The Black Brigand!

When misty Goat comes up the stair

And points a hoof at sky-drawn Bear,

Oh mercy, Lord, I see him there!

They sing and dance, they are a pair,

The Brigand and the dancing bear!

The Brigand and the dancing bear!

        The Black Brigand!

Bad by day and worse by night,

His hat was black, his face was white,

His boots were laced up nice and tight:

        The Black Brigand!

Nobody knew where he came from—

He kept that secret with aplomb!

But he sure was a gentilhomme:

        The Black Brigand!

Rogue by day and devil by night,

His snorting horse was dark, not light,

And he was of prodigious height:

        The Black Brigand!

He liked a strong black cup of tea

And bouncing ladies on his knee,

And never, ever went to sea:

        The Black Brigand!

He had no sense of right and wrong,

Collected fingers, loved a song,

And struck the hours with a gong:

        The Black Brigand!

Pull the buggy, speed the plough,

Beat the horses, feed the sow,

The ladies loved his courtly bow;

        The Black Brigand!

He shot the sheriff through the head

And whipped the posse till they bled:

The word went out: Alive or Dead! 

        The Black Brigand!

He rode off hard into the west,

His medals gleaming on his chest,

Determined to resist arrest:

        The Black Brigand!

 

Blow the bugle, draw the sword,

He galloped off without a word,

And ne’er did yield but to the Lord!

        The Black Brigand!

No man followed where he did go;

All this was eighty years ago—

I’m ninety-five so I should know.

        The Black Brigand!

Men swear that when the moon is high,

They look up in the western sky,

And see The Brigand riding by:

        The Black Brigand!

And I, who chased him all my life,

I see him too—so does my wife,

And so do our twins, Mansoor and Fyfe:

        The Black Brigand!

When misty Goat comes up the stair

And points a hoof at sky-drawn Bear,

Oh mercy, Lord, I see him there!

They sing and dance, they are a pair,

The Brigand and the dancing bear!

The Brigand and the dancing bear!

        The Black Brigand!

007: Pensioned To Kill

Roger Moore was sixty-eight when he first played 007 

And he persisted in the part until he was nigh

On eighty. Critics rate him the worst Bond ever

And filmgoers were appalled by his decrepitude, even in Live & Let Die.

When Toshiko’s parents died in a plane crash in 1983,

Donald took to her to see Octopussy—she was forlorn,

And he wanted to cheer her up. But she said Roger Moore

Was like a very much older and not funny Kenneth Horne.

Stewart Granger was Roger Moore’s boyhood hero. His dream came true

When, in 1945, he was an extra on Caesar & Cleopatra. The leading parts

Were played by Claude Rains and Vivien Leigh. Stewart Granger

Played Apollodorus, a patrician amateur of the arts.

His dream came true again in 1978—they were both in The Wild Geese.

Stewart Granger played Sir Edward Matherson. Richard Harris

Was in it too. He’d have been a much better 007 than Roger Moore

Even though he couldn’t act, was always drunk and lived in Paris.

Roger Moore has been married four times. His first wife, skater

Doorn van Steyn, threw a teapot at him. His second, Dorothy Squires, threw

Things at him for fifteen years. He took it out on his third, Luisa Mattioli.

But in 2003 he married Stewart Granger—and another dream came true.

The Problem With Q

Le Chiffre. The clue is in the name. Cipher.

An unsafe pair of hands. A man who designs

Chairs you wouldn’t want to sit on.        

A little warped around the gills, perhaps,

But he had Personality.

Oddjob, being merely a metaphor

For how velocity copes under pressure

In aeroplanes, lacks the capacity to engage

On a human level, whereas nowadays,

In our multicultural, cosmopolitan virtuality,

No one who has ever eaten widely           

Would take on so and sneer at Donovan Grant

For choosing red wine with the fish.

But Q,

Brilliant scientist, who could have been a contender

For several Nobel prizes, never designs anything but

Toys for Bond. Did he have no other life,

No wife, no favourite restaurant,

No hobbies or children who look the spitting image

Of Mrs Q? 

                    Consider a Sunday,

And Bond is in the Bahamas, joking

With Felix Leiter about his hook.

The lawn is immaculate and Mrs Q

Dangles one leg over her hammock,

Cooing: “What’s keeping you, big boy?”

Q himself, full to bursting after a long lunch,

Belches in his steel deckchair, searching for

The Eject button; and then remembers:

Here’s home. I can get up and walk.

No devices needed. And I’m as horny as hell

Knowing what Mrs Q isn’t wearing underneath her skirt.

The little Qs are playing by the mulberry tree,

Their minds a million miles away from

Exploding cigarette cases and hollowed-out

Cuban heels. Giggling

With salacious forethought, Q grabs his wife’s hand

And propels her to the small pagoda

At the bottom of the garden which they have built

Specially for such occasions.

