Tuesday 19 December 2023

SHORT: Violent Night [2023]

VIOLENT NIGHT

From: c.columbus@chicagohospitaltrust.org
To: profiling@fbi.gov

SUBJECT: Suspect profile

To whom it may concern,

I am writing in relation to a matter of grave urgency, concerning two patients admitted to the A&E department of Chicago General Hospital earlier this evening. Despite being brought in under police custody, the level of violence inflicted upon these men is honestly among the most horrifying I have encountered within several decades of working in the medical profession.

Detectives, consultants and diagnosticians alike are currently baffled as to who – or what – could have caused such an appalling array of injuries. While the patients themselves remain under strict police supervision, the full list of impairments we have been able to document thus far includes the following:

* Multiple ribcage fractures and internal cartilage damage from beatings with a crowbar;

* Innumerable back and torso injuries caused by a variety of slips, trips and falls;

* Puncture wounds to the feet, inflicted by a range of items including glass ornaments and a large household nail;

* Air-rifle pellet wounds to the lower groin and forehead;

* A branding mark to the outer palm, centred around the carpal bones;

* Notable scorch-marks and bruising to the face in what seems to resemble the outline of a regular household iron;

* Third-degree burns to the parietal area of the scalp, evidently inflicted at close-range by an object of considerable intensity - perhaps even a blow-torch;

* Glue and feathers liberally applied to the upper body in an act of humiliation akin to the retribution faced by sectarian terrorists of the 1970s;

* Blunt-force cranial trauma caused by the sizeable impact of what appears to be a paint can to the face.

While my colleagues and I continue to work tirelessly in a bid to aid their recovery, we would greatly appreciate your input as to what kind of a sick-minded individual would do such a thing, with an obvious view to prevent it from ever happening again.

Regards,
Dr. Christopher Columbus, M.D.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

From: j.hughes@fbi.gov
To: c.columbus@chicagohospitaltrust.org

RE: Suspect profile

Hi Chris,

Thanks for your email – your message was passed to me by a member of our regional Field team. I am Special Agent Hughes from the FBI’s profiling unit.

Somewhere in my memory, I seem to recall hearing about this incident on the office teletype – it certainly does sound like the victims have been subject to a prolonged, brutal and painful ordeal at the hands of a lone sociopath. I have therefore prepared the following profile in the hope that it will prove useful to your colleagues and partners in law enforcement.

It may surprise you to learn that your suspect is most likely an 8-year-old boy. Severe abandonment issues coupled with an acute lack of parental supervision will have caused him to act out in a number of highly specific ways, most notably surrounding the sanctity of his family home. In short, it is his house, and he
has to defend it. (In mitigation, fair warning would likely have been served upon any intruders, who I imagine would be given to the count of ten to get their ugly, yella, no-good keisters off his property before he pumps their guts full of lead. I cannot guarantee, however, that the full count would have been honoured before hostilities commenced.)

It is highly probable that the suspect will be making the most of his new-found independence by partaking in a range of activities usually denied to him – specifically, by eating junk and watching rubbish. It may therefore be worth contacting the local food delivery services to see if anyone has recently ordered “a lovely cheese pizza, just for him”. You might also want to check whether staff members at the local convenience stores have encountered a young man displaying an evasive and belligerent attitude when questioned as to the whereabouts of his immediate family. (Him, an eight-year-old? Here? Alone...?
I don’t think so.)

It does sound suspiciously like the two gentlemen in question may have fallen victim to a number of highly avoidable injuries, and indeed might have escaped largely unscathed were they not prone to being scammed by a kindygartener. Perhaps they are an example what the French might call “
les incompetents”. Either way, I sincerely hope you manage to identify and apprehend the sadistic little bastard; God only knows what sort of damage he might be capable of inflicting were he let loose at this time of year in a major metropolitan area.

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal...

Sincerely,
John.


C.C. December 2023

SHORT: We Didn't Start the Fire [2023]

 WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE
- "Celebrating" 13 years of disastrous Tory rule -

David Cameron on a mission, has to form a coalition
Nicky Clegg: misplaced ambition – ends up at Facebook.
George Osborne, austerity, funding slashed to Nth degree
No NHS, no libraries - you all can get to fuck.

Operation Yewtree, Queenie Diamond Jubilee
Army drummer Lee Rigby, Farage and UKIP.
Cameron fucked a pig’s head, Georgie blarting, Thatcher dead
Record-buyers sing instead: ding-dong to the witch.

Asylum policy mismanaged, billboards touting racist language,
Milliband eats bacon sandwich, Labour at a disadvantage,
Scottish pride has gained momentum, Independence Referendum,
AV vote a rude addendum, takes the piss and fucking then some…!

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but we’re trying to fight it…

Jo Cox murder, knife crime, BNP on
Question Time
David Cameron resigns after Brexit stink.
Beast from East flies off the handle, Amber Rudd and Windrush scandal
Churchill statue sprayed by vandals: 10 years in the clink.

Hammond and Theresa May, governing in shades in grey
Fields of wheat and naughty japes, charisma of a goat.
Invoke Article 50, Grenfell public inquiry
Waning May authority – take it to a vote.

Puts faith in democracy, loses her majority,
Corbyn internet for free, best call in the DUP,
Boris rides in for the steal, he knows how the country feels,
Oven-ready Brexit deal: plate of shit for every meal…!

