The Songstone

The President has proposed that teachers should be armed. As a teacher, I agree. Think how much simpler weeding out the lazy students will be: "Haven't done your assignment again , Smith minor?" Bang!

Dad: so when you were born I left you in the care of mama and nana and didi because they would look after you better than I could. Son: you didn't want to wipe up the shit. Dad: don't say shit. Son: OK, dad. *** Son: so you know kids have been warned not to talk to strangers online. Some paedophiles are pretending to be chicken nuggets to groom their next victim. I'm sorry, but it's natural selection, isn't it? How stupid do you have to be to believe that the online voice urging you to meet them in the park is really a chicken nugget? Dad: (5 minutes of helpless laughter) even so, just because they're dim, doesn't mean they deserve to be a paedophile's victim, does it? Son: didn't say it did, but c'mon dad, fuckin' chicken nuggets? Dad: don't say fuckin'. Son: OK, dad.

Becky Binz-Comely was having a wonderful week. Formula 1 and Darts had been forced to stop using 'grid' and 'walk-on' girls after pressure from their broadcasters. A great moment for equality and a small step towards ending the disgusting objectification of women! Not that Becky objected to objectification per se . She always loved the Lady Garden Gala at Claridge's, where gorgeous hunks in skimpy loin-cloths served hard-lunching ladies. Oh! Becky took a large swig of Chardonnay. But that was different: hard-lunching, decent ladies deserved their annual ogle; not at all the same as those filthy, leering oiks at the darts. Context was everything.  Had daddy's allowance come through? She must buy a new frock to celebrate! Meanwhile, in Romford, ex-walk-on girl Jacky Common looked despairingly at the bile of bills on the table. 60% of her income gone overnight. What would she do now? She picked up the kitchen knife and considered those who with a whim

I s'pose we die in minutiae. The Visigoths come and the Senate debates procedure, precedence and etiquette.  As bees die, insects go, forests chop, seas acid, sperm decays, air chokes, nukes raise, we obsess on which sleaze gropes which bint's bum, or if some bourgeois cunt on 200k should get the same as the fuck on 250. What an epitaph.

Dad: Fair enough. Just sayin'. You should also consider that 2% doesn't sound a lot, but for every million men, it means 20000 looked like that. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the

Son (12): Dad: yeah, and what do you know about it? Son: about what Dad: drinking Son: I know its bitter as sh*t and makes me throw up *** Son: ww1 Dad: ww1 Son: those are the events after ww1. I'm talking about the actual war Dad: nope, during. Verdun was 1916 Son (a few hours later): dad only 2% of people got shell shock in ww1 so all I have to say is this That's my boy!

Becky Binz-Comely was having an awful night. Every 25th January was the same: celebrating that terrible oik Burns, who was appalling to his women and whose father was a mere tenant . Haggis!   She would write an article for the Guardian culture section . They would take anything written by and celebrating talentless posh. 'Virginia Woolf, whose contribution to and influence on literature has been immense, was born on the same day as Ayrshire’s favourite son – yet year after year, no one shows up to her party.' That this could be because Woolf was an over-privileged loony who wrote excruciating banal never wormed in Becky's 'mind'.   One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. Oh, the profundity! Becky was in raptures. Boeuf en daube! Becky was sure they never ate that in Ayrshire. 'Emily Brontë’s bicentenary is due in July.' Quite by chance, mid-rant, Becky tripped over a great writer, but perhaps realised her error an