They want no more children so he fishes out

A rubber johnny from his box of tricks

And they up the conjugal ante.

She is his Aston Martin, and he drives

Like the devil. 

                          Later,

All breath exhaled and basking in the afterglow

Of ruddiness, he moves to repeat

The performance. She reluctantly protests:

“But that was our last johnny.”

Q smiles.

“This one’s reversible,” he says.

James Bond in Westcliff-on-Sea

He knew the sound:
a high explosive squash-head round,
fired from a recalibrated PKP 
Pecheneg 11.5 (SRB),
passing through an inch
and a half of pure titanium plate
(the moon’s eclipse reprieves the farrier).
It was the sort 
of sharp report 
a peregrine falcon would make,
passing through the sound barrier
with a clean break as it fell
all of a summer’s day
towards its perfectly intended, unseen prey,
infinitely underground:
straight to hell.
He didn’t flinch.

No flicker of the eye betrayed his waking;
his ears stood to attention, almost shaking
in the shocked air. Two bluebottles patrolled
the ambit of the low-
hanging lamp above his head, 
its yellowing glass mantle festooned
with remembrances of last days
spent in its consoling shed 
(in the dark beyond its cone 
of influence over the green baize, 
Vesper Lynd, who has no human fears,
watches, waits and disappears)— 
And then they were gone; the flies had flown.
His eyes snapped open; the flat sea shone.
He was marooned.

“Coo, you didn’t half jump, Mr. Bond!
It was just a car backfiring. Now you’re awake, l’ll
do your hair.” An unknown face, a badge that said ‘Jenny:
Your Carer’ (a word he loathed)—another change of staff;
this middle-aged trollop with her overfamiliar laugh
was the latest and least welcome of many.
His pale gaze sailed down beyond
the trees, landed softly on Westcliff Parade,
waited at the pedestrian crossing for a while,
then on through the Gardens to the Western Esplanade,
where on this perfect August day
The Westcliff-on-Sea Classic Car Competition was in full                             sway.
The blue Standard 8 which had just backfired
backfired again. “That bag’s about to burst.
It’s almost time for your lunch, but first 
let’s empty this bag, Mr. Bond.” His tired
eyes ached behind his Persol 6217s
as he watched the old cars go by. “Heavens,
you don’t half pee a lot, Mr. Bond!”
And then he saw it, five cars back from the Standard:
a silver Aston Martin DB III— 
a man in a steamer jacket at the wheel, a triple gold-banded
Morland at his lips: “Oh my God, that’s me!”
And at his side a smile, a mop of dirty blond:
he whispered, “Pussy, my love!”
She seemed to hear and squinted towards the terrace high                              above
the esplanade. He raised his hand and she was gone. 

“Something light for your lunch—an omelette,
Mr. Bond... ?” The word was like a gimlet
in his ear, a trespass on his soul.
It was like offering to sing My Way to Sinatra
or to run a nice warm bath for Cleopatra—
perhaps she thought such vile transgression droll.
He fished his fully-loaded Beretta
from the pocket of his dressing-gown
(a man with a license to kill doesn’t let a
saucy bint like this go ungunned-down)
and shot her in the head. 
“Your aim’s
as true as ever, James,”
she said,
falling stricken at his slippered feet.
“I wanted to get you something nice to eat.
I know exactly how to do your eggs—that’s why I risked
everything to come to Westcliff-on-Sea.”
Her life was ebbing fast, her blood flowed dark and free.
“So tell me about eggs—and nothing funny, Jenny.”
And she said, “Beaten, not whisked,”
and died. And he said, “Moneypenny!”

Hoskins Considers His Options

The Structure Of Scientific Revolutions

By Thomas Kuhn was very well received

By those for whom reality is just

A paradigm by which it is perceived.

This nonsense predates science and belongs

More properly to Plato than to rigour

For there is nothing either true or false

But thinking makes it so; and thus the bigger

The lie the more it will be seen as true,

Relatively speaking, in the round:

The premises prescribe, and fancy follows;

Thanks to the mind, what’s lost is always found.

Or so I thought, aboard the morning train

From Waterloo to Fleet, via Farnborough (Main).

-- . . - the R.C.M.P.

The Mounties are a hardy breed,

They solve their crimes on horseback,

And every morn, as they go out,

Each man picks up his Morse-pack.

For them a dot is always dit

And every dash a dah,  

So dah-dit-dah-dit dit-dah dah-dit dit-dah dah-dit-dit dah-dit

Is Morse for Canada!

Because they’re wise and ne’er forget

How complicated Morse is,

The e’er resourceful mounted police

- . .- -.-. .... / .. - / - --- their horses!

Men and horses .-. . -.-. . .. ...- . / - .... .- -. -.- ...

From women .- .-.. .-.. / --- ...- . .-. / -.-. .- -. .- -.. .-!