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but we’re trying to fight it…

Covid-19 lung pandemic, inequality systemic
Partygate shows lies endemic – stick that in yer pipe.
Government have lost control, panic buying loo roll
Wankers topple 5G poles, anti-vaccine tripe.

Captain Tom and Black Lives Matter, FIFA chiefs indict Sepp Blatter
Public confidence in tatters – country gone to shit.
Daily briefing, “Next slide please”, Matt Hancock, no PPE
Cummings notes bluebells lovely – gets away with it.

Boris takes us all for fools, claims he never broke the rules,
Sewage spills and crumbling schools, irate workers downing tools,
Obfuscation and fake news, Trump declares election coup,
Cranks the volume, turns the screw, MAGA muppets storm the pews…!

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but we’re trying to fight it…

Boris exits in disgrace, Lizzie Truss soon takes his place
Premiership lasts 40 days – hapless twat rebuffed.
Did the maths and somehow fudged it, Kwasi Kwarteng, silly budget
Middle-class will soon begrudge it – mortgages are stuffed.

GDP not kept afloat, blame the migrants, stop the boats
Rishi grabs it by the throat – wife does not pay tax.
Syria conflict, Prevent, ISIS, major cost of living crisis
Claims Ukraine war drove up prices – notice the Dead Cat.

Braverman, Priti Patel, we’ve entered Seventh Circle Hell
Rwanda flights? They might as well – what a pair of pricks.
Nadine Dorries peerage row, fuck that fucking awful cow
How’s she get her damehood now? Couldn’t give a fig.

Chris Pincher virility, Rees-Mogg no humility,
Massive instability, drowning in futility,
Country laid out on the floor, don’t blame us if you’re now poor,
“It’s Putin’s illegal war” – I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE…!

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but we’re trying to fight it…

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
But when we are gone
It will just burn on and on and on… 

C.C. 30/6/23

(With thanks to Andy Sutton -
and apologies to Billy Joel)

SHORT: Taylor [2023]

TAYLOR
- To the tune and backing music of Lemon Water by Guttermouth -

 “What in the hell is wrong with people?
The deranged should be caged, what is wrong with people
It must be them, can’t you see that it couldn't be me
Where their road ends, that’s where my day begins…”

I’ll tell you what really winds me up on a near-daily basis, is adult fans of Taylor Swift. When did it become acceptable discourse for the likes of Taylor, Kylie and Girls Aloud to be treated as highbrow musical concerns by broadsheet critics and readers alike? Honestly, Taylor Swift could fart on the toilet and the BBC would run a story about it. No-one asked for this situation, and yet we all seem to have been saddled with it anyway - a bit like salted caramel, cucumber shavings in the table-water at wedding receptions, or a slice of lemon added to your half-pint of Coke. 

“Have you heard it though, Chris? Have you heard her latest album? Have you sat waiting patiently for 20 years in an online queue in a futile bid to obtain tickets for her upcoming stadium tour?” No, I haven’t, and I’ll tell you why – because I’m not a 14-year-old girl. I don’t need to listen to Taylor’s latest heartfelt entreaty to “be my besty” to understand that it isn’t meant for people like me - i.e. grown adults. Honestly, is there anything which makes your heart sink more than logging onto Tinder – or, as it should perhaps now be better known, ‘The Binfire of the Vanities’ – and seeing a grown woman claiming to be a “Disney fanatic” while listing ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ as her own personal anthem. There is a reason why these people are still single, and it is just that. Literally the only thing I can imagine being more embarrassing is someone in their mid-40s claiming that ‘Bad Guy’ by Billie Eilish somehow speaks to them. I can absolutely assure you that when she grows out of it in a few years’ time, Billie Eilish is going to bitterly regret having ever put her name to the bit in that song that goes “Duh…”, and curse her misfortune at having to now regurgitate it every night to an audience who’ll then be pushing 60. In the meantime, Sandra from Lenton, you are 46 years old. Please have the dignity and intellectual wherewithal to acknowledge that the likes of Billie Eilish and Taylor Swift have precisely nothing to say about your life.

“What in the hell is wrong with people?
The deranged should be caged, what is wrong with people
It must be them, can’t you see that it couldn't be me
Where their road ends, that’s where my day begins…”

- No, before you ask, I haven’t had any matches on dating apps recently. However, please don’t think I’m being sexist or reductive when I say these things; I am an equal opportunities abuser when it comes to matters of musical taste, or lack thereof. I once met a man who was also in his mid-40s and who claimed, without the merest hint of irony, that his favourite record of all-time was Jennifer Paige’s ‘Crush’. Just think about that for a second: you are stranded on a desert island after the nuclear apocalypse, and can now only listen to one song for the rest of your life. Having given it careful consideration in the face of existential oblivion, you’ve decided that what lurks deepest within the recesses of your soul is a mall-pop tween anthem from 1998.

It could be worse though, I suppose – you could be one of those infernal men-children who still listens to American frathouse pop-punk from the early-to-mid noughties as a matter of course. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Blink-182’s Take Off Your Pants and Jacket as much as the next person back when I was a teenager, and am still able to locate a modicum of nostalgic value in a song about Grandpa shitting his pants on Labour Day. However, while you might think this is a bit rich coming from someone who still dresses like they’re 15, I think it’s fair to suggest that doing synchronised chord-rips and choreographed pogo routines while going about telling everyone how you fucked their “Mom” last night - as the likes of Blink and Simple Plan still are in 2023 - rather lacks a certain grace and sense of self-respect. I saw a video recently from the Blink reunion tour in which they invited a 12-year-old boy onstage and handed him the microphone. Evidently inspired by the terminally juvenile antics of his suburban punk heroes, the best he could muster was to shout “FUCK YOU” at the assembled masses, to much yukking and wild applause from singer Tom DeLonge - a man who is now just two short years away from turning 50. I ask you, in all seriousness: what kind of fucking rebellion is that.

