro.  Mr Whippy.
Coming soon to a stadium near you?

[END WITH THE SOUNDS OF A CHEERING CROWD, TITLE CARD APPEARS: “GÜNDOĞAN: THE GAME CHANGER”]

Drip, drop, drip.

Drip, drop, drip, rain begins to fall, 
A soggy blanket over us all. 
Pitter-patter, drop, drop, plop, it’s quite absurd, 
Each raindrop whispers a moistened quiet word.

Many flowers giggle, the trees all prance and dance, 
Worms pop up, taking their chance. 
A puddle forms, a tiny sparkling sea –
A stranded haven for boats made of leaves, yippee, yippee!

Splash, splosh, splish, what a watery flowing treat, 
Raindrops tip-tap-dancing over the street. 
Forget not your brolly, dear old chap, 
Or just you might drown in your very own lap!

The rain it mocks, it rattles, it laughs, it jeers, 
Sneaking down necks, alongside strands of hair, tickling ears. 
But oh, dear rain, you do as you must, 
For without you, we’ll be dry and towels trust.

So drop, drip, drop, and have some fun, 
For when you’re gone and done, out comes the red hot sun. 
But until then, I’ll wear a joyful grin –
And a very large bucket hat to keep you from getting in!

Pour the next coffee

Pour the next coffee

When the cup gapes open

And the mouth yearns for another filling.

Let us know how it feels

When the drops flow with warmth

And flow down the gullet

Each ounce a production of love

Stimulating rapid growth of irises

Sharpening senses and awakening the mind

How does it feel to feel the heat?

The steamed milk and familiar fragrances

The deep brown darkness of hope in a cup

The riot of swirls as milk blends to coffee

The sound of a sugar lump dropped deep into an ocean

The reflection of soul upon the surface’s light reflection

The handle proudly standing out

Grip me, it calls loudly to you

You reach out, and the joy begins.

Beneath Everest.

Some time ago, I tried to imagine a show similar to Father Ted, filmed within Asia. I genuinely came close to emailing script writers and asking for tips. Then the idea faded. The absurdity of Buddhists in China behaving awkwardly didn’t sit right. The Communist surroundings wouldn’t remotely support humour on television. Yesterday, the thought came back. I pondered more. What if it was set in Nepal? In the valleys and foothills of Everest?

Imagine the beloved British-Irish sitcom Father Ted, reimagined in the serene, mystical mountains of Nepal. Instead of a small Irish parish, the setting is a remote Buddhist monastery. Meet Beneath Everest (working title), a comedy series that captures the hilarity and absurdity of monastic life in the Himalayas.

Nestled high in the mountains of Nepal, the Namche Khenpo Monastery is a place of tranquillity, spiritual study, and unexpectedly, a hub of comedic chaos. The monastery, with its ancient stupas, prayer wheels, and stunning views, is home to a group of eccentric monks whose daily lives are anything but serene. The valleys around the Khenpo Monastery are mostly impassible.

Head Monk Tashi is a middle-aged monk who was exiled to the remote Khenpo Monastery after a series of misunderstandings and minor scandals at his previous, more prestigious monastery in Kathmandu. See also Father Ted. Clever, somewhat cynical, and often frustrated with his lot in life, Tashi tries to maintain a semblance of order and dignity, despite the antics of his fellow monks.

Monk Karma is a young, naive monk who came to the monastery with the purest of intentions but often gets confused about Buddhist teachings and the basic principles of monastic life. He is innocent, kind-hearted, and endlessly enthusiastic, Karma’s misunderstandings and childlike logic are a constant source of humour.

Monk Dorje is an elderly, cantankerous monk who spends most of his time meditating or napping in a secluded corner of the monastery. Despite his outward appearance of spiritual dedication, Dorje has a fondness for rice wine and often spouts incoherent mantras. Grumpy, unpredictable, and occasionally wise, Dorje’s outbursts and peculiar habits keep everyone on their toes.

Ani Pema is the monastery’s cook and caretaker, a devout nun who believes in the sanctity of hospitality and the importance of offering tea to everyone, at all times. Cheerful, persistent, and slightly overbearing, Pema’s relentless insistence on serving butter tea and her exaggerated sense of duty provide endless comic moments.


Throughout the series, the show explores the daily routines of the monks, from morning meditations and teachings to dealing with local villagers seeking advice or blessings. Each episode features Tashi’s efforts to maintain spiritual discipline amidst the chaos caused by Karma’s misunderstandings and Dorje’s eccentric behaviour. Karma’s literal interpretations of Buddhist teachings lead to humorous situations, such as trying to meditate under water to find enlightenment or misunderstanding the concept of detachment and giving away the monastery’s prized possessions.

Periodic visits from the head lama or dignitaries from other monasteries add to the comedy, as Tashi scrambles to present an image of a well-run and devout monastery while keeping Karma and Dorje out of trouble.

The monks’ interactions with the local community, including helping with festivals, resolving disputes, and participating in cultural ceremonies, provide a rich backdrop for exploring Nepalese traditions and customs with a comedic twist.

