Delaying the Inevitable

Ears flapping in the breeze; tongue  out, tasting the fresh air rushing through the window crack. The excitement of the journey. Don’t tell him we’re going to the vets; let  him enjoy the pure thrill of just going. Until the reality of the destination dawns. Just like growing up.

Life is a series of choices. Big ones, little ones, clear-cut ones, difficult ones, ones that creep up on you without you realizing you’re making them. We’re all constrained by a finite amount of time, money and energy, and what we choose to do with them reflects our priorities. Should I apply for that job? Should I move? Should we have kids? Should I go for a run? Should I sit on the sofa with a double pack of Jaffa cakes watching World's Scariest Police Chases? Who should I vote for? We choose our representatives in parliament, and government makes choices on our behalf. With the finite amount of money and time they have, governments’ funding and policies have to reflect their priorities. Do you, for example, prioritise a multi-billion pound nuclear missile system designed to vaporize hundreds of thousands of people in nanoseconds, or do you prioritise something less explosive like health and social care? If you lead a party, you need to convince the electorate that you...

We planted the flag, but it didn’t grow Oh no! Let’s find something different to sow We’ll pull up the drawbridge, we’ll turn off the lights We’ll round them all up and we’ll read them their rights We’ll build a huge wall, and we’ll get them to pay (But if they say no, we’ll push on anyway) We’ll strengthen the army, campaigns will be planned (For ease we’ll find foes that are closer to hand) And when that’s all done, we all should unite One country, together, to fight the good fight

A heart warming tale for children of all ages: Bobby was an idealistic little bee. He spent his days buzzing around the meadows, bringing back pollen for the hive. It was exhausting and dangerous work. And he thought to himself “Why do some bees do all the hard work, putting their bee-lives on the bee-line all day, while others get the prime spots in the hive just because of inherited privilege?” The bee rulers said to the bee workers “Aren’t we lucky to have our hive close to the sunny meadow with plenty of flowers? Aren’t we lucky, because some bees have nothing?” And while other bees felt happy with their situation, Bobby knew that this was just a distraction, a con-trick to make the workers grateful for the basic shelter and sustenance they needed to survive whilst the rulers hoarded obscene quantities of honey, enriching themselves at the expense of the masses. So Bobby started to protest, he handed out bee-leaflets, he held up bee-placards, he wrote bee-protest songs. ...

*sighs* *shakes head* *tuts* *sighs some more* *drinks* *tuts louder* *writes a sonnet* Riding the Tiger In our world of post-truth, with wool over our eyes we should all go and see if the land truly lies. "Debates" are a shit-show; the "experts" are stumped, there's no place for fact-checking, when facts can be Trumped Government's clogged: nothing's passing its Khyber - it's diet is lacking enough moral fibre. So how will we get their position to shift to one where a right is a right not a gift? Where all life is sacred, not just life in the womb Where those fleeing warzones aren't told "NO MORE ROOM" Where spiritual leaders can give their hot take on social injustice, not just words on a cake. Because if we can't, if it all is in vain, We'll have forgotten the lessons of "Never again"

So, it's Burn's night. I've always felt a particular affinity with the Scottish people, mainly because I really really like fried food. I also like Haggis, as documented in this poem: Address to Haggises In General Haggis is such a tasty treat For connoisseurs of oddball meat Scottish folk are always pining For offal served in stomach lining Haggis that’s grilled, haggis fondue Haggis en croute, haggis in stew Haggis deep fried, Haggis dry roasted Haggis concasse, Haggis that’s toasted Haggis tempura, Haggis by Heston Haggis with extra assorted intestine Haggis that’s stuffed with Haggis rilettes Haggis paninis and Haggis baguettes It’s true that if I had my way I’d eat some haggis every day 

It’s December 2016. We’re in the Labour Suite of the Infirmary. A home away from home – your brothers were born here, and your Mum and Dad work here. It’s been a bad few months – in which governments encouraged us to clamber over each other to escape this fucking dumpster-fire of a year, only pausing to turn back briefly to blame the charred corpses for getting in the way. But now you’re here. The light at the end of the tunnel. What kind of a life have we brought you into? No wonder you came out screaming. Which idiots decided now would be a good time to bring you into the world? One that’s so far off the rails we’re starting to forget what the rails looked like? “Forget about the rails” they tell us, “Rails never really existed”. Maybe it’s because we think that you, in your own way, could make the world a slightly better place? I hope that’s true – that you become one of those people who put in more than you take out, in whichever way makes you happiest. But most of all I h...