English votes for English Laws #evel

12 Jan img_1233-1

 When is a union,

not a union?

When is one nation,

 not one nation?

We’ll keep you in name only,

We don’t want your voice in the chamber,

‘England and Wales only.’ 

Born in a Calais camp

14 Dec

Fleeing from endless war,

They walk for a thousand miles or more.

To flee horrors that never cease,

They brave stormy seas.

A scared man, his terrified wife and an unborn child.
They walk away,

from a homeland of doom,

Yet border guards tell them

there’s no room

For a scared man, his terrified wife and an unborn child.
So on a cold December night,

Out of mind of out of sight,

In a tent of tarpaulin,

By a candles faint light,

They took shelter,

As her time was near,

A scared man, his terrified wife and their unborn child.
What life can they have when nothing they own,

A long way from home,

To them no gifts of compassion, mercy shown,

To this scared man, his terrified wife and his newborn child.

Hidden chamber

1 Dec IMG_0960

With the presence of new hidden chambers detected in Tutankhamun’s tomb, here is my poem influenced by Tutertiti fever! 

Hidden chamber 

What will be behind that door,

Sealed with painted plaster for 3000 years or more,

Papyrus rolls,


to dispel entrenched myths.

Necklaces of carnelian

Gold amulets and signet rings

A multitude of wonderful things?

Perhaps the body of a lost queen

A chamber pristine?

A tomb within a tomb,

A divine teen with his stepmother queen,

What will be behind that door?

Short story – To War or not to war

26 Nov IMG_0948

Those green benches the scene of many a fierce debate in the hallowed house, was now the scene of another contest titanic struggle on thorny issue. The issue was war. To go to war or not to go to war, that was the question.
The PM was the first to rise to the dispatch box.

“I’m sure many of you have been shocked and sickened by the horrific images of slaughter and carnage that we see in our TV screens. I’m sure many of you were also shocked by the barbarity of the attacks that were carried out without mercy. This nefarious group who I will categorically refuse to dignify in this house with their name have made no secret their murderous aims and left unchecked they could unleash their madness upon our shores. 

Surely now the time for debate is over,

Surely now the time has come for action.

Surely now is the time to strike.

Mr speaker, I put the proposal before the house of military action, of striking at the heart of this implacable enemy, to degrade and destroy and wipe out this poisonous plague that poses a threat to our security, our very way of life.”

He sat down to the raucous sound of wall that surrounded him from the benches behind him acclaiming their support.

The leader of the opposition straightened his tie as he stood and walked to the dispatch box.

‘Mr speaker, my honourable friend speaks eloquently in this chamber in favour of military action and yes I was similarly shocked and sickened by the barbaric attacks perpetrated by that heinous group but as a responsible leader of the opposition, my job is to examine the prime minister’s plans. What I have heard and what I have read raises many questions.
First of all, what form of intervention does the right honourable gentleman propose we take? After the end of long protracted conflicts that still live fresh in the memory, do we have a serious appetite to once again commit our brave men and women into another potentially long and dangerous theatre. So if boots on the ground is off the table, is it an air campaign the right honourable member proposes? An air campaign to strike at an enemy known to hide amongst a civilian population would have a horrendous cost in life. If we survived the Blitz with stoic defiance, then surely can’t our foes? Blanket bombing is similarly barbaric and in a war without uniforms, there can truly be no precise strikes.

Also what kind of country do we leave behind us? Our past interventions have been deficient in planning for a post conflict world. Toppled dictators left a vacuum often filled by even more odious characters. Do we have a plan for peace, a plan to create a just society from the ashes we rain down? Will all the Queen’s planes and all the queen’s men truly put the country together again?’

The last remark prompted hear hears from back benchers on his side.
The leader closed his speech without any notes, throwing the paper to one side.

“Tonight each of you on both sides of the house must vote with your conscience. In a world where heinous acts are committed seemingly without conscience, we must not neglect ours. We must not, blinded by anger, run headlong into a dangerous situation without a proper plan of how we similarly exit after the guns fall silent. Our security depends not only on our action but the manner of our action and the consequences of said action. Let that be on our consciences also.”
They rose from those green leather benches and walked towards the voting lobby. Their 650 votes the difference between war and peace, life and death. A hell of a thing to weigh on the conscience.

The heretic – a short story

4 Oct

The heretic is dead. That enemy of Akhetaten, the so called son of the Sun is no more. Whilst there was no wild cheering as such, his death wasn’t greeted in Thebes with universal mounting either. 

 The last two decades hadn’t been kind to the city noted by the poets as ‘Hundred Gated Thebes’. Once the sparkling jewel of the two lands and beyond,it’s hallowed streets once filled with the sounds of festivals now filled with the cries of starving children. It’s once great shrines now overgrown with weeds.

Merit was walking the hot dusty Theban streets, a man on a mission.

His mission was to find the hallowed statue of Amun Ra. Venerated for centuries in the great sanctuary of Karnak, once paraded to popular acclaim in his golden barque shrine, he was hidden to escape Akhenaten’s destructive purges.