“What in the hell is wrong with people?
The deranged should be caged, what is wrong with people
It must be them, can’t you see that it couldn't be me
Where their road ends, that’s where my day begins…”

I swear to God, I don’t know what I clicked on a couple of weeks back that’s caused the Facebook algorithm to think I give anything even approaching a glittery neon pink shit, but if I see another fucking post in my News Feed about the Barbie movie, I am going to absolutely chin someone. Congratulations to Greta Gerwig on navigating the testy waters of Hollywood and turning out what is no doubt a sassy postmodern take on the contemporary blockbuster that operates on a level which is at least 4-out-of-10 subversive. I for one can certainly appreciate the merits of pissing off Ben Shapiro, Sarah Vine and a bunch of other right-wing fucknuts who think that any film in which a woman speaks onscreen is somehow “woke”. However, can we please all just try to get a little bit of perspective here and see this for what it is, which is essentially a 2-hour commercial for an existing toy property.

“Have you seen it yet, Chris? Have you been to see it yet?” No, I haven’t seen it, but I’ll be sure to catch it on Blu Ray at some point in the future. I’m fairly sure it’ll turn out to be distinctly bang-average, just like
Oppenheimer will be, having also been hyped beyond belief by people who think that Christopher Nolan and his massive brain represent the pinnacle of cinematic achievement. Frankly, listening to clueless internet movie bros talk up The Dark Knight and Inception, blithely tossing around words like “masterpiece” when their only frame of reference is Tarantino films and Guardians of the Galaxy 3, is a bit like the moment when a 15-year-old boy tries to tell you that Muse are really intelligent, simply because they’ve never actually encountered anything intelligent and thus don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. But that’s where we apparently are now in the modern media landscape, where having continual access to everything, everywhere, all at once across a multitude of platforms has meant that we’ve lost the ability to differentiate between what is actually good, and what is merely talked about - just so long as it keeps unfolding before us in an endless, unbroken stream of “content”.  ‘Barbenheimer’, is it…? Fuck me sideways and call me Margot. Let these massive corporations do their own fucking marketing, rather than having you willingly step up to do it for them. I wouldn’t worry too much about those idiots who’ve been body-shaming Florence Pugh for her nude scene though – they’ve never seen a naked woman in real life, and likely never will. 

“What in the hell is wrong with people?
The deranged should be caged, what is wrong with people
It must be them, can’t you see that it couldn't be me
Where their road ends, that’s where my day begins…”

C.C. 1/8/2023

Wednesday 5 July 2023

SHORT: Wooly Bulley (a.k.a. 'Social Media Influenza') [2023]

WOOLY BULLEY
(a.k.a. ‘Social Media Influenza’)

Theres a woman gone missing down by the canal;
I saw it on ITV News.
So I got out my smartphone and went to help out -
and now I’ve got 10 million views.

I’ve love to admit that my motives were pure,
and I want to discover the truth;
But the fact is, I watched some true-crime shit on Netflix
and now I’m an amateur sleuth.

“Do you think the Dad did it? Was it the dog?
The police now are under suspicion…!”
Of course, finding the answer’s the mootest of points;
To raise my own profile’s the mission.

So I pore over the details of Nicola’s life,
like whether she’s had HRT.
But when all’s turned to dust, I’m not really that fussed
’Cos it’s not about her - it’s about me.

“Now sound the alarm, ’cos I went to the barn,
and discovered an old piece of plywood…!”
I don’t care if it’s true – I’ve said it’s a clue;
and now my viewcount has rocketed skyward.

“The cops came and found me. Now I’ve been arrested!
It’s surely proof of conspiracy….!”
MATE. Your moronic pretence is disturbing forensics,
destroying the fucking crime scene…!

“Well, I’m not a professional, much less an expert;
I represent the curious majority.”
That being the case, shut the hole in your face -
there’s a reason you have no authority…!

It shouldn’t need to be mentioned, ’cos it defies comprehension
there are those making hay from her name.
And if your intervention is for ‘Likes’ or attention,
then you should be fucking ashamed.

When you trot theories out to enhance your own clout,
It’s an exercise in nothing but vanity.
Territorial pissing, while a person’s still missing –
and you’ve lost sight of your basic humanity.

Unable to contribute anything of worth,
and no chance that you’ll ever join MENSA…?
Then why not just sign up to Instagram?
You too could be an influencer!

So put on a bib, warm up a plate,
and devour the shit that they’re feeding ya
When idiot people with nothing to say
put it all out on their social media.

“My followers have gone to 6 million from zero,
And now I’m a legend on TikTok!”
I’ll tell you what, pal – that don’t make you a hero;
Just a sadcase, a pox, and a dick.

…Cock.

C.C. 22/2/23

SHORT: Howl [2023]

HOWL

I

I saw the greatest minds of my generation
co-opted to write back-end coding for the likes of Google, Amazon and Facebook.
Starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through line upon line of proprietary algorithms
then hauled before Congress and told to explain themselves
Which of course they could not.
Alexa: sell my data to the Russians.

