Besides the trivial meanderings of bloggerings herein and thereabouts, I have written screenplays (In Hollywood, Playing Willy) and am putting the finishing touches to my first novel, The Sublime Dramatic; a tale of science fiction, comedy and global conspiracies. News of that will be forthcoming, so please follow me on Twitter/Facebook for more information.

Within the pages here lies a treasure trove of total bollocks.  Why treasure trove? Because bollocks are testicles, which are colloquially known as family jewels - so treasure.  A trove? Well, as you can see from this intro - the trove is as drivelling as it is replete!

Fake News!

He said he’d stop the Mexicans,
His words were all Fake News.
He said he’d ban the Muslims;
He said he loved the Jews.

He said his hair was all his own;
A hay bale of Fake News.
He said the crowds were bigly;
Denied his hands abused.

He said her votes were less than his;
A fuck-load of Fake News!
He said God made the sun come out,
Whilst rain filled up his shoes.

Electoral college counted;
Again he gave Fake News.
He claimed the biggest victory…
Somehow, he seemed confused.

His entourage applauded,
To back up more Fake News
Of CIA staff that clapped for him;
In fact, they stood bemused.

Mexicans, “they’ll pay for that!”;
A wall of more Fake News.
From corners, in their taco trucks,
They smiled and looked amused.

Dead, illegal voter scum
Burst forth with more Fake News;
The democratic zombies on
An inter-state vote cruise.

He said he’d bring the jobs back,
But China screamed “Fake News!
We make your stupid fucking ties
And tiny little shoes!”

He said he’d drain the swamp out:
More slimy, shit Fake News.
As billionaires all settled in
And Putin came to schmooze.

Appointing all the best, he said;
Guess what? Yep, more Fake News!
As Flynn he fled with Russian mobs
And Sessions self-recused.

“Fake News!”, said all his sycophants
They cried out “More Fake News!”
The GOP enablers all stood by
To watch their country lose.

I’ll change the rhyming structure 
To end, I’ll be quite blunt.
Fake News is gone, this is the truth:
Donald Trump’s a cunt.

Insomnia (The 3rd & Final Movement)

Trying to sleep,
Counting some sheep.
Brain’s all a'mess;
I’m starting to stress!

Yearning to doze,
Brain spasm grows.
No rest in sight;
That Sandman’s a shite!

Bored of this crap,
I must have a nap.
So then I guess…
I’ll try to “de-stress”!

No sleep from that,
I reach for the cat.
Wipe down my middle,
Then kick out sweet Tiddles.

Losing my rag,
My sanity sags.
My thoughts scream and ache:
“God, why? For fuck’s sake?!”

I start work at eight,
It’s getting too late
For even an hour!
…I’ll jump in the shower.

But fate’s quite a trip;
In shower I slip.
Crack open my head
And fuck me, I’m dead!

At last, off I go
And blood starts to flow.
My dreams down the drain
With bits of my brain.

And so, in the end
The moral dear friends
Is: showers are shitty,
Just make do with kitty.

A Swan Song for 2016

In all my years, you’ve been the worst;
You drove through like some fucked-up hearse.
Grabbed our heroes, made us cry
But now we lay YOU down to die.

Bowie, Burns, Aherne and Cohen, 
Wilder, Prince, the list was growin’.
Parfitt, Ali, Wood & Sachs,
Cancer, drugs and heart attacks.

The sadness swelled, your hunger grew;
You bit off more than you could chew!
(Or so we thought, then watched you gorge 
Fisher, Reynolds, Gill and George!)

And humans weren’t your only bent,
You sniped our famous furry friends:
Harambe, Pan Pan, others too
All wild and free (locked in a zoo).

Many more adorned your plate,
Mothers’ pride and fathers late.
As if this feast was not enough,
You thought you’d play with other stuff…

Us Brits you gave a cliff to jump;
America: a cunt called Trump.
Divided nations, left and right
And laundered Klan sheets, oh so white.

With UKIP, Klan and Britain First
You let them grunt their very worst.
A murdered MP for their cause,
The racists knuckled out applause.

Brexit, president-elect;
We tied those nooses round our necks.
With fascist cheers and bigotry;
We turned our backs on rising seas.

Addressing dopes, the dazed, the dumb;
You sent The Mail, you shat The Sun.
You told them lies and instilled fears
Of immigrants with grotesque smears.

You know, my dear, you’ve done your best
But here we stand, we’ll never rest!
We’ll fight, resist and change things round
Until this shit had been unwound.

And so, I’ll lift my bubbling glass 
And promise now, we’ll kick your arse
Straight back to Hell, where you belong
On New Year’s Eve, with drunken song!

Goodbye, you dick, please close the door,
Just slink away to nevermore.
And know we, filled with beer and wine,
Will raise our cups to Auld Lang Syne!


I meant to publish Saturday;
Suspecting you’ll take more away.
But, best I post while I exist;
For fear you’ve got me on your list!

