EU Turn

So we’re out of the EU.

Although I’ve lived in the UK over 30 years, I still play the role of casual observer even during times of great upheaval. This does not mean I’m short of an opinion or two, it simply means I know when to put up and when to shut up. Regarding the national catharsis that is Brexit, something that never fails to amuse me is hearing the British refer to the continent as Europe.

“Why do you want to leave the EU?”

“It’s Europeans… they’re all bonkers.”

“But aren’t you Europeans as well?”

“Are Canadians Americans?”

For some it’s much more straightforward while for others it’s a case of perspective. After years of soul-searching, many British have reluctantly conceded that they have no affinity whatsoever with foreign tongues, Carl Jung and snail croquette in vinaigrette. They genuinely enjoy visiting their European cousins on holiday but also enjoy returning home again, to the UK, where they believe good fences make good neighbours. So the guilt complex and hand-wringing need to end because Britain is no different from anyone else who decides to call time on a relationship that isn’t working.

Growing up in Toronto I had classmates from Italy, Greece, France, Ukraine, Germany, Poland, Spain, The Netherlands, Hong Kong, Jamaica, Japan, Vietnam, Korea and thought nothing of it. Everyone was from everywhere. I myself was the son of immigrants and knew what it was like to be a hybrid kid: Canadian-sounding with accented parents who ate some pretty weird food.

And a large portion of my diet back then was ethnic humour – not racist humour – ethnic humour. There’s a difference and even as a kid I knew an ethnic joke from a slur because I was raised properly in a good community. On TV I’d watch Joan Rivers tell Jewish jokes, Richard Pryor tell black jokes, Dean Martin tell Italian jokes and Don Rickles tell jokes about everyone. And everyone laughed because we all recognised our own cultural eccentricities within them, along with those relatives certain jokes described to a tee.

Tell these same jokes today and you’ll be arrested by the Fun Police.

The referendum was, of course, about more than Polish plumber jokes. There were serious constitutional and inter-governmental sore points between the UK and the EU which neither side could resolve. This, however, doesn’t mean we’re no longer friends who can share a laugh among ourselves.

We’re simply getting rid of the joint bank account and the in-laws.

So then, what about the future?

Well, my guess is that nothing will change because nothing ever does. The British will still holiday in Europe, continentals will still come here to take selfies with the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and the French, as is their way, will continue to dine on creatures we wouldn’t even poke with a stick.

Plus ça change, eh?

Helluva Twist

To the Finder

Should you happen upon these pages, Dear Reader, you will acquaint yourself with the final remembrances of a life – my life – which is no longer of any consequence to those who mattered most to me. For the record, I was christened Anne, branding me with the same scarlet stain borne by my mother, who died in childbirth. My father’s name I know not, nor was it ever a matter of record, which resulted in my being spirited away under a veil of shame to an orphanage on the very day I first drew breath. I am told I have a sister three years my elder, but Providence has never guided her along the path I have travelled, which, I suppose, has spared her the shame of having to acknowledge our kinship. Yet, I should have liked to look upon her face just the once, if only to discern even the slightest resemblance to the beloved sibling who appears every night in my dreams. But dreams are not to be trusted, for they ease the torment of not knowing with trickery, filling in gaps where there ought to be knowledge, lending convenient falsehoods which soothe the conscience, unperturbed, until morning.

I am Anne, not yet twelve years of age; this is all I can confirm to you.

My life as an orphan could not have been more wretched, even if I had been sent to the colonies where men feed upon the flesh of other men and fail to know their Maker. It is not the lark which wakes us each morning, but the birch across our faces in cold darkness, accompanied by the dull ache of hunger. Our tormentors squeal with delight at our sufferings as they watch us wince and stumble with fatigue, a weariness which pushes downward with such force that some are unable to straighten and walk upright until mid-day.

