The day before The Night Before Their workplace turned into a store With gifts galore from Santa’s stock At lunchtime, right on one o’clock.
A furtive glance across the room As someone tried to wrap perfume. A figure hunched behind a fern (the new girl had a lot to learn)
A friend will cough to help a mate Disguise the sound of Sellotape
Shirley’s eyes revealed a glint Each time she dropped another hint. In knowing just what not to tell She kept the weak under her spell.
And Andy, bless him, the poor dear Just hoped he’d get it right this year. For Sue, who longed for something French He’d bought a Jean-Paul Gautier wrench.
Old Davey Wilcox saved a packet Who thought the whole idea a racket. His gifts were met with trepidation Bought in the local petrol station.
All dreams of wintry escapades Were dashed by half-price wiper blades
Still, pity those who drew Pru’s name The dowager who ran the game And claimed the true meaning had gone Then priced her gift on Amazon.
Big Tony came to stuff his face So ate at an alarming pace Before they wrapped it up for Luke Whose wife was just as bad a cook.
Stollen, edam, Toblerone Belgian nougat in a cone Baby Jesus, Heaven sent Now came via the continent.
I’ve seen several scars happen Over a slice of marzipan
Paper plates now put aside Each festive tummy satisfied Fiona stood to give a toast But belched up Captain Morgan’s ghost.
So, Lenny then began to lift And sift until he found his gift 50 ml of CK One Would do quite nicely for his son.
Ooh, it’s lovely… that’s so sweet! As girls are wont to coo and tweet With every present they unwrap And coddle gently in their lap.
Which makes guys pause and think a bit: This Santa thing’s made me a hit That perfume seemed to animate her I’ll say ‘hi’ at the laminator!
So, Merry Christmas one and all Be pleased you got a gift at all. Enjoy that glass of Triple Sec In your new purple turtle neck!
“My dry cleaner’s been wearing my clothes at weekends,” Laverne announced. “How do you know?” “Last night she posted a picture of herself in a dress identical to one I dropped off two days ago.” “How’d she look in it?” I asked tentatively. “Fabulous.” “Bitch!” “Exactly.” “Want me to cut her?” “We’ll swing by on the way home. On Saturdays, the old man leaves early so she’ll be on her own at closing time,” she gave it some thought, “but right now I need something to eat.”
We’d journeyed into Manchester for lunch due to a lockdown in our own town. Nacho Daddy was a tapas bar in the student quarter where, upon entry, all diners were required to sign in and leave a contact phone number. Reaching for the clipboard Laverne hesitated, her hand hovering over the sign-in sheet. Upon reflection, she dropped a business card and ordered me not to touch anything. “Him over there,” she gestured towards a table of businessmen as we sat down, “the fat one. He was the last person to touch the pen.” “How do you know?” I was intrigued. “Because his food hasn’t arrived yet and the ink was smudged.” “Are you saying he licked the sign-in sheet?” “I’m saying fat people sweat more than normal people.” “Normal people?” I balked. “Sure. Ever stood behind one waiting to buy an ice cream?” “Babies are born fat and they’re normal.” “Some babies are born fat; the greedy ones. The rest of us come out as nature intended. All I’m saying is, he was the last person to touch that pen and there isn’t enough hand sanitizer in the world-” “-you should have been a spy.” “How do you know I’m not?” she countered, now scrutinizing the cutlery. “For all you know I might be in the Secret Service.” “Which would mean that’s not a real watch.” “Well spotted, my friend. This gizmo’s actually a teeny, tiny voting machine.” “And the brooch?” “It contains emergency stem cells for Melania.” “There’s not much of it,” I queried. “Slovenians are notoriously small-boned.” “Hey, you said Melania. I thought spies used code names while working in the field.” “She goes by Lady Penelope because she starts every day with a bowl of Ferrero Roche cereal. Pure class.” “And what’s his code name?” “This month he’s Mr Whippy.” “And last month?” “The Mean Tangerine. He lets me choose them.” “I love it. Got any survival tips?” “Keep low and move fast. Oh, and stop chatting to strangers; it unnerves them,” Laverne chided. “Have you seen a waiter anywhere?” “Right here,” a young man appeared. “What may I get you to drink?” “Dark rum and Coke, please,” Laverne ordered. “Excuse me, but are you Portuguese?” “I’m impressed,” he lit up. “Yes, I’m from Lisbon.” “I’ve been to Lisbon. It’s beautiful.” “I grew up there but my parents retired to The Algarve.”
“Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t want Madonna for a neighbour either,” I winced. “Crotchless panties flapping away on a clothes line just over the fence? No, thank you.” “The devil’s bunting,” Laverne’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t warned about that in Fatima.” “No, we weren’t,” our waiter laughed. “I did see her coming out of City Hall once. She looked straight at me.” “Well, you be very careful because you’re just her type,” Laverne warned. “And while we’re on the subject: why are Iberian men so good looking anyway?” “Because our mothers are all beautiful,” the waiter replied. “Aww…” Laverne melted. “I’ll bet you go to church as well, don’t you?” “St Joseph’s. I’ll bring your drinks over in a minute.” “He seems like a nice guy,” I decided, watching as he made his way over to the bar. “And that’s exactly what gets an agent killed on his first day. You’re too trusting.” “What should I do?” “I’ll taste-test your food before you eat it,” Laverne insisted. “The last time you did that I hardly had any dessert left.” “Rice pudding’s tricky. There’s a whole chapter on it.” “So, what are you going to do about your dry cleaner then?” I returned to the matter at hand. “Mess with her head. I’m going to start dropping off dresses which are a size too small for me, but before I do, I’ll change the labels.” “Why bother going to all that trouble with the labels if she won’t be able to fit into them?” “Because she’ll think she’s putting on weight and she won’t know why.” “Whoa!” I sucked in my breath at the evil genius of it. “Most guys would just throw a punch and that would be the end of it.” “Now where’s the fun in that?” Laverne purred. “Wouldn’t you rather watch your enemy slowly go mad?” “Hey, would you ever mess with my head?” “You’re not a Size 10.” “Neither are you but answer the question.” “What do you think?” she raised an eyebrow. “I think you’re smart but I’m smarter.” “Are you sure?” “Yup,” I was adamant. “So then, let me put this to you: have you ever ordered a dessert you know I don’t like?” Damn.
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
The last of the dishes put away and with 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 the Range Rover after he’d had a few. Not only did he enjoy ramming poachers off the road, but Philip proved a ticking time bomb who would say anything to anyone, especially if they were foreign. 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 that 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 that he planned to make a documentary on mental health with Oprah Winfrey. Then the rumours that Kate and Meghan could no longer stand living in 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).
As for Anne, an examination of this royal princess actually requires crossing over to the Dark Side. And yes, 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. Often 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.
Then, in floated Princess Diana and it was game on.
Dispatching her sister-in-law abroad in a stroke of genius, father and daughter 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 Diana doll sans tête. While 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.”
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 