An Open Letter to 2016 (cc 2017)

Dear 2016 
(cc 2017)

Within a matter of just a few weeks, the time will be upon us to usher you out of our lives. Just as we did last year, we will replace the empty void with a brand new year - but this time around we are doing it with a feeling of suspicion and fear, hitherto never experienced by my ageing generation.

You turned up to the party last year, just as we were waving 2015 out of the door. We joyously popped open those champagne bottles and acted like demented Formula 1 champions on the winner’s podium, covering our faces and your boobies in bubbly - totally unaware of your resentment toward the human race and the well-being of the planet.

Within days, your anger and raison d’être started to manifest itself. You began your demolition by blindly killing off some of our most beloved musicians actors and celebrities. Slowly and methodically, you picked off the greats. One by one.  A carnage meant to disarm us and steal the very arts that made us human.  A virtual book-burning that was to herald your true aims of a Nazi rebirth.  

With the aid of your loyal right-wing, multi-billionaire servants, their tabloids and well-oiled propaganda machines (now given the more facile moniker of “Fake News”, as those suckered in by such drivel generally can’t manage more than four letters in a word at a time), you were able to extract Britain from the EU and install the greatest divide across our country, Union and Europe since World War II. You gave Boris Johnson a big boy’s job and then you set him and Nigel Farage on an absurd world trip, making the global populous believe they somehow represented British people with their non-sensical, seemingly drunken and insane waffle.  For that alone, you deserve a massive punch in your suppurating gonads.  Apparently, hereafter to be referred to as your “Red, White and Blue Brexits".

Then after all that - you casually walked into the centre of the room - whilst we all stared, aghast at the audacity you showed by still being at the party - you pulled down your lavishly soiled underpants, crouched to the floor, smirked maniacally and defecated the world’s most hideous, repugnant, massively steaming, straw-topped Donald Turd on all of us.  Then you heartily laughed, handed him Time Person of the Year award, a Twitter account and tried to high-five 2017 (who I am sure, by the vibes I’m getting, is standing at the door, sweatily texting 2018 with “WTF brah!? Why didn’t anyone tell me about this shit??!? BTW - tell 2019 and the rest of the gang that climate change is really happening this time - full steam ahead; 2015 must have lied or 2016 SERIOUSLY screwed up! OMG, WTF, BBQ etc!”).

You sir, yes you sir, gave an unrepentant and powerful voice to the grotesquely angry, the bemusedly malcontented and the outlandishly stupid.  You gave massive rise to racism, homophobia, bigotry, misogyny, ignorance and a blanket intolerance to anything different. Let’s not forget you beat up, raped and killed a lot more people along the way.  You normalised fascism and washed clean the sheets of the Ku Klux Klan, just in time for their Christmas lynchings. In your one year’s tenure, you basically threw a nuclear hand grenade in the room and walked off, washing your hands as if nothing had happened. Yes, a bit like the Brexshit Vote Leave camp. 

2016, you fucked up so very monumentally, it would take all of the world’s stonemasons and artists (both alive and dead) over two thousand years to build and furnish a monument that would suitably honour your massive fuck up; after of course all of them conceding that there wasn’t enough basic building material on earth to finish said monument - meaning the majority of the fuck-up tribute would need to rely on modern art techniques and the use of the general public’s collective fucked-up monument imagination. 

So, it is with a stoic, stiff upper lip that I open the door widely and lean in to your ear and whisper softly, yet firmly (just as many people have done to me in my lifetime) “You’ve upset enough people now. I think it’s time you left”.

Your friend, 2017, is too close to you for the coming New Year celebrations to be as much of a party as we have generally been used to but, being the generous and gracious people we are, we will of course get utterly shit-faced and attempt to make him or her feel welcome.

You and I won’t say farewell. You will walk away silently into the night. You will not collect your things and you will not say goodbye to any of your colleagues. You will leave knowing that the damage to our friendship is irreparable and you are hated by most of the educated planet (those of whom are currently not going crazy with the newly revived fads of pussy grabbing and Nazi salutes). 

This time around, I won’t make any New Years’ resolutions, because you don’t deserve the attention. In fact, I’m going to smoke harder, take drugs faster, drink more deeply, eat more pies and do absolutely nothing to help myself get any better than I was during your short but sorry reign - because you’re a dick and I need to get my happy back on!

2017, come in, take a seat in the corner while we boot out 2016.  We’ll be over presently to discuss your terms and the newly imposed limitations on the duties and responsibilities New Years may take on.

My final words to you, 2016, are that I trust you will spend your remaining days mulling on what you have done and not, as I suspect you will, pull down the collective human race’s pants and give us all one last, right royal shafting for Auld Lang Syne.

Goodbye 2016, I hope we never meet again.

Yours sincerely
1972 to undecided (but it’s not looking good).

All Works Copyright © 2017 Benedict Francis

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