Today – my final outing on this Earth – I was not permitted even to see the sun, let alone feel its radiance. When I climbed up to the only window within reach, I discovered that it had been smeared with grease, so as to blur the comings and goings of those on the other side. I cried, but without tears, for they too have abandoned me, reducing my anguish to a whisper and little else, as even my breath fails to serve.
For you see, I am these days, breathless, due to incessant coughing which knocks at my chest with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer. I know what it is that has come for me – I know. From the look of panic among those who cannot hide their horror, to the countenance of quiet resignation which stares back at me from the darkened window. Without mercy, a malady burrows deeper and deeper into the soft, delicious flesh of my lungs; its hunger insatiable, its progress relentless.

So now, Dear Reader, as my spent candle’s tiny light beckons me to follow it into darkness, I must to bed for the final sleep. I lay me down with a heavy heart for it is without friends, without family and without having told my sister how much I love her. I can see her now… Esther (for I have named her) is trying to find me as I write this, but the race is now over without the prize being claimed.

To my sister, I offer my heart.
To this life, I offer myself.
To My Maker, I offer my soul.
Remember me – I am Anne.

And now to dream.

Tale End

Where’s Monica? a colleague asked

The heating’s not turned up enough

It’s not as if she’s over-tasked

To take care of this kind of stuff.

Where’s Monica? another chimed

It’s 9:05, we’ve got no milk

Do we now have to have her timed?

Her job? Her breaks? Her type? Her ilk?

I never bother, you know me

Head down, work hard and see it through

But did she get the gluten-free?

If not, my bowels will turn to glue.

The printer’s low on paper too

Delivery was yesterday

It’s just one flight, it isn’t two

So why the need for this delay?

I saw her tumble down the stairs

The look of shock upon her face

Those sandwiches went everywhere

And crystal’s not cheap to replace.

What if she’s poorly, do we know?

Those files won’t files themselves today

Or HR, did they let her go?

For if they did, they didn’t say.

No, Monica is fine and well

She hasn’t quit, she wasn’t fired

Her colleagues didn’t hear her tell

In one week’s time she’d be retired.

So now she sits as each day ends

With husband, Jim, and the odd glass

And smiles at what she left for them:

A photocopy of her ass.

Consequential Confidential

Image result for top secret Hillary sunglasses

I think at times, oh yes, I think
That I would make the best Rat Fink
The sort who listens to friends’ tales
Then snitches, sending them to jails
For foolery and crimes and tricks
(those deeds which get you two-to-six)
But then again I’d better not
They are a vengeful, wicked lot
Who’d want to even up the score
For they know me and I’ve done more…

Doggone

My dog has died and no one cares
I mention him but this draws stares
And frowns which tell me I’m too old
To mourn a pet, or so I’m told.
Empty corners, bare floor
Room before but now we’ve more
Toys donated, bed gone
No more divots in the lawn.
Coming home, a rusty gate
Announces me and though I wait
No rocket launches down the path
To knock me down and make me laugh.
Quiet mealtimes, no one begs
Or nuzzles gently at my legs
Knowing that, in time, of course I’ll
Slip him the odd, tender morsel.
Day is done, I climb the stair
And reach the top but he’s not there
I pray for sleep – those loving scenes
When he runs to me in my dreams.

Dead Giveaway

“I’m writing my will,” I announced.

“Oh my God!” Alison covered her mouth. “Are you dying? Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

“No, I’m not dying, but if I were I hope to God there’d be more on offer than tap water.”

“Save it for your nurse,” Alison fired back. “You scared me just then.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. No, I’ve decided I want to leave money to a good cause.”

“You have money?” Alison appeared surprised.

“I might have, by then,” I was a tad taken aback by the question.

“Do you consider anyone present a good cause?” Dave ventured, taking a visual inventory of my lounge.

“Don’t worry, you’re all getting something but I want to leave a legacy, something worthwhile.”

“Oh, great,” Laverne looked at the others. “I’m getting his Margaret Atwood Anthology while a bunch of rotten schoolkids are going to score an iPad.”

“No, I’ve been looking into it and I think I’d like to help save the rhino.”

“Since when?”

“Since about three o’clock because it’s taken me all morning to think of a good cause.”

“Why rhinos?” Dave was curious.

“I did a project on them in school and got an A+ on it, so I guess I’m saying thanks in my own little way.”

