Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Bus to Nowhere

Another journey on the bus to nowhere, winding through the apocalyptic landscape of post industrial Ayrshire in the company of collected WHOORS, NEDS and DRUNKARDS who are all, THANK FUCK, having their lives turned around by attending college three days a week so that they can, after further education, better resume careers as WHOORS, NEDS and DRUNKARDS. The bus takes a long time, not just because it has to avoid the tumbleweed and burned out Ford Fiestas but because each passenger has a sackload of medical prosthetics, crutches, zimmer frames, or hugely expensive buggies for the single mothers' vicious children en route to the creches where they spell rude words in apphabet bricks while their mothers plan their next impregnation. Of course it's not all like that. Is it? YES IT FUCKING IS. It's time for anyone with a bit of intelligence,work ethic or sense of responsibility to man the lifeboats folks. THE SCUM ARE TAKING OVER. They're colonising us and the big laugh is we're paying for their upkeep while they DO IT. i KNOW i KNOW I can hear you say and I really want to agree with you that for every non-educated DOLEHOUND and SCRUBBER there are honest working class people looking for a chance to get a job and get on but when's the last time you met one? There arenae any in my street anyway.

Monday, November 24, 2008


COLD THAT ENTERS YOUR bones its winter nice for the weans but PISH for everyone else. I play the lottery every week and every Friday night, soused to the GILLS, I make up another ritual to try and persuade GOD, VISHNU, THE GREAT spirit, MANITOU, JK ROWLING or whatever other DEITY comes into my mind that my numbers should come up so I can escape this ragged freezing country full of deidheids and go and live in my dream in North Africa. I've tried everything short of CUTTING OFF MY OWN FUCKING HEAD and offering it on a plate. I've drawn the line at this because it seems to defeat the purpose but life's just one inherent CONTRADICTION so I might try it this Friday. Joke is if I did I'd win. I think I'll just keep going through my GLOSSARY of DEITIES PAST AND PRESENT till I get to some fucking OBSCURE MESOPOTANIAN HAMSTER GOD who will answer my 5 hour prayer ritual with six numbers. In the meantime I'm going to write to JK Rowling and find out exactly the deal she cut with Satan. Not Santa.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Second Rant

The bastards tried to shut me up. The poetry police. The gibbering classes. But a McWhiinie will never stop ranting until he feels the cold smacker of Death on his fevered brow.

They made a mistake and I was able to sneak out of the suburban garden shed they'd kept me locked up in since last summer. 6 months with only a three legged chair and a tiny length of hosepipe to keep me company. Of course they thought I'd starve but there's a lot of insect life in a garden shed and over the passage of time I was able to keep alive and lose the 13 stone needed to squeeze out the tiny window, And now they're running scared, the bohemians, the look at me brigade, the local poetasters.

I had time to scratch with a small sharp splinter something like 298 poems on my skin in my own blood and with the help of a long mirror I am able to transcribe these for your delight. Here's one off my arse.

Poem From Off My Arse

You wouldn't think it possible
to write a poem on your arse
i've been told by arseholes
"I say, That poem's arse"
and so it is, this time.

First Rant Repeated

The Scots language does not exist!!!!!

That's not entirely true. It exists if you're one of the folk making money out of pretending to speak it, or rather pretending to write it. I have travelled widely throughout this beautiful nation of ours in my capacity as encyclopedia salesman and engineer on a tramp steamer and have never ever met anyone who spoke Scots the way it's portrayed by Scots language poets. The reason for this is because they invent it. Turn a Scots language poet upside down and shake him/her and sooner or later a dictionary will fall out.

A Raik tae the Letter-box
Oh, whit swippert the muin gaed breengin
Southlins ablow the cloudspast Barra leamin in the sea,
and deil a bit did we ken
at hus it wes at wes vaigin lik the skiffsnorlins ayebidinlie,
Galileo abuin Garrynamoniean Copernicus
heich in the liftan the wast wunn waffin the electric wires
an the letter gaun hurlin out o sicht.

Derrick McClure

Eh? What? norlins ayebidinlie? Urf Gurg Quark!

Either it's complete gibberish or it becomes Scots simply by misspelling the words.


Wi’oot leavin yer ain lanye can still be an exile
wha watches the lies othe lan, the leidaw taen fae within.
A sleekit kinna weyo kiddin ye wiveneers o democracy.
At least here in Prague
it was clear that oppressors wir in.
An ye kent fir sure
when they left.

Liz Niven"

At least here in Prague/it was clear that/oppressors WIR in"

That's all you need to do to make it Scots. Spell it wrong. I know Liz Niven. She is a beatiful and gifted woman and writes and speaks English perfectly well.