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Seven go Goth in Whitby


I’d like to say the words were torn from me, a spontaneous, involuntary response to the sea and the crowds and the glorious blazing sun. But the truth was, I’d been planning this moment ever since I’d first heard boats and the Whitby goth weekend mentioned in the same sentence.

“Go on,” said Hazel behind me, clutching the back of my lifebelt with one hand and anchoring herself to the railing with the other, as the Ocean Spirit turned in a majestic circle and the cameras flashed on the quay.

I braced myself and leant over the bow of the boat. Flinging my arms wide, at the top of my voice and from the bottom of my heart, I screamed:

I’m the king of the world!”

Dramatis Personae

Jezebel De Ville – your humble narrator

Marcus – dread lord and tyrant of the Marcus Protectorate

Heidi – traffic stopping consort of the above

Liam – teenage offspring of Heidi

Hazel – also teenaged and likewise a child of Heidi

Keith – skipper of the Ocean Spirit, and respected progenitor of Marcus

Beverley – first mate of the Ocean Spirit and of Keith, and mum to Marcus
With a full cast of Goths, Gothwatchers, DJs, dancing girls, dogs, honest merchants, fishermen, sailors and a very special appearance by the alleged Jimi Hendrix.
Yes, I did indeed spend the weekend crewing a pirate ship. Well, when I say “pirate ship”, I mean “motor cruiser”, and when I say “crewing” I mean “keeping out of the way and trying not to fall off”.

Intrigued? Part 1 of 3 will be up shortly. Watch this space!



Yes, I’ve been terribly neglectful of late.  Over a week with nary a poem or ponderance.

(Is ponderance a word?  Never mind.  It should be.)

I plan to spend the weekend crewing a pirate ship.  That should kick-start a bit of creativity…

Watch this space for possible piratical ponderances.  (It really should be a word!)


Message in a bottle

I have written this letter to you.

I have kept no record of it,

there is no draft.

I am leaving this letter for you.

I know somebody will find it,

someone like you.

I wrote it whilst thinking of you.

Whoever you are, I love you,

and you alone.

Sumer 2010

Sumer is icumen in,

Lhude sing cuccu!

Waxeth legs and chocolate eggs

To groweth arse anew.

Ducks that bonketh in the lake

Keepeth everyone awake

Nettle stingeth, cowpat mingeth,

Murie sing cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu,

shut the hell up, cuccu.

It’s six am, cuccu.

Found objects

Awaiting monsterhood, some socks

(the toes worn out).  Within a box

the first rose I was ever given,

dried, unfaded.  Lengths of ribbon,

buttons (loose) and bits of string.

A rather pretty silver ring.

Bills and such, requiring filing;

pictures of my mother, smiling.

Marvellous to find all these;

I still can’t find my bloody keys!

Dog Day

Not feeling very sociable tonight,

I’m in a proper mardy of a mood.

Mirrors shatter at the very sight:

Not looking very sociable tonight,

Or ever, really. Well, let’s face it, who’d

Be interested? Hence the attitude

Not being very sociable. Tonight,

I’ll wallow in this bitch of a bad mood.

…say something nasty.

Even if you can say nice things, for that matter.

Go on.  Seriously.  Be horrible.  Be cruel.  I can take it.

No, I’m not a masochist.  I do have a point to make.  Coming right up.

People are reading, they’re actually reading this!  And some of them are even people I don’t know!  And they’ve been lovely about it, and I haven’t stopped smiling since I checked my inbox this morning.   Seriously, complete strangers, reading something I’ve written, and responding – and liking it!  It may sound silly, but this is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.

But I want more.

Because people are nice.  The people I know personally are particularly nice.  And because they’re nice, and because they like me – god knows why, but they do, probably because they’re such lovely tolerant people – some of them read my blog.  And they tell me how much they like it, sometimes in person, sometimes in the handy little comment box at the bottom of the post.

That comment box.  Down there.  Scroll down a bit, you’ll see it.  Remember this, it will become important in a minute…

My point is.  Yes, I still have a point.  And it’s this: they like me, and they don’t want to hurt my feelings by saying, for example: “What’s with all the long words?  It looks like a dictionary just threw up” or “Actually, it’s an unmitigated pile of wank whose sole redeeming feature is that it rhymes a bit, so it must be a proper poem, I suppose” or even “God, would you shut up about your bloody blog already?”

But I need to hear these things.  I want to hear these things.

I won’t stop writing just because not everybody likes every single thing I’ve written.  I enjoy it too much.  I won’t even change what I write according to what people think, necessarily.  But I would like to know.

Otherwise, how can I improve?  And how do I know when something I do is a success, without anything to compare it to?

Therefore.  My point.  Yes, there still is one.  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to use the comment box at the bottom there – the one I mentioned earlier – and tell me which is your LEAST favourite post on the blog so far.

You don’t even have to tell me why.  You can be as savage as you like.  Don’t worry about hurting my feelings.  Do it anonymously if you like, that’s the thing about the internet, you can do that.  Believe me, the more negative comments I get, the happier I’ll be.  At least then I know people are reading this, and thinking about it.

And THAT’s my point.

Go on.  Stick the knife in.  Let the bile flow.  You know you want to…

Ballad of the little things

On a lovely Sunday morning, when the sun was in the sky,
And we'd spent the whole week working, and the Saturday flew by;
Well, to stay in bed was tempting, but would be a dreadful waste
So we haul our asses upright, and we dress ourselves with haste.

Little things that make us happy,
Breakfast at a greasy spoon!
Let's get dressed, and make it snappy
For the hour is almost noon.

I take ages to get ready, which I know you find annoying
But then if we never argued, it would rapidly get cloying.
And I'd rather have a fight with you, than peace with anyone,
For I know you never sulk, you only snap, and then you're done.

Little things that make you worry
I can make them disappear;
You don't have to say you're sorry,
Hold me close, love, I'm still here.

Yes, I know I'm kind of overdressed for sausage, egg and beans,
While you're looking far from dapper in your T-shirt and your jeans.
But I feel like Audrey Hepburn in my five quid Asda shades,
And our feelings last forever, even when the glamour fades.

Little things I do to please you,
Little things that make you grin,
Like this dress I wear to tease you;
Who says vanity's a sin?

Oh, I love, I love, I love you, I don't care if I'm a bore,
And I wish that you'd believe I couldn't love you any more
If you had a ton of money, for our love is wealth enough,
And one room with you is better than a mansion full of stuff.

Little things you like to mention,
Little things you always see;
How you pay so much attention
To a little thing like me!

Bollocks to you, Strunk & White,

I like unnecessary words.

I’ll use them if I think they’re right,

Yes, bollocks to you, Strunk & White.

Omitting them is not absurd,

But some, I think, ought to be heard.

So bollocks to you, Strunk & White

I like unnecessary words.

On customers

No matter what they say to you,

The Customer is always right.

Your wages they still pay to you,

No matter what they say to you.

Don’t bother putting up a fight,

For be they blessing, be they blight,

No matter what they say to you:

The Customer is always right.