I sometimes wonder if any moment in human history
can ever, or will ever be as great
as that scene in Problem Child 2
when Junior pisses in the lemonade
and his obnoxious adult neighbour drinks it.
Consider the conceptual brilliance in an act of comedy so sublime:
a 10-year-old child urinating into a glass pitcher
and handing it to the adult who has previously insulted him;
while we, the audience, all know that it’s actually a jugful of piss.
He chugs it down merrily,
smacking his lips at the end
and uttering the masterful one-word synopsis:
“Tangy”.
What is the point of even going on
when the greatest artistic endeavour in human history
has already been achieved.
I ask myself this daily while contemplating life here on earth.

I once had a dream
that the lovely Hollywood actress Anne Hathaway was my wife.
In this dream, we would awake each morning
and she would proceed to sit on my face and disco dance.
It was a glorious dream
Vivid and stimulating
So you can only imagine how upset I was
to awake and find
my actual wife lying beside me instead.
Extremely upsetting,
and not at all how I wanted to start my weekend.

I saw a piece of graffiti once
written on the cubicle wall of a public toilet.
It said, in plaintive text without punctuation:
“What is love
Baby don’t hurt me
Don’t hurt me
No more” – Haddaway, 1993.
That struck me as curiously profound
for some reason.

On the subject of love, I sometimes play a fun game
in which I substitute the word ‘love’ in any given song title
for the word ‘muff’.
It brings me endless amusement
giggling at the likes of
How Deep Is Your Muff
Make You Feel My Muff
Muff is a Battlefield
Need Your Muff So Bad
Muff in an Elevator
Can You Feel the Muff Tonight
Bizarre Muff Triangle
and Can’t Get Enough of Your Muff, Babe.
It is a childish game
Infantile, even
But it brings me comfort in this world of pain.
Try it yourself sometime
and you too may know what true spiritual fulfilment feels like.

II

Did you ever stop to consider how,
prior to the release of the most recent Rambo movie,
The fifth in the franchise
That this would be, quite literally,
Rambo Number 5.
A little bit of violence, all night long
A little bit of slaughter, in the sun
A little bit of massacre, here I am
A little bit of gore makes me your man.
Aaaaaight.
As it turns out, the series denouement was basically just
a really nasty version of Home Alone set on a ranch,
though I certainly enjoyed myself.
But to think, all this could have been easily avoided
John Rambo’s 40-year orgy of destruction across multiple continents and American states
If they’d just given him what he asked for at the start of First Blood
and served him breakfast when he wandered into town.
All this needless bloodshed, for want of a bacon sandwich.
It truly
beggars belief.

Can you imagine what it would be like if the Go Compare Man was your Dad.
How would that conversation go at school during Show & Tell, I wonder
“And what about you, Timmy?
What does your Daddy do?”
“My father is Gio Comparo
He puts on a silly moustache and acts like a cunt on national television
Nobody likes him, least of all me;
My mother exists in a perpetual state of loathing, embarrassment and shame
No longer able to show her face in polite society for fear of violent recrimination
Now flush my head down the toilet, o willing tormentor
It is no less than I deserve
For being the son of a national disgrace.”

The only thing worse is those fucking meerkats
Aleksandr and Sergei
Twatting about in their oligarch’s mansion
Doing the two-handed hoover to MC Hammer.
What must it be like
to be one of those people
who collects limited edition soft toys of the awful furry bastards
and their insufferable rodent offspring?
Are they proud
to be someone
who goes onto comparethemarket.com
and enters into a commercial dialogue with a price comparison search engine
simply for the purposes of obtaining
a Sleepy Oleg toy.
These people must exist somewhere
There are millions of them out there in the world
And yet I have never met one.
A bit like George Michael fans.

Speaking, though, of MC Hammer
I once bought a doll of him
from a knick-knack shopfront in Singapore
for the princely sum of $10.
That’s £6.10 translated into British currency
at the time of writing, though obviously subject
to future market fluctuations.
I’m sure you think that I am joking, but I can assure I am not -
Look, I have it here in this orange carrier bag.
Behold the wonder of MC Hammer in moulded plastic form
The craftsmanship is quite exquisite
Right down to the sparkling baggy Hammerpants.
Spare a thought for the artist formerly known as Stanley Kirk Burrell
A man who once had everything:
Gold-plated toilet seat
Saturday-morning animated kids’ TV series
and, most importantly:
pumps and a bump.
Jamie Foxx got an Oscar for Ray
But where oh where was Romany Malco’s award
for his scintillating portrayal in the lead role
of the made-for-television biopic Too Legit: The MC Hammer Story.
Again, I’m not making this up, I can assure you -
I own it on DVD.
Look, here it is.
Foxx gets all the plaudits
while Malco goes home empty-handed from pretty much every awards show going.
I ask you,
a bit like Lemar off of Fame Academy in that silly song of his,
where is the justice.

III

Why is it
that every fucking idiot you ever went to High School with
insists on having three children.
Not content with just one, or two,
they must continue their spree of aimless procreation
and shat out a third
just to make sure their appalling gene-pool lives on in the collective consciousness.
As if the world weren’t over-populated and headed for catastrophe enough already
They marry into their own kind
The sort of women who cry at Ed Sheeran and the John Lewis Christmas advert
I am so glad these people find each other
So the rest of us don’t have to.
Three, is the magic number
They give their progeny Playstations 5s
Down another four-pack of Stella with the lads
Then go back to being idiots
And we wonder why
The world is so fucked.