He had learned his arcane trade in secret.It had been 5 years since this tall youth was shaven and begin his clandestine ministry to those still secretly devoted to the old gods. His temples were the cramped basements of the private homes where even the Aten couldn’t see.

Since the Heretic’s death, the shift away from the Aten had begun tentatively, but there was still doubt in the air. Would the boy king and those advising him make good on their promises and restore the old gods? Would they break away once and for all from Akhetaten?

As he entered through the towering portals of the temple, he wept. The sanctuary had been defiled. Any images of Amun that were once brightly painted were now scratched out. His name, be it on the walls or on the sky piercing obelisks, was obliterated. Even the name of the Heretic’s father wasn’t spared; no longer was he ‘Amenhotep beloved of Amun, Lord of Thebes’.

He was searching for hours and hours, raising paving slab after paving slab. Then he found it. The bright sunlight reflected off his gilded skin. Though a leg had snapped off during its hasty removal, the statue largely survived. In his hand, he held a small stela that portrayed the bizarre elongated features of the Heretic worshipping the Aten. This was the man who’s zealotry led to nearly two decades of oppression, who destroyed image after image. He would have to be careful, sacrilege against a god, even a flawed heretic like him carried a strong penalty.

Merit picked up a rock and pounded the image over and over again, until his image was indistinguishable. He recited a curse

‘May you not live forever, you who ruled without the divine order of ma-at. May your heart be devoured by the monster Ammut, Neferkheperure Akhenaten.’

But he wasn’t alone in the temple…

Tut’s wife

15 Aug IMG_0645-0

She brought him something old,

A throne of gold.

The change of names was something new,

The golden mask was borrowed,

The garland laid on his coffin,


The hustings – a short story

10 Aug

‘Welcome to a packed town hall in Birmingham for what promises to be a titanic battle between these 4 candidates who seek to be leader of the opposition and possibly the future resident of number 10,’ the new political editor said as she eagerly introduced her first big political event. 
‘Lets introduce the candidates. Candidates, you have a time limit of 45 seconds to introduce yourselves to our audience.’
‘My name is candidate A and I seek to become your prime minister. In these tough times for all hard working families, we need to create robust growth in our economy by promoting more green shoots. We mustn’t be afraid of telling hard truths, and the truth is we can’t just oppose. We need to change our party to change our nation into an aspiration nation. We need to bring back aspiration to our nation. I believe I can bring this aspiration.’
‘Hello and thank you for watching, I’m candidate B and I aspire to work hard to improve the lives of all those hard working families across the country. I grew up in a hard working household and I know that hard work should pay off. I aspire to bring back aspiration.’
‘Good evening, I’m Candidate c . I say that it’s not enough to aspire while I was a minister the last time we were in government I opened sure start centres that work hard to support hard working families. We need aspiration of action not just to talk about aspiration.’
‘I’m Candidate d . This unprecedented financial crash has changed the rules of the game. I seek aspiration for all not just the privileged few. I also want to work hard to oppose these loathsome policies and represent those working hard for their families. Austerity isn’t just an abstract concept and neither will aspiration be. ‘

The crowd applauded, the kind of applause that seemed to convey a mentality of ‘ I better clap or else it would look very impolite.’
Caroline from Kent asked the first question. ‘What would you consider to be your priorities?’

Candidate A’s eyes lit up as she responded. ‘My priority is aspiration. I seek to create a society where all hard working families can aspire to live a better life. Though we also face some hard truths and we need todo whatever it takes to aspire to grow those green shoots of our economy.’
Candidate B fluttered his eye lashes as he pondered his response. ‘I agree with candidate A as I too aspire to bring back aspiration. As you all know (yes we do know I thought), I grew up in a hard working household and I aspire to make this country work hard for the hardworking. I also agree somewhat about the hard truths…..’
Sorry to interrupt,’ candidate D said in a loud voice, ‘ but candidate B, didn’t you state the other day that you agree with me that you would seek to oppose harsh policies of the government and oppose austerity?’
‘Yes I did but I also agree with candidate A too, this is my aspirational vision.’ Candidate B responded, seemingly oblivious to the contradiction in his soundbite response.

Candidate C spoke in a calm but dispassionate manner. ‘My priority is to begin the work I started when I was a minister which included sure start, and other measures to help (you guessed it) hard working families. I call this aspirating to act.’
Candidate D added in his loud voice, ‘I seek to reopen the mines as I feel this is a great way to aspire to create a fairer society. I aspire to work hard for those families who work hard….’
It carried on in this vein after many questions asked. I switched off. Not one question answered. I wanted to be inspired, but I was just tired of the same vacuous slogans of aspiration and hard working families. Tired of keyboard warriors for each candidate ripping lumps out of each other.

As I watched the show unfold, I was reminded of the end of George Orwell’s Animal farm. I looked from candidate A to D, from D to A, but already it was impossible to say which was which. 


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