Bad Poetry 2: A Tale of Terrible Misfortune

 There was a buffoon called Johnson

Who thought he was Charles Bronson

But he fucked-up Brexit

So attempted to exit

Dressed as a woman in Labour

 

Unfortunately for Boris

No one was fooled by “Doris”

So he pulled out a gun

Broke into a run

But was caught in the commons by Keir Starmer

 

“But… but…. but, Boris stuttered

“Brexit is oven-ready. And buttered!”

“Don’t give me that clap-trap,

You’re just a tabloid hack

And as thick as a brain-dead lama”

 

As Boris started to weep and plead

Keir pulled out a writ and began to read

“I don’t need no fancy prose

Let’s pelt him with tomatoes

And leave him for the Tories to dismember!”

 

But out of the throng rushed Dom

Fresh from his castle with aplomb

“I’ll save the day,” he said

His face a beetroot red

“We will never give up or surrender!”

 

“Not you again, Dominic

You’re a number one prick!”

Said Keir as he summoned the judge

“We’re done with this fudge.

And you and your visionless glasses.”

 

Then out of the chambers came Her Majesty

To sort out the political travesty

“It is time for the tower

On your knees and cower

You’re a pair of unwholesome arses!”

 

Down went her thumb

As a guard beat the drum

And Boris and Dom were hauled away

“Let’s do this in style,” said the Queen with a smile

“Take the offenders and whip them in my blenders!”

 

So this is the end of this sorry tale

Where justice did rightly prevail

There is some last advice

 Which I hope will suffice

To ensure this will never repeat

 

Never, ever, piss off our Queen

She’s old, stubborn and very mean.

And when she is moody

She will mix a smoothie

Made from kale and her secret cream.

 

 

 

 

What's in a name?

It is more than likely I will change my name in the very near future which will no doubt please my husband and his family.

However, I will be probably be keeping Turley as a pseudonym for my comedy writing since I've been writing under it for over a decade. So, I am afraid my ex is just going to have live with the potential of my embarrassing him.

Oh dear. What a pity!  

Initially, I plan to use my new name in my private life only, but it's possible I might use it for my planned crime writing. It depends on how I feel at the time.

Of course, I have thought about reverting to my maiden name or another family name which makes complete sense. However, I quite fancy to revert to total anonymity for at least a brief period. 

One of my sons has suggested Jane Bond. 

Which rather appeals. For obvious reasons. Luckily, I can still laugh at myself. I can only thank God and my family genes for blessing me with a sense of humour. 

Anyway, I am not sure if Jane Bond is the name but it would certainly fit on the front cover of a book well and I am looking for a name that has a "ring" to it.

If you have any suggestions please do drop me a line or leave a comment. Give it your best shot. I am open to all wild suggestions!

Three Glasses of Wine leads to Bad Poetry

Yes, I have had three glasses of wine as I am off work for a few days as I am self-isolating prior to a minor medical procedure. I am, therefore, feeling a little ribald. So, I decided to write a poem.  

Now, before some of my lovely American readers go apeshit, please remember this a comedy blog (even if it has been slightly lacking in humour for a while.) As a consequence, the poem is in my usual eloquent style which required some deep thought for all of 5 minutes. 

Here we go:

There was an old man called Trump

Who had a particularly small lump

For a brain

He lost an election

Got a floppy erection

And was never seen or heard of

Again.

Quality stuff - although the last line is probably rather optimistic. Let's face it who doesn't want to see more of Mr Trump. He is pure comedy gold as is our own Mr Johnson. 

Let's see what I can manage tomorrow night after a few drinks. Nominated subject matters welcomed. 

Talking About Faces

A few months ago I was generously given a phone as mine kept dying on me and the battery was one of those irreplaceable ones.

I duly set-up facial recognition in addition to a password.

Unfortunately, since then it has only recognised my face... maybe once.

I can't decide whether on the day I set it up I was looking astonishing gorgeous or completely hideous... or perhaps like a female version of Boris Johnson.

I think Boris and I have a lot in common at the moment. He looks completely shagged-out running the country during the pandemic and the Brexit crisis; I looked completely shagged-out through the stress of my elongated divorce. We both look our ages of 55. I used to look ten years younger but lately, I am looking battered.

The only real differences between us are that  Boris has a 32-year-old girlfriend, a top job and a stack of cash whereas I have two cats, a tea cosy and haemorrhoids.

It's a man's world.

A Boot in the Face

On Wednesday I had a meeting with my solicitor, a pensions actuary and my husband's barrister. I had been told to expect my husband and his solicitor in the virtual meeting room.

 (Yes, that's right. Over 4 years since my separation I still don't have a Decree Absolute and still no financial settlement. Consequently, life is very difficult for myself and my sons.)

The meeting was scheduled for 12pm to suit my husband's requirements. However, he didn't turn up and no apologies were made. Instead, he sent his barrister rather than his solicitor.

Of course, the reason my husband didn't turn up is that he is too afraid to face me himself. Too afraid I will call him out in front of other professionals. 