What will the aliens say
when they land on our abandoned planet
centuries after the Climate Emergency has washed us all away.
“Were they kind people?”, they will ask;
“Were they wise people?”
“Behold”, they exclaim as they consult the historical record;
Behold, the Sistine Chapel
The collective works of Swedish pop duo Roxette
And that bit in Marc Cohn’s Walking in Memphis when he sings:
“Tell me, are you a Christian, child?
I said: Ma’am, I am tonight”.
Or will they say:
Behold, Cher Lloyd’s Swagger Jagger
A record so mind-meltingly, staggeringly awful in its sheer obnoxiousness
As to attain a sort of zen perfection.
They were capable of so much
But they spuffed it all on Celebrity Love Island, fast fashion and Business Studies textbooks
How will we explain to them
the enduring popularity of Spandau Ballet
as evidenced in footage of full-time accountants in dreadful hats having it large at a festival
to the risible strains of Gold
on Spandau Ballet’s much-hyped 2010 reunion tour.
Tony Hadley! I am with you
in the pseudo-ironic 1980s Romo revival
Tony Hadley! I am with you
in occasional news reports of your latest solo offering
I am with you
in that god-awful chord which follows the chorus in True
For if this is the sound of your soul
It is truly akin to Donald Duck farting in the bathtub
Hadley be playing on the jukebox;
Worldwide, brute force, and full of money
Worldwide, brute force, and full of money
Tony Hadley, I am with you
For your inevitable appearance in the I’m a Celebrity jungle
alongside coat-hanger-faced 90s songbird Sophie Ellis-Bextor
and no doubt also Keith from Boyzone.
I am with you, you floppy-haired fucking git
I have no choice, since the great British public
simply refuses to let you die
I am with you, Tony Hadley
As your simpering fucking aspirational yuppie yacht-rock
Reverberates in perpetuity at the end of time.
I am with you
in countless landfills full of discarded Funko Pops
I am with you
for the 59-thousandth retrospective documentary about the making of Back to the Future
I am with you
for the announcement of LadBaby’s 537th consecutive Christmas #1
I am with you
as Salt Bae infiltrates NORAD
and brings about the end of the world
by pushing the nuclear button live on Instagram.
The ultimate viral moment:
Don’t forget to Like, Comment and Subscribe
as nuclear fire
rains from the heavens.
For that is how humanity ends:
Not with a bang, but with a TikTok
3000-plus years of human history
selfie’d into oblivion
for 10 seconds of internet fame.

I picture a dystopian future in which literally every fucker has a podcast.
We’re basically already halfway there.

C.C. January 2023

Friday 9 June 2023

SHORT: Twat With a Flag [2023]

TWAT WITH A FLAG

There’s a twat with a flag who lives down our road;
he raises his flag every day.
It’s an eyesore, a blemish, a flapping carbuncle
that boils the blood as it waves.

It’s tacky, it’s nonsense, it’s vile, it’s guff –
I tell you, there’s nought to redeem here.
A sad piece of cack with the Union Jack -
put simply, it’s Poundland ephemera.

I s’pose that he thinks we all should applaud him
as a patriot, dyed-in-the-wool
But for some of us punters, it’s zeal by numbers:
a red rag in front of a bull.

In terms of aesthetic, it’s fucking pathetic –
an affront to the casual observer.
Does he think when I see it I’ll start to salute,
whipped into a nationalist fervour…?

It’s twee nostalgie, a thing of the past;
outmoded, like Great British Bake-Off.
It’s not even fit now to use as bog-roll
’cos you’d wipe more shit on than you take off…!

I thought about knocking on to try and get it gone -
but to be honest, it ain’t worth the hassle.
He'll say it’s his right to exhibit that shite,
’cos an Englishman’s home is his castle.

Yes, like Gilbert and Sullivan! ’E is an Englishman! So let’s take a few lines to examine:
a man out of place going red in the face now that Larkin’s been purged from the canon…

A
Telegraph reader who thinks that Farage has got some ideas worth hearing.
A man of the past with a stick up his ass, who thinks his way of life’s disappearing.

He longs for the days when the Empire reigned, and England did roar like a lion;
I bet that his name’s probably Douglas, or Clive, or Kenneth, or Gordon, or Brian.

On BBC News, he detects left-wing views, and leaps up from his seat like a salmon
He’s got half a mind to go on Question Time, and huff, sulk and fume like a gammon.

“It’s a form of sophistry - you can’t rewrite history
with all of these things that you’re banning!
Why can I no longer watch Love Thy Neighbour,
or laugh along with Bernard Manning…?!”

Flipping the channel, he's teeming with rage
and quickly becoming quite stroppy;
There’s a disabled reporter on Channel 4 News,
and Krishnan’s not wearing a poppy…!

There’s kids of all ages renouncing slave traders -
he's claiming now everything’s wrong!
To compound his rut, ‘Rule Britannia’ gets cut
from the very last night of the Proms…

“I’m not being racist, I’m just stating facts –
this diversity drive’s gone too far.”
Sir, why are you like this?! And please stop pipping cyclists
whenever you’re out in your car…!

Then he's off on a bender ‘bout gays and ‘bout gender,
and how all young men have gone soft
Omitting one thing: there’s a shrine to the King
that he wanks over up in his loft.