“And which rhinos are we talking about in particular?” Laverne cast her line.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean which rhinos? Javan, Sumatran, black, white… and I think there’s a fifth. You guys?”

“It says here there’s a great, one-horned rhino,” Alison scrolled through her phone.

I smelled an ambush.

“The white rhino. I’m saving white ones.”

“What do you have against black ones?”

“Nothing.”

“According to the statistics, there are a lot more white rhinos. Maybe you should help the black ones,” Alison scrolled further. “Oh, wait… the black ones have been making a comeback. That’s good.”

“Actually, it’s the black rhinos you hear about in the news all the time. You don’t really hear much about the white rhino anymore,” Dave joined in. “And are they even white or is that just from rolling around in the dust because they actually look sorta grey.”

“There are thousands of white rhinos and less than one-hundred of the Javan and Sumatran ones,” Laverne was also on her phone. “Actually, those last two don’t even have horns, just bumps. And they’re a lot smaller than the African ones. Are they still rhinos if they no longer look like rhinos?”

“Maybe they’re hybrids. Fifty percent rhino, fifty percent… I dunno… hippo. Someone will have DNA-tested their lineage.”

“Maybe they no longer think of themselves as rhinos. Maybe they identify as something completely different.”

I could feel it all slipping away from me.

“Maybe they were shipped to Asia,” Alison suggested, “although why would you transport rhinos anywhere? Saying that, if they were relocated back to Africa they’d be disadvantaged compared to the ones with horns.”

“The other rhinos would probably attack them,” Laverne turned to me. “Is that what you want? Rhino gang wars?”

“I’m not following your logic,” I replied, “but do go on.”

“You want to donate money to the white rhino who outnumber all the others combined-“

“-yeah, but hold on… proportionally, all the others are doing better than the white ones now,” Alison interrupted her. “And did you know that the northern white rhino is down to its last two?”

“In the whole world?” Dave checked he’d heard correctly.

“Yep, there are only two females left. “

“Then it’s the females we ought to be helping; they’re the ones producing the next generation,” Laverne decided. “We don’t even need the males, just a cup of their you-know-what. What are you doing to help these two females?”

“They’ll be in captive breeding programs,” I suggested, tentatively. “They’ll breed them with the other whites.”

“Why not the black ones?” came the riposte. “They’re the ones being shot left, right and centre. It’s not the white ones being killed, is it?”

“And what if the females don’t want to breed? Don’t they have a say in it? Why is it up to the males?” Alison queried.

Update: I’ll be leaving everything to the goldfish.

Alcohol On You Later

My granny’s got two teapots
(this tends to make her wee lots)
Her good one goes out on display
The other she keeps tucked away
When visitors decide to call
The posh pot serves them, one and all
Dispensing cups of Earl of Grey
On her brushed-silver serving tray

A person shouldn’t trivialise
A ritual so civilised

When Elsie Burns, who lives next door
Comes calling ‘round each day at four
The Staffordshire is put away
For it’s too late for Earl of Grey
Gran reaches for her other pot
Whose contents never need be hot
And pours her canny friend a cup
Of mother’s homemade pick-me-up

A nip of whisky leaves them feeling
Life’s too short to drink Darjeeling

Another Mist Opportunity

I’m known to stretch out on the lawn
Amidst the weekend carry-on
Of mowing, trimming, watering
And folks I know I ought to ring.
Just when it starts to get too loud
When life can push and kids can crowd
Before the next field’s needing ploughed
I lay right back and pick a cloud.
The dogs, alerted, circle me
Unsure if they should stay or flee
They know each trick, each ruse I use
To wrestle them in ones and twos.
Eventually they come to rest
On either side, heads on my chest
And then the three of us just stare
At our own clouds a way up there.
Marshmallow Fluff or Dairy Whip
A giant dollop on the lip
Of Heaven, cruising like a ship
That’s drifted, noiseless, from its slip.
I want to jump and land on it
And try my best to stand on it
Then sink into its spongy core
While eating handfuls from its store.
They have no map, no place to be
You can’t catch clouds because they’re free
To nonchalantly skirt your town
And make us run when they come down.
The trouble is, they take their time
And doing so, robs me of mine
So up I get – no time to lie!
Until the next cloud passes by…

Heir Heads

British Royal Family Tree - Guide to Queen Elizabeth II Windsor Family Tree

With the last of the dishes put away and the Corgis farting up a storm after polishing off the unwanted sprouts, everyone gathered in front of the TV for Her Majesty’s Christmas message to the nation. At 95, The Queen appeared staid and resolute, a safe pair of hands to see us through the next 12 months.