Anyway, during the course of the meeting, my husband's barrister treated me like he was at court hearing. Trying to qualify everything I said in a condescending manner ("I think what Mrs Turley is trying to say is...") and, at one point, when I said that the report needed greater clarity so that a layman could understand it, he said he'd never heard of the word "layman".

I assume the point of this rather pathetic act was to try and make me feel foolish and undermine my confidence. Of course, I knew the word existed and that I had used it in exactly the right context. So, I just raised my eyebrows to express my disbelief that the barrister didn't (apparently) know such a word.

The barrister's condescending manner continued. By the end of the meeting, I was tearful and could hardly speak.

Ever since an image has been replaying over and over in my mind. It is the image that accompanies the words below of George Orwell in 1984:

 “There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always— do not forget this, Winston— always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face— forever. ” 

 I think it is time to rewrite that quote:

 “There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always— do not forget women of this world, men will always be intoxicated by power. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on a woman who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a man's boot stamping on a woman's face— forever. ” 

That readers is the sad truth. The physical strength of men has made them kings, rulers and politicians throughout history. Women all over the world are subjugated by men. Their genitals are mutilated, they are assaulted, raped and murdered to satisfy the lust and greed of men. Women are second class citizens ruled by men and their egos.

I am tired of being the understanding, empathetic wife doing the "right thing" and conforming to my Catholic upbringing and traditional values.

I am a very patient person. But on Wednesday something finally snapped. I am done with being a patient, empathetic woman. I am not going to be bullied by my husband or his barrister. I don't care if I walk away with nothing from my marriage because I will have the love of my children and I will still have my voice.

No one is going to stamp on my face anymore.

And I will use my voice to its best effect.

E is for (Non ) Erotic

Apparently, many people are more aware of their dreams at the moment because they are resting and sleeping more.  Some dreams appear to be related to the pandemic in that they feature, perhaps obscurely, death, fear and isolation. Others are less obvious and related to parts of our lives we are missing during the pandemic - like food for example.

This makes complete sense. However, I am someone who generally doesn't sleep that well but I do occasionally have quite vivid, obscure and often frightening dreams. Sometimes I experience sleep paralysis.

Last night, I had an entirely different dream. I rarely dream about people in the public eye. The last one was Hugh Grant. (Hey ho.) But last night I dreamt about Boris Johnson, our PM, currently laid up in hospital with Coronavirus.

Basically, I dreamt I was having sex with Boris. I have no idea what this means (other than I am probably very, very desperate for sex.) However, I am somewhat relieved Boris is making a recovery. It would have been awful if his condition had continued to worsen. I would have felt guilty somehow - killed by my enthusiasm for sex!

On balance, I suppose because Boris has been mentioned in the news 24 hours a day for weeks perhaps it's not surprising. We are also the same age so I suppose somehow I was willing him to live as a reflection of my own life and mortality.

Still, sex with Boris? I don't even fancy him! I think I need to see a psychiatrist. LOL.

D is for Dressed for Kill

We have an expression in the UK "dressed to kill" which is an expression for basically making the most of your appearance and trying to look as attractive as possible.

Now when you reach my grand old age of 55, dressing to kill takes some skill. It's also preferable to have a large glass of gin before you look in the mirror. Because you look a lot better when your vision is blurred. You can also try and kid yourself you're only 39. I have been telling my boys I am 39 for years. I don't think they believe me any more. Well, not since the tooth fairy quit.

Now, even though I'm past my prime, when I go to work, I attempt to look as smart as possible with clean, pressed clothes and fresh make-up. I find a trowel is excellent for putting on my foundation and a kids' washable thick felt-tip pen great for eyeliner. (If you've not got one of those try a permanent marker and save yourself a daily chore. I also recommend a mirror which at least X20 magnification, especially if you wear glasses otherwise you'll look like Coco the Clown.)

So anyway, in this time of lockdown, when there is not much to be happy about not having to put my make-up on and iron a mountain of clothes for my boys is one small benefit. Yay! My utility room no longer looks like a laundrette hit by a freight train. In fact, the only clothes I iron are the ones I wear for the two nights week I work in a supermarket.

Yes, I am working in a supermarket. It's a bit of risk when there's pandemic on, but where needs must. We'll talk about that another day.

Anyway, on other days when I am home, I'm generally looking like a total scruff. I am not sure if my elderly neighbours are more afraid of the pandemic or the unrecognizable women walking up and down the street looking like a cross between Worzel Gummidge, the scarecrow, and a potential murderer.

But hey it's great. I can wear the same trousers for days! And (cough, cough) I think I've worn some knickers for two days running. My mother did always tell me to wear clean knickers every day in case I got run over by a bus but there are no buses running around here so I've no worries now. Hurrah!

Well not unless I get Covid 19, in which case it won't just be me who needs a ventilator.

 *********

Stay safe, everyone. And God bless all our wonderful medical staff all over the world.

C is for Cabbage and Caterpillars

After my post on A where I explored the use of shrivelled apples in my fridge in this time of lockdown, I thought you might like to see one of my other creative recipes.

So basically, last week when I was looking desperately in the fridge to see what concoction I could manufacture from the rotting contents, I discovered two well-past-the sell-by-date cabbages. You know, where the outer leaves have gone yellow and look as appetising as a snot-covered handkerchief.