“All these ‘woke footballers’ aren’t real men,
like Tom Finney and Sir Stanley Matthews.
We need to get back on a well-beaten track,
and reclaim some good old-fashioned values…!”

Zulu, Dam Busters, then afternoon tea,
Then Bake Off - you really can’t beat it.”
But just like those Tories stuck in 1940,
it’s time to have your cake and eat it.

See, why is it - that when you raise a flag in salute to the nation,
it feels suspiciously like a rank provocation?
An act of aggression and intimidation
masquerading as innocent, blithe celebration.

Because quite aside from being a local embarrassment,
it feels to so many like just plain harassment.
An icon which props up a legacy of violence
that finds current form when they demonise migrants…

’Cos it’s an unspoken code with a built-in payload
when you display Jubilee bunting
It says they’ve got your vote if they “stop the small boats”
and show their support for fox-hunting…

It says, “Don’t come round here if you’re black, brown or queer -
Britain’s not meant for people like you.”
A dog-whistle, to reactionary trolls in pubs with golly dolls
who claim whites are now last in the queue.

Complicit in history, ignoring its feats, we return to the scene of the crime
’Cos contained in the hues of that red, white and blue are a tale that’s older than time.

Jackboots on the street as a steady drumbeat sounds out like a dull metronome
The right-wing’s Greatest Hits: it’s “Britain for Brits”
- and if you don’t like it, go home.

A flag should be a monument, an effigy, a totem
So why does it feel like you’re whipping out your scrotum…?
Flaunting your values by waving your cock: the ultimate true virtue-signal.
Oh, Johnny Big-Bollocks, we’re all so impressed – in fact, no, no, no, no, it’s just dismal.

So while your flag’s up there, I think it’s only fair
that we finally establish some ground-rules.
Principally this - you’re taking the piss;
patriotism’s the refuge of scoundrels.

I’ll go one further, son: when all’s said and done,
I submit that it makes you a coward.
As you grovel, belittled, you fucking lickspittle,
let’s consider the few it empowers.

I don’t think it disloyal when I see a “Royal”,
to enter a state of thrombosis.
So let me stand unopposed while I now diagnose
our sad fucking national psychosis.

See, under the banner of country and crown,
their misdeeds are all merely “alleged”:
like Andrew’s been fucking 14-year-old girls
while William was out getting pegged…!

(You won’t read about that in the papers;
to mention it would be ill-mannered.
The tabloids, alas, give him a free pass
as a “sorry” for killing Diana.)

We’re told “they work for us”, and are “here to serve” -
well I should fucking hope so, at those rates;
‘Cos they’ve taken far more than their reasonable share,
like Alan Partridge with his massive plate…!

If these freeloading fucks were all
my employees, then they wouldn’t be getting a reference.
File all Royals next to landlords and bosses as those who we grant undue deference.

They’ll tell you they’re “good for the tourists”,
and that we always must respect tradition.
But to accept that these ghouls are destined to rule
is a doctrine that is nowhere written.

But that’s the system we use here to quantify worth:
inherited privilege from an accident of birth.
And I submit that it should never be thought sedition
to question, critique or tear down tradition.

See, “tradition” is man-made – and thus, can be changed:
it’s a conclusion that’s never foregone.
Like archaic law, we can show it the door -
and we should, when its tenets are wrong.

You wouldn’t hand Darth Vader a second lightsabre
when he’s got you under attack
So kindly stop showing support for the Royals
’cos that’s how the Empire strikes back…!

As for our sick-hearted country – your “pride” and your “joy”
I tell you, there’s something obscene
When we can’t find the money to feed starving kids
but we’ll stand in a line for the Queen.

What is this fixation with bowing and scraping
built into our national character?
I am begging you, please – get up off your knees
’cos the whole sad charade’s an embarrassment.

It’s a mystery to confound Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe -
with a soundtrack that’s provided by Gary fucking Barlow.

And so to our friend who lives just up the roady.
A lackey, a suck-up, a fawner, a toady
Who’ll stand and applaud when two Royals marry;
though not for the offspring of Megan and Harry…

’Cos a flag is an emblem that wears many faces;
to my mind, it serves only to embolden racists.

There aren’t words to convey why that rag you display
is considered now such an affront
But I’ve got some that’ll do, so here’s just a few:
you fuckwit, you braggart, you cunt

You’re a small man, sir - among the tiniest, in fact;
your subservience is a national disgrace.
Do not lick the heel of the boot
that stands upon your face. 

C.C. 8/5/23


Tuesday 6 June 2023

LYRICS: THIS IS NOT AN EXIT. [2022]

 THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.

Voices, dark voices, loud noises
They’re screaming in my ears

Abstractions so flawless, remorseless
I simply am not here

Outward appearances frozen
I have no clear emotion
There’s no barrier left, only carnal aggression
No-one to hear my confession

Godless among us, this bloodlust
It flows into my days

Disgust and revulsion, compulsions
All lie behind my gaze

And there will be no quarter
Be no reprieve at the altar
We’re all lambs astray in a world of disease
And they all will be set free
Who’s going to set them free…?