The show would retain the heart and humour of Father Ted while offering a fresh, culturally rich setting. The serene yet unpredictable world of the Khenpo Monastery serves as a perfect stage for exploring themes of faith, folly, and friendship. As the monks navigate their spiritual journey amidst a whirlwind of comedic misadventures, viewers are treated to a delightful blend of laughter and life lessons, all set against the breathtaking beauty of the Himalayas.

Of course, I wanted to contact Graham Linehan and others to see if the idea had traction, but Graham is too busy being nasty and divisive. So, this idea lands here, ready to be buried. That being said, I could contact Channel 4 for their view. All production and scripting should be worked with a local crew and thoroughly ensure respect for Nepal and their people. So, it’s probably a tough job to bash out. Arthur Mathews could do it, I’m sure. Does anyone have a contact at Hattrick?

Compassion for all?

Is it possible to argue with some Conservatives? Or near-to-far right fascists? I can’t explain to them, without their true listening and understanding, about why they should care about people other than themselves. I can’t explain that people are people, and getting along is something a communal species should do.

I can’t explain that the “what-ho”, “pip-pip” and “down with this sort of thing” attitude of those who fought wars against oppressive regimes, invasive war machines, and Nazi overlords was for good purpose and to allow us as people to grow freely and fairly.

Stories from the bible, the Koran, and other holy books, alongside children’s tales, often educate and inform us about looking after one another. I don’t know how to tell someone that they should have learned how to be nice. Respect is given, not just earned. Britishness, national pride, and flag-waving has its place. There’s room for it. The problem is: are you proud to wave the Union Flag and St George’s cross when it’s claimed as a symbol of “us versus them”? I was brought up by parents, with input by grandparents, to accept people and respect all. It isn’t difficult. I can even respect Man Utd fans.

Yes, there are differences and clashes of belief. Hence, conflict. Conflicts by world powers playing Team America World Police have knock-on effects. The most visible being refugees. If you bomb for oil or to control an uncontrollable region, in an already divided place, creating a vacuum for absolute bastards to take over with unforgivable and inhumane laws, expect a few thousands of people to leg it.

Where do refugees go? The most appealing and tolerant places must appeal more. Off they pop. Through risks. Through high seas. In the back of trucks. Legal routes. Illegal routes. Whatever it takes. Along the way, lives are shed. Lost. Gone. Babies and children die. Ships sink. Boats fail. Lives are torn apart. And then the lucky ones arrive somewhere welcoming. The really lucky ones get support and they contribute.

Yet, a country that fought the Axis of Evil has its own right wing of hatred, xenophobic distrust, and insecurities. Fear spreads. The participants are sometimes unaware of their manipulation by power and money. And it hurts. It divides. It conquers people who want to get on with life – and live. Life is for living. Why can’t we understand that this way is not the way?

Peace and love. 🐝

RIGHTLY SO.



Does that make sense?

                Does that sound right?

                                Why did you stop?

Shall we try that again?

                What else could we do?

                                What else could you do?

Does it look right?

                Does it make any sense?

                                Do we really understand?

Really?!

                I’m not so sure.

                                Maybe it isn’t right, right?



Something wasn’t quite right.

Through The Leaves

Through the leaves, voices call out loud;

Beyond the tufted grasses wraps ivy thickly.

Through the greenery trees stand proud;

Along the jagged walls, bramble juts out prickly.

The murky Lancaster canal flows towards the sea;

A summer’s gentle breeze casts along its top.

Tits, swifts, and sparrow fly alongside bee;

Blackbirds hop along the mud and crop.

Feet slapping in the mud sinking slightly;

A fragrance of wild garlic hangs in the air.

Through the gaps and spaces, sun rays beam brightly;

Galloping dogs along the path they share.

Chattering and nattering creaks as trunks rub one another;

Regal flowers attract buzzing and zipping flight.

A ripple waves outwards from cygnets’ mother;

From Lancaster to Glasson Flight, a path wrapped in sights of delight.

Dream/Nightmare

What are dreams?

Broken shards of unfulfilled hope?

A dealer with an empty bag of dope?

Remnants of longed for lifestyles?

The gap along unwanted aisles?

What exactly are dreams?

A blur of shattered imagination?

A squiggle of smudged reflection?

The wings of a squashed mosquito once fit for flight?

Between day and day is there no longer night?

Where are my dreams?

So, if a dream is supposed to be positive, why does a nightmare grow from good news?

Will joyous elation ready for skews?

Is good news a mask for darkness?

Are all answers but a wild guess?

What makes dreams?

Is the craved mountain peak eternally too far to reach?

Is the hourglass open like that of a beach?

Do dawn and dusk merge as one?

Which silent bell tolls for the gone?

So, what are dreams?

Mothering Sunday

Mother’s Day is every day.

Other parents are available.

The thing is: Mum is best.

Here’s a few more reasons:

Extremely reliable and supportive.

Really warm and loving.

Mum rocks our world.

Unfortunately Dad has smelly feet.