Anyway, times are hard. So, I tossed the cabbages in the air with gay abandonment and consulted my recipe book for a dish where the ingredients consisted of two mouldy old cabbages and very little else.

Sadly, there were none. I did think about disguising the mouldiness in vinegar and making sauerkraut. However, I've got to be honest, pickled cabbage holds no appeal to me. I gather sauerkraut is a German dish - so maybe I shouldn't be surprised it's only marginally less offensive than a blitzkrieg.

So, folks. I settled on the easy option.

Cabbage soup.

Luckily, I had all the other ingredients I needed: water and salt.

So, to make my delicious cabbage soup, all you need to do is:

1. Chop up your cabbage. You may or may not wat to check for caterpillars first depending on your protein requirements. Personally, I couldn't be bothered. I just went for it with a large knife.

2. Shove it in a pan with some water and salt. Bring to the boil and then simmer so the caterpillars rise to the surface and you can decide whether to leave them there or fish them out and use them to stuff some out-of-date vol-au vents which you can have as starters. Alternatively, you can puree them and pass them off as pesto.

3. When you have done that you'll end up at this stage:

Ugh. Doesn't look that appetising.

4. So the next step is to liquidise it!

Waiting to go into the blender.

  I forgot to screw on the base section to the cup. Whoops.

5. Finally, you end up with a delicious soup:

 A hearty, warm meal in the worst of times. Yay! 

So there you have it. Cabbage soup. Bring on the million-pound contract for my Guide to Economical Cooking!

April A to Z : B is for Baloney and Bog Rolls.

I had a look back at my previous B posts for the A to Z and saw that I'd come with Bullshit (a personal favourite) Brighton Cock (a spin on Brighton Rock, the novel by Grahame Greene),  Balls and Breasts and Balderdash.

An eclectic choice, I feel.

So, to live up to my previous posts I decided to opt for the words Baloney and Bog Rolls. Now, in order to make sure I am not misinforming people I decided to check out the definition of baloney. I discovered there were in fact, three definitions.

The first is a sausage, the second is a resident of Bologna, Italy. The third fundamentally describes this blog which means nonsense.

So, to incorporate the two themes have come with an (almost) nonsense poem:

Bog Rolls.

Bog Rolls, I like them.

Soft and cushy on my bottom.

It's a pity I don't have any

'Cos some fucker at Sainsbury's bought the lot.

 I hope they get diarrhoea

Which runs down their leg

And smells like putrified egg

Then I will be happy

Even as I wear my nappy.


As I said, nonsense.

A is for Arseholes and Apples.

So, here I am on April Fool's Day back here on my blog unprepared, as ever, to participate in the A to Z. I have zero ideas what I am going to write about so as usual this is where I say to myself:

Oh crap, why did you commit to this? You arsehole, Turley.

Hmm. Arsehole. I suppose I could make a blog out of that.

Mind you, that wouldn't be very lady-like. And, possibly, as any post using the word arsehole might make reference to Mr Trump it might alienate my lovely American readers. So, no can do.

Oh okay, let clutch at some straws.

Apples?

Okay, they're round and green. Sometimes red. Even a bit pinkish. They can be crunchy. They are super for making cider from though. If only I had some cider...

Oh, and a couple of hours ago, I found some old wrinkled apples that kinda looked like shrivelled testicles in the back of my fridge. Now in normal circumstances, I would probably try to lob them into the bin from about 2 metres but because of the extraordinary circumstances the world finds itself in and I three adult sons to feed on about a tenner a week I went:

"Yayyyyyyyyy! Food! Oh dear God. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Then I raided the freezer to see if there was anything that could accompany four shrivelled testicles apples.

And I found some blackcurrants. Now I am not sure how old these blackcurrants are but I would say anywhere between 3 and 15 years old.

So folks, I am in the process of making apple and blackcurrant crumble. I hope. I say this as I am not sure how old my flour is yet. It may be like cement.

If I do not appear here tomorrow is not because I have been hit by Covid 19 (yet and, hopefully, never) but because I succumbed to food poisoning.

Stay safe, Everyone. See you tomorrow.

Ps. Anyone who thought the title of this blog was leading to something else needs to clean-up their thoughts.

A Word Of Not So Serious Warning

On April 1st, which is April Fool's Day here in the UK, this blog reopens for business as I rejoin the virtual world in the April A to Z blogging challenge.

So whilst you are in lockdown, gnashing your teeth on the last of your dried cream crackers and wiping your arse on the pages of Fifty Shades of Grey, you can join me here on The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman where I shall be providing my own unique view on the world as I see it. We've got a lot to talk about.

As usual, there will be no rhyme or reason to any of the subject matters I will tackle. It will be whatever pops into my mind on the day. And if I'm bored and my brain is befuddled, I will be posting pictures of hunky men in their underpants.

So nothing to lose then by dropping by if you're a woman. If you're a man, brace yourself it could be a bumpy ride.

And if there's anyone who wants to throw a topic into the brewing pot now. Drop me a line below.