’Cos even after all this, there is no catharsis
Even after all this, the pain has a sharpness
Even after all this, there is no catharsis
Even after all this, no relief from the darkness
MY CONFESSION MEANS NOTHING

No wider truth I’m dispelling
No lesson learned in the telling
There is an ideal, but no real me
Only a veil of greed
Something illusory
Something illusory…

C.C. November 2022

LYRICS: Narcoleptic [2018]

 NARCOLEPTIC

Sleep awake
Adrift for days

The firmament’s dying on lone frontiers
A hundred-step mile away from here

She’s seen this place
A dream repaid

And then her eyes reveal the endless lure of sinking sands
They’re shifting tides, and I no longer try to understand

I’m tired of you not wanting me
I’m tired of no guarantees
I’m tired of what life could be

And we will cry no more in sorrow now for what might have been
I’ll relinquish all our promises and float out to sea
I watch the light fade at your window where the angels sleep…

C.C. Nov 2018

LYRICS: The Illusion [2018]

 THE ILLUSION

A man stands alone onstage with a box
He invites the audience up to engage
The curious onlookers examine the box
The fastenings, the locks, the walls and the base

Eyes on the box
Eyes on the stage
Eyes on the box
For what will be erased…

The assistant steps forward and opens the box
The man helps her inside, and wraps her in chains
The audience smiles as he closes the box
Looking for the trapdoor hidden under the stage

Eyes on the box
Eyes on the stage
Eyes on the box
He’s hiding his face

Eyes on the box
Eyes on the stage
The light hits the box
And she’s gone without trace…

But she was never in the box
And she was not beneath the stage
While every known witness was buying the lie
No-one was watching the lake…

Drag every inch of the lake
Drag every inch of the lake
Drag every inch of the lake

If there’s no body, then there’s no crime
No body, then there’s no crime
No body, then there’s no crime
No body - nobody…

Drag through the lake and you’ll find
No body, so there’s no crime
No body, so there’s no crime
No body - nobody…

C.C. Nov 2018

LYRICS: Sam the Lion [2018]

 SAM THE LION

Things haven’t been the same since Sam the Lion died
For now we see our world through sad eyes
She turns the other way so that I won’t see her cry
And though our time is done, she’s saying: “Never you mind;
Never you mind…”

As Wagon Master’s playing through the flickering light
This ageing bag of bones is dog-tired
We finally got us a team now here at Anarene High
An elegy of days when we were still young and wild

Oceans in your eyes
All our wasted lives
Oceans in your eyes
Fireworks split the sky
4th of July

The leaves blow long against a monochrome sky
As the gap between what we want
and who we are
grows ever wide…

C.C. Nov 2018

LYRICS: Take It to the Coast [2018]

 TAKE IT TO THE COAST

When we no longer fight a conflict of attrition
When we are crippled by the weight of malediction
We’ll find a way to put our cancer in remission
Mediate and aggregate the cause of our affliction

We’ll pen entire theories from a single notion
Take all that’s volatile and save it from implosion
We’ll take inertia and we’ll turn it into motion
We’ll find an island in the vastness of the ocean

We will mend this heartbreak
We will take it to the coast

Free from contagion now and everything it seizes
We’ll lay the stricken down and cure them of diseases
Culture a pathogen and watch as it increases
We’ll take paralysis and turn it to kinesis

We’ll settle rivalries and turn them to agreement
We’ll find the languishing and save them from bereavement
We’ll take insanity and turn it into reason
Agony and ecstasy and joy in every season

We’ll take a reservoir and turn it into wine
An elixir pulled from resin on the vine
We’ll take imprisonment and turn it into flight
We’ll wish our wasted days away, and we will make eternity of time

We will mend this heartbreak
We will take it to the coast

She sighed: “The beauty that I could bring to you…”
Out on the horizon now, her signal’s coming through
All this blood from a thousand cuts will be washed away

We’ll turn the hollowness of hunger into plenty
We’ll find the vacant and we’ll fill them when they’re empty
We’ll stand in triumph as the few become the many
We’ll find deliverance where once there wasn’t any

When all these elements combine into a lotion
We’ll take intelligence, divorce it from emotion
Take infidelity and turn it to devotion
Then finally we’ll have made it to the ocean

We’ll take a reservoir and turn it into wine
An elixir pulled from resin on the vine
We’ll find serenity where animus resides...

She carried the siren’s song
(Forever, sweetheart; my bittersweetheart; forever, sweetheart)
That’s been in the dark there for so long
(Forever, sweetheart; my bittersweetheart; forever, sweetheart)
She carried the siren’s song
(Forever, sweetheart; my bittersweetheart; forever, sweetheart)
A glimmer of hope to call upon

Now hear the voice of God...

C.C. Nov 2018

LYRICS: Through the Lights of the City [2018]

 THROUGH THE LIGHTS OF THE CITY

 She sees her name in the lights of the city
They call her name in the lights of the city
And oh, she is searching, searching for a home

She said: “I’ve seen too many ghosts in the city;
I’ll never be another ghost in the city…”
And oh, all this wanting, a longing to be whole

They will lay her body down
But will they ever know her mind?

As they claim her body now
She is radiating light.

She writes her name on the walls of the city
Inscribes her name on the walls of the city
And oh, she is burning, the one eternal light

She is aflame and in flight through the city
She leaves a trail in the sky of the city
And oh, she is pulsing and strobing through the night

They will lay her body down
But will they ever know her mind?
They defame her body now
But they will never still her fight.

They will lay her body down
But will they ever know her mind?

They will lay her body down
But will they ever know her…?