- .... . / -- --- ..- -. - .. . ... / ... .- -.--, “A pleasure, ma’am,”

Their horses say, “Dah-dit-dit dit / dah-dit dit-da da-dit-dit                          dit-dah!”

So .... . .-. . .----. ... / - --- / - .... . / --- .-.. -.. / .-. -.-. -- .--.,

- .... . / .--. --- .-.. .. -.-. . -- . -. and their mounts!

Out in all weathers .- - / -.-. .-. .- -.-. -.- / --- ..-. / -.. .- .-- -.

Cause . ...- . .-. -.-- / ... . -.-. --- -. -.. / -.-. --- ..- -. - ...!

They put the -.-. .- -. in -.-. .- -. .- -.. .-,

They put the ...- in ...- .- -.,

And when these lads . -. ..-. --- .-. -.-. . / - .... . / .-.. .- .--,

They always dah-dah-dit dit dah / dah dit-dit-dit-dit dit dit-dit                     dit-dah-dit / dah-dah dit-dah dah-dit!

His Trousers Stayed Clean

Admiral Thomas Cochrane

Was known as le loup de mer—

A name the French awarded him;

You could say it was his nom de guerre.

You could say he was the greatest captain

A frigate ever had

But such a bold assertion

Might be thought a tad

Unseemly, given the other

Admirals I could mention:

Shovell, Byng and Norris,

Who are surely in contention.

But none, ’tis said, did more

To further the British cause

Than Cochrane, the victor of

The Napoleonic wars.

He had a way with the matelots,

Addressed them in their lingo

And then he sank their ruddy ships

Without remorse, by Jingo!

He always chose the dangerous course,

His motto was “I’ll risk it!”

And of all his daring exploits

This one takes the biscuit:

He disguised himself as Bonaparte

And boldly stepped aboard

La Méduse, as the sparkling sun

Shone brightly on his sword

And, addressing the ship’s company,

With a confident cri-de-coeur,

He gave the order to set sail,

To wit: “À l’eau, c’est l’heure!”

Hot Foot Powder

It’s three miles from Brighton to Portslade;

The Number Two bus will take me to Shoreham Beach.

I’d never have asked you to leave your wife,

I’d never have torn you from your son and daughter,

But if you’d asked me, I’d have given my life

To make you happy—I’d have relished self-slaughter.

When Mr. Barrington returned to work

He’d lost some weight—he was no longer stout.

When Gail went for her tea he didn’t lurk

In wait for her, as before. She felt put out.

Although the weather’s hot the land is level.

I couldn’t wait for her, she made me slow.

I cut her loose and I’ll outpace the devil—

There’s not much time, but I don’t have far to go.

It’s three miles from Brighton to Portslade;

The Number Two bus will take me to Shoreham Beach.

Here’s… Johan!

While reading a book in midwinter,

Alone in the meadows that weave

Their rich and English tapestry

I felt a tugging at my sleeve.

My little daughter, Alice,

Was urging me to go

And meet the man who stood at the door,

So I went and said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” he said and smiled at me

And Alice smiled at him.

”I’m calling from IKEA,” he said,

“To assemble your homemade gym.”

Well, everyone knows IKEA,

The Swedish furniture mart,

That sell you things you put together

Which promptly fall apart.

“I didn’t order a gym,” I said,

“I know,” the man replied.

“But I have to use your lavatory

“So kindly step aside.”

He ran upstairs with frightful speed

And then we heard the chain

And then he called out, “I love your lav!

“I must come here again.”

The Ballad Of Steve Jobs & Lief Ericsson

Steve Jobs didn’t borrow,

He stole.

In fact, let’s not quibble,

He wouldn’t just nibble—

That just wasn’t Steve.

If he wanted to thieve

An idea with legs, he’d swallow

It whole,

Legs and all. Oh,

It’s often said,

You should never speak ill of the dead,

But nobody seems to have any obs

When people speak ill of Steve Jobs.

Nobody needs

To speak ill of the Swedes—

And they only speak ill of the Danes,

Who they think of as yobs—

Yes, Swedes can be snobs,

But they can’t be called whiners.

They’re brilliant designers—

A Swede never complains 

(pace the Danes)

Except if some swine

Steals a design

And in this case the swine was Steve Jobs.

In 2005,

(When Steve Jobs was still alive)

He badly needed a hit,

So he hired Motorola

To turn out the lolla-

palooza of phones,

But the Rokr E1 “iTunes” phone was shit.

(When he sees it he groans—

But Jobs still has a Jones 

For a phone as he sobs!

That’s Steve Jobs!)

Ericsson and Sony,

Sweden/Japan,

Had been working together for only

Four years when in 2005

They produced the revolutionary and elegant P900

(This was the year, you’ll remember, Jobs blundered,

When the miserable “iTunes” phone failed to thrive),

And the P900 was no flash in the pan.

Jobs