She was actually doing just fine; it was the rest of the family who needed sorting out.

Her Madge had described the previous few years as “quite bumpy”, but that was just how Philip drove after he’d had a few. Not only had the Duke of Edinburgh run some poachers off the road, he’d proved a ticking time bomb who would say anything to anyone, especially if they were foreigners. Some found this quite rich, considering his father was Prince Andrew of Greece and Denmark, his mother was Princess Alice of Battenberg, Granny was a Russian and he was born in Greece but educated in France, Germany and England. Between them, they covered more countries than EasyJet.

Earlier in the year, Harry had put the boot into his older brother, the future king, admitting the two hated each other’s guts. Wills then hit back saying he “worried Harry might be bonkers,” which Harry then proved by announcing he planned to make a documentary on mental health with Oprah Winfrey. Then the rumours that Kate and Meghan could no longer reside within the same kingdom became evident when the Sussexes vacated Kensington Palace and fled to the icy Kingdom of Canadia. However, bored after only two days by the solitude and sheer beauty of their surroundings, and running low on Manuka Elbow Moisturiser, the pair then fled to California to… erm… escape the royals (which they’d already done), Britain (which they’d also already done) and the media (whom they’d taken on their honeymoon).

And as for Anne – an examination of this royal princess isn’t for the squeamish – while it’s true she is indeed very hard working, the same can be said of fire ants. For her Duke of Edinburgh Award, it’s rumoured a young Anne commissioned a wind-up doll capable of neutralising any lady-in-waiting who approached without curtseying. Sometimes mistaken for an Amish horse hand by members of the Household Cavalry, an awkward Anne clung to the fact that she remained the only princess in a stable of princes.

That is, until Diana appeared on the scene.

Dispatching her sister-in-law abroad in a stroke of genius, Anne and her father then fixed their sights upon the latest royal interloper. Rumour has it that during her initial stay at Kensington Palace, Prince Philip presented Kate Middleton with a Princess Diana doll sans tête. Examining it thoughtfully, if not warily, the young Kate made a mental note of her nearest exit.

“She was pretty like you,” Princess Anne remarked. “She’s not pretty now, though… I’m the pretty princess now.”

“Isn’t she missing something?” Kate asked, pointedly.

“My bad,” Anne apologised, crushing her can of Pilsner and flicking it at her. “There’s the car.”

Kids, eh?… w

Who’d have ’em?

‘Tis The Seasoning

Went out with friends for Christmas Eve lunch at The Pu Pu Pot. Everyone was a regular, except for Steve, who stopped eating Chinese food after watching a Channel 4 documentary on Wuhan street food. Whilst perusing the menu, Laverne casually asked if anyone had ever tried shirako.

“Sounds Japanese, not Chinese,” I said.

“The Japanese call it shirako, you’re right,” she confirmed, “but it’s popular throughout Asia.”

“What is it?” Steve asked, trying to locate it on the menu.

“It’s an exotic delicacy. Most foreigners won’t touch it.”

Laverne was up to something.

“It’s the raw male genitalia of fish which still contains the seminal fluid and all the sperm sacs. It’ll be called something different in Chinese.”

Steve turned gray.

“They liken it to runny cream cheese,” she continued, breezily.

“Another time, guys,” Steve muttered, grabbing his coat.

Although we pleaded with him to stay, he’d heard enough.

“Never really liked him,” Laverne remarked to no one in particular, as she motioned for the waiter. “Are we ordering starters?”

“Poor Steve, but at least now he won’t have to try shirako,” Alison giggled.

“They don’t serve it here. Never have,” Laverne reassured everyone. “Anyway, it’s an acquired taste.”

So is Laverne.