Mother, we love you.

Mam, Mom, Mummy, Ma, Mama…

Actually, you’re my hero.

Maybe even better than Erling Haaland.

Most Mums are brilliant.

Onomatopoeia are words you could teach us.

Mmmmmmmm.

Maybe in another generation

And one after that

Mum’s influence will shine on

As it did from my Mum’s Mum.

Happy Mothering Sunday!

Plastic club.

Plastic club with plastic fans and plastic empty seats.

You said we have no history.

I’m sure you have no bias.

You said we should be charged.

You’re a legal hotshot.

Empty colours and an atmosphere suited to a library.

Did you ever leave your armchair?

You questioned where we were when we “were shit”.

You edited photos and videos when you weren’t bothered.

The Red side toppled, wobbled and roof falling down.

The silent Anfield roar, a copy and paste rhetoric.

You said it wasn’t about us but it was about us, about you, about us.

No bias intended, no one offended.

All the while, your former players bleated and tweeted.

Not about the white American owners.

Just the Arabs, Asians and outsiders.

The Russian one first, then less, when shady became barred.

Through this, we sat back and celebrated.

We inhaled the fumes of boiling piss from Merseyside, Old Trafford, and the Daily Telegraph.

Modest jealousy in print, on video, and all over the Internet.

We look at you, smile, yawn…

And we play on.

STRONG(ER)

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Really?

Overused and overly spoken dross.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Parodied aphorism!

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Resilience and affirmation for overcoming adversity?

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

“Out of life’s school of war…“

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Twilight of the Idols, an unread book on the shelf I’ve yet to install.

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

Friedrich Nietzsche, I don’t believe you.

Take suffering as an opportunity to build strength.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Kelly Clarkson sang about standing “a little taller.”

“Aus der Kriegsschule des Lebens.—Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich starker”

It never feels that way.

Shadow.

I feel the ache.

It’s like a shadow inside of me.

My mind questions.

It’s as if an enigma wrapped around my soul.

The nervous worry.

It’s an endless shadowing movement walking beside me.

Wobbling legs beneath me.

I feel I’m sliding uphill on ice facing downhill.

Not quite right inside.

As if I am a carpet grip with no carpet.

Every doubt exaggerated.

There’s a shadow, and I feel it’ll claim me.

Daring do.

Daring do.

Boldness brought about by fate;

The chutzpah of the moment, raging inflate.

Determination by the bucketload;

Jaw strutting out, standing proud and bold.



Destiny unknown, holding your nerve;

Fearlessness to catch the serve at every swerve.

With courage and dauntlessness;

Batting away fear with dabs of recklessness.



Petty safe ground abound and found;

Hopes and dreams sound around yet downed.

Compliance of darkness swept aside, under a mound;

Chasing away gloomy twilight, each and every black hound.

Unseen Variable

It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.

It’s the shadow across broad daylight, revealed in radiant rays of newness

It’s the stillness of the pond on a windy day and what lies beneath.

It’s the calm skies ahead of a mighty mammoth of a storm.

It’s the drumming of Earth’s heart, rattling along lines far below the surface.

It’s the invisible rays passing from great solar storms passing through unknown to all.

It’s the grit under tyres and the silt beneath that spins the wheels above to new angles.

It’s the push of the wind against the flow of traffic slowing down the morning commute.

It’s sounds unheard yet given to the air, triggering an avalanche of unlocked actions.

It’s the soliloquy spoken softly to an absent audience ahead of silent auditions.

It’s an array of unseen variables that tangle hairs and twist cotton threads.

It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.

Lighthouses in a storm.

I’ll never be Benjamin Zephaniah. Nor will I be Jimi Goodwin.

I’ll never write a hit poem. Or sing to the crowds of Berlin.

I’ll never be a preacher on a hit TV show. Not one play developed.

I won’t start a foundation. I won’t wrap words up well-enveloped.

I won’t mourn who I didn’t know. I will pass on my condolences.

I won’t dwell on the passing of life. I will celebrate the old and look out for the new.

What I will be is: inspired.

What I will do: write more.

What I want to do: my very best.

What I feel: inspired.

Benjamin Obadiah Iqbal Zephaniah (né Springer; 15 April 1958 – 7 December 2023)

Brother.

What’s done is done. Don’t waste time waiting to be carried on. Get out and join the run. Find that cloud that moves away for sun.

What isn’t done isn’t a dream turned to reality. More is the pity. Witty as you are, zitty as you may be. Cheer on City, sing a ditty. Don’t feel life is shitty.

Live it. Seek it. Find it. Whatever it is. Get out more. See more. Do more. It is what it is. Time flies in a whizz.

Spend it. Spend it wisely. It can be scary and lary or live it fully and happily. Get up early, even on a Saturday.

It’s how you spend it. Like comedy? Choose wit. Like music? Find your hit. Get out of your pit. Grab your true grit.

Choose to live. This life. Now. Friends will come and go. Some live long, and some live slow. You will love some, and some may know.

What are you waiting for?