She is everywhere
She is in the air
She’s suspended there
Everywhere, everywhere

We could start a new religion
We could end the Third World War
Take up arms above this city
Cross their hands and heal them all

Lay on the floor now
With all the lights out
They’ll break the door down

Lay on the floor now
With all the lights out
She’s not fucking breathing…

Violins swell on the deck of the liner
And as the ship went down, you never looked finer…

C.C. Nov 2018

LYRICS: The Middle [2018]

THE MIDDLE

Bring me the head of the finest whore
Turn the lights way down on the getaway car
I tell her, “Stop” and she says: “One more…”
She cannot hold back and we’re going too far
It’s ornamental, my paramour
Like black blood pools on a ceramic floor
She is the one true thing I adore
A divine nymphet here to even the score

Three crows in a row means death
We’ll never see land again
Out of the confines
Into the tight-wind
Bounding the tripwires
Out on the frontlines
Over the trenches, out into No Man’s Land

We’re raiders of a stolen ark
Survivors of Jurassic Park
Take him out…

As chaos theory made its mark
The payoff couldn’t be more stark
At every mass extinction’s heart:
A kill mechanism – design by definition.

No saint ever hid in church
So don’t tell her it could be worse
Out of the confines
Into the tight-wind
Bounding the tripwires
Out on the frontlines
Over the trenches, out into No Man’s Land

She’s in the water
The serpent’s daughter
And only blood can quench her thirst

She’s in the water
Their sons and daughters
They always should be drowned at birth

We’ve had our share of -
She’s taken care of -
One more - worthless – individual
Worthless… they’re worthless… worthless… and BURIED ALIVE!

With no regrets now, we’re on the run
(Buried alive) She is a wildcat, a hellion
(Buried alive) It won’t let up ’til we’ve had our fun
(Buried alive) The day of reckoning has begun

(Buried alive) She consecrated His only son
(Buried alive) Then held him up with a nailgun
(Buried alive) Emptied the chamber of all but one
(Buried alive) And all that’s sacred’ll be undone…

You change your life, I’ll change mine, and we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.

C.C. Nov 2018

LYRICS: Sorry For Your Loss [2004]

 SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS

With deep regret, I apologise
For coming here to waste your time
You tell me to get back in line
And say this don’t come easy

I don’t expect you to empathise
With the burning heart beneath my lies
But the vision you don’t recognise
Is one that don’t come easy

I don’t need you to tell me
How you can’t live without me
If there’s just one thing about me
It’s that which makes me stronger

As throne and crown were sold for parts
You cut me down and broke my heart
And threw me back right to the start
And say this don’t come easy

The scaling-down was oh-so kind
But I’ve been here, I’ve read your mind
Do you think I could be so blind?
Believing that is easy

I don’t need you to tell me
How you can’t live without me
If there’s just one thing about me
It’s that which makes me stronger

All I have to do is tell myself
I don’t need you and then I’ll be fine
All you have to do is write it down
And sprint onward while I get left behind

So you sit there and prioritise
A set of answers analysed
The process here was rationalised
To say this comes so easy

So if all is gone and I’m denied
Then I won’t sit here mesmerised
You pulled me down beneath the tide
And reversing that ain’t easy

I don’t need you to tell me
How you can’t live without me
If there’s just one thing about me
It’s that which makes me stronger

Can’t you hear me? ’Cos I’m screaming.
I’m screaming your name. I’m screaming your name.

Reside here
Abide here
I’m right here…

C.C. Sept 2004

LYRICS: Inversions [2018]

INVERSIONS

This is the last song that I’ll ever write about another savior that I threw aside. The last oath that I’ll ever sign about how circumstance and fate will soon collide. The last anthem to reaffirm a bunch of sad fucking people in a sad fucking world. ’Cos I don’t want to be an idiot, no sir. I don’t want to be wanting anymore...

Cover your eyes, beg a reprieve. Everything turns to ashes round me...

Now she is numb, a void. Our lives, destroyed. She’s done with joy; she will never love another. Still, her voice, inside the noise. The knife is poised...

I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong. She’s my obsession. She’s my invention. I’ve done nothing wrong. Been so jaded and frustrated. Spent too long on a life that I’ve hated. There’s one room in this house where no-one dares go. It won’t close, son. It’s burst open. It’s soaked down in the flooring like poison. There’s no kind of escape route here that I know...

The last words that I’ll ever write will now no longer be a verse of suicide. No more occasion to run and hide; she lit a spark, and her soul is purified. The last sound that I hear at night is now my best defence, and I hold her spirit high. I will always be an idiot, for sure; but I am never left wanting anymore...

A body’s been found under the leaves; now I have your disease inside me, yeah...

I never told a lie. I’m not afraid to die. This broken doll and I are falling over one another. There’s nothing cauterised. Three times, you’ll be denied. Now ravens take her eyes...

I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong. Wars of succession. Wars of prevention. I’ve done nothing wrong. See, I’m married to divorces: a wired study in opposite forces. There’s one room in this house where no-one dares go. It won’t close, son. It’s burst open. It’s soaked down in the flooring like poison. There’s no kind of escape route here that I know...

I can’t stop it, there’s no way. It gets closer every day. As these thoughts control my brain, the silence will take you away. In these ruins ruled by spite, we’ll survey the wreckage site. And how life will be divined, she says is no concern of mine.

There’s no proof to cling to when I’m through with you. There’s no truth I can use 
when I’m through with you. There’s no proof to cling to when I’m through with you. There’s no truth I can use when I’m through with you. There’s no proof to cling to when I’m through with you. There’s no truth I can use when I’m through with you...

C.C. Nov 2018