light verse and much, much worse
A bear who needs to use The Gents
(one of life’s everyday events)
Faces a pressing issue:
What does one use for tissue?
According to the local lore
Passed down by those who’ve gone before
Most bears will grab the nearest thing
To wipe away those bits that cling.
A most hygienic habit
But tell that to the rabbit.
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?
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.
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…
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
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…
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?
I’m Mr Ormsby and thank you very much for dropping by.
Each of us has our own guilty pleasures: Chocolate Blackout Cake, slot machines, staying in our pajamas all day, seeing a stranger walk into a lamp post, etc.
Mine is words. Whether I’m at work or walking the dog, words are constantly ricocheting around my brain. For example, whilst writing this I’ve been wondering what the word is for that little piece of plastic on the end of shoelaces.
[for what it’s worth, it’s an aglet]
Sometimes I like to chew words and blow bubbles with them. Other times, I’ll painstakingly place the little so-and-sos in regimented rows where they’re not allowed to move until given the order. Most days, however, I rely on words as ammunition in a world where I’m increasingly expected to explain my actions to others. And I must admit that it’s during these encounters when, for me, the fun begins. This is especially true when the occasion calls for returning swimwear without the receipt or spicing up one’s court testimony.
And so, this blog.
However before we continue any further, some context…
I recently started teaching in a new school where it has been pointed out to me, more than once, that I have replaced a very popular member of staff who left “before he was ready to go” (I don’t even want to know). This, now I’m only guessing here, might explain the slights I received in the form of gifts from my Secret Santa: a Yankee candle (they’re fully aware I’m Canadian), a voucher for 10 free tanning sessions (I’m ginger) and Maltesers (choking hazard). It’s the anonymity which is the appeal of Secret Santa, but if I had to wager money on it I’d ascribe these unpleasant undertones to Jerry, our racist librarian. Needless to say, I now keep the small talk to a minimum when checking out books.
In my blog you’ll find humorous poetry, vignettes, characters and outrageous word play along with the odd sober moment. And you can join me in my quest for the perfect rhyme because to me, and you purists are going to hate this, poetry needs to rhyme. Well, mine does anyway. I mean, could it be worse reading free verse?
See what I just did there?
(they hate that)
In any case, Dear Reader, I hope I make you laugh ’til you fart.
Mr Ormsby
P.S. Here’s an online interview with yours truly, if you’d like to know more:
March 19th, 2021
Bio:
I grew up in Toronto where upon graduating university I landed a job as a copy editor for a legal publisher. The work was poorly paid and mind-numbingly forensic with no room whatsoever for any creativity; we were basically word accountants. Upping sticks, I moved to the UK where I’ve ended up teaching high school. It can be a tough gig some days but the kids are insanely creative and there are always lots of opportunities for laughs with them. Often what I hear during the day inspires my writing.
What is your greatest accomplishment as a writer so far?
My greatest accomplishment to date would be starting my blog and sticking at it. I wrote loads when I was a kid, edited the newspaper at university and almost went into journalism so writing’s definitely in the DNA. And then finally, I got off the pot and started my blog. To date, I’ve posted a collection one publisher has called ‘eclectic’- it’s a mixture of humour, horror, poetry, prose, essays and opinions – which has attracted an equally eclectic readership. I’m proud of my efforts and honoured that others consider it worth reading.
Why do you write?
I guess I’ve got lots to say. Sadly, few of us are gifted orators and writing offers me the chance to get my points across without being interrupted. I’m not a very brave sort but when I write I become a superhero who’s unafraid to pull out the creative big guns and tackle anything. I use different styles and voices I wouldn’t normally get away with at home or at work; it’s very liberating being a homicidal demon one moment, then a camp Martian in hot pants the next.
What is your writing process? (Any favorite places to write? Any interesting quirks, traditions, or rituals you may have? How many times might you revise something before being satisfied with it? Besides you, does anyone else edit your work? etc.)
I’m writing this on a laptop with my dog snoring next to me on the sofa. Years ago I used to rise early at weekends and write until noon, after which I spent the rest of the day making revisions. These days, however, I can write day or night. I’ll often write and then take the dog for a walk so I can mull it over without seeing it. Usually by the time we’ve returned home I’ve ‘pictured’ what I need to do and make the necessary changes. And I revise constantly, often searching days for the right word until I find it. It sounds tedious but not for me because I love hunting them down, day and night. For me, constant editing is essential because I rarely do anything right the first time.
Do you have anyone (friends, relatives, etc.) review your works before you publish them?
As more friends read my blog they’re becoming braver with their criticisms which is invaluable when it comes from those you trust. They’re catching everything from typos to non sequiturs which is surprising because a lot of them were raised outdoors.
Could you give us an idea of your upcoming works without spoiling anything?
My blog contains the prologue of The Abomination which revolves around the First Nation peoples of Canada, the Church and a lot of cultural rituals we perform without knowing it. It’s a thriller and I’ve written about half of it so far. Right now I need to kill a character to further the plot and I can’t bring myself to do it. I would have made a terrible vet.
What do you hope to achieve as a writer?
I would like every one of my students to have to read my work and then sit a three-hour exam on it. That would be poetic justice after having had to read all of their stuff over the years. Other than that, like most authors I simply wish to become widely-read because I’m not writing a diary. That’s it, really.
What advice do you have for novice writers?
Write about what you know and research what you don’t know before writing about that. And don’t be intimidated because someone’s already covered what you were going to write about – what you have to say may spin the whole thing on its head. In this life, we have few opportunities to break rules without ending up before a judge; writing has no rules except those you impose upon yourself, so impose as few as possible and go for it.
What do you feel are the most important resources a writer can use?
Honesty: draw ideas from all around but don’t take what doesn’t belong to you.
A decent vocabulary (or a thesaurus): make every word count because the readers deserve it.
Mr Ormsby At Large 