Goodbye, Doctor Who

(to the tune of Candle in the Wind)

Goodbye, Doctor Who –

the show I’ve loved for oh, so long.

It scared me silly countless times,

taught me right from wrong.

But they crawled out of the woodwork,

and they whispered to the execs

saying “Male role models aren’t for girls”

and they made him change his sex.

 

And it seems to me that the BBC’s

casting fandom to the wind,

as they gender swap an icon

on a PC whim.

The father figure I’ve admired

since I was just a kid –

the Beeb defeated him before

the Daleks ever did.

 

Childhood could be tough,

but Doctor Who was always there –

a man opposed to violence,

a man who always cared.

He would save the day

not with force, but with his mind.

Now it seems that’s not enough –

now a doctor needs a cute behind.

 

And it seems to me that the BBC’s

casting fandom to the wind.

Now the battle lines are forming –

let the hate begin

as toxic minds on either side

are quick to hurl abuse –

and those of us caught in between

are saddened and confused.

 

Goodbye, Doctor Who –

the show I’ve loved for oh, so long.

It scared me silly countless times,

taught me right from wrong.

 

Goodbye, Doctor Who –

from the young girl on the living room floor

who couldn’t get behind the sofa,

so she hid behind the kitchen door.

 

And it seems to me that the BBC’s

casting fandom to the wind,

as they gender swap an icon

on a PC whim.

The father figure I’ve admired

since I was just a kid –

the Beeb defeated him before

the Daleks ever did.

 

The Beeb defeated him before

the Daleks ever did…

 

 

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Straight Outta Home Counties

You say life’s filled you with justified anger,
but I ain’t buying you acting all gangsta.
Somehow I’m just distrusting your enunciation –
‘cos when you speak, it’s pure Received Pronunciation.
Rapping ’bout your baby momma, and your bros –
bet yo momma gets you ready meals, straight from Waitrose!
I’m quick to diss this cultural misappropriation –
what’s wrong with the rhymes of your own native nation?
Try some English idioms, me old china –
like Professor Elemental, or the Gentleman Rhymer.
Maybe broaden your vocabulary, just a bit –
every other word doesn’t need to be ‘shit’.
So you think you’re 50 Cent – OK, I understand,
but this is Britain – and you’re more like Poundland.
I’m not impressed by the way you let the mic fall –
sorry, but you’re about as black as Jack Whitehall.
Pose all you want, but when you open your mouth, it’s
clear you’re a wannabe – straight outta home counties.

The Boss Has Watched A Webinar…

The Monday morning meeting,
and my heart is filled with dread.
I’ve got a sinking feeling
that fresh madness lies ahead…

For the boss has watched a webinar
and thinks there’s nothing to it.
“It’ll only take an hour.
It’s not hard – you just do it!”

There’s silence round the table.
The whole team seems dismayed.
I stifle a response about
why real experts get paid…

For the boss has watched a webinar
and thinks he knows it all.
Overnight, a master –
if those facts he can recall.

Useless to point out we lack
resources that we need!
A boss of little knowledge
is a dangerous thing indeed…

For the boss has watched a webinar
and knows just what to do –
I think I liked it better when
he didn’t have a clue!

According To Andrea…

All those who make a conscious choice
not to burden a crowded Earth,
those who spend months praying desperately
that this child will live until birth,
those who choose not to pass on tainted genes
or a cycle of abuse,
all those whom cruel circumstance
has robbed of functioning wombs,
and those who take vows of chastity
devoting their lives to others –

we don’t have a stake in the future
because we are not mothers.

The Rail Replacement Bus

Bank holiday travel! Always the same;
a chore – still more if you travel by train.
But we’re British, so we won’t make a fuss
as we board the rail replacement bus.

Surly rail staff in high-vis jackets
won’t give directions or help with baggage.
Pushed in so tightly, we feel like we’re trussed,
crammed into the rail replacement bus.

Along leafy lanes we wend our way,
join the traffic jam on the motorway.
Smug car drivers smirk – they’re laughing at us
poor souls on the rail replacement bus.

(Somehow coming back it’s even worse –
the route seems longer in reverse.
And if you can get a seat, that’s a plus
they’re rare, on the rail replacement bus.)

At last we wearily disembark,
over two hours late, in a damp car park.
Enough to make anyone scream and cuss –
the *expletive deleted* replacement bus!

Easter, Already?

It can’t be Easter already,
New Year’s barely out of the way –
but look – green shoots in my garden!
Must be spring – or else, climate change?

At least my hard work has paid off –
planting bulbs nearly finished me!
Can’t think which ones I planted where –
next week, I’ll be able to see…

And it’s not just in the garden –
on the shelves in my local shop
chocolate eggs are on display,
chocolate bunnies begin to hop.

Who buys for Easter this early?
The eggs could be addled by Lent.
The bunnies will taste quite funny,
their poor ears all broken and bent.

Old hot cross buns become tepid,
stale chocolate, spotted with white.
A symptom, like global warming,
of 21st century life.

Star Wars – The Fans’ Apprehension

On Saturday morning, I’ll be in the queue
filled with anticipation – some nervousness too.
With popcorn to munch on while watching the ads
and hoping and praying it won’t be too bad…

For Star Wars was special, it still reigns supreme
of all childhood memories of cinema screen.
But then Phantom Menace proved true to its name –
the other two prequels were more of the same.

Opening crawls about boring taxation
were only the start of the fans’ indignation.
“No more Jar Jar Binks!” you could hear them all cry –
the whole thing was ruined by bad CGI.

So this time around, I’m not asking a lot –
don’t need dazzling dialogue, intricate plot.
Just spaceships and battles – then, if we’re lucky,
a cameo from our favourite Wookiee!

Should be a safe bet that lightsabers abound –
oh, I’ll sit through a lot for that fabulous sound!
Though I guess its too much to hope that it’s packed
with actors that actually know how to act.

Secret Santa

 

Now, please don’t call me Scrooge –
I know, I’m a ranter –
but I’m taking a stand
against Secret Santa.

I’ve enough plastic tat!
Like the novelty clock,
and a magic 8 ball,
and that comedy cock…

It’s stuff nobody needs,
so I fear it all will
go to charity shops –
or end up as landfill.

Choosing gifts is a chore;
your choices diminish
when the office decides
a fiver’s the limit.

I’d rather go shopping
for gifts which feel just right
for friends – not for strangers
with taste quite unlike mine.

I don’t need a repeat
of the colleague who cried
when I bought him a book
on bunny suicide…

No more Secret Santa!
It will be a relief –
it’s no better to give
than it is to receive.

Pictures, or it didn’t happen?

I don’t show strangers photos
to prove where I have been –
my word should be enough
or, clearly, they’re no friend to me.

Photos may jog the memory,
lead to contemplation –
sadly, this has been replaced
by over-documentation.

Who can truly know a place,
find out what makes it tick,
whilst framing a self-portrait
on a damn selfish selfie stick?

No photograph can capture
a hawk’s weight on my wrist,
the crackle of logs burning,
the awesome hush of an eclipse,

the chill wind from an iceberg,
the splash of whales at play,
the warmth of a sleeping love
at the end of a perfect day.

There’s Nothing Pink About Cancer

There’s nothing pink about cancer
though there’s a whole rainbow of pain:
skin scalded by radiation,
and orange with betadine stains,
the needle bruises, greens and blues
slowly yellowing as they fade,
the scarlet of an angry scar,
and the black of a sunken vein.
There’s nothing remotely pastel
in stark choices that must be made –
which body parts to sacrifice
in the hope that some can be saved.
And it’s not just for princesses –
their princes can also be claimed.
In horrible equality,
all are hairless, sexless and drained.
It gnaws at families, and friendships,
till only the strongest remain.
No, there’s nothing pink about cancer;
it’s cold, and it’s cruel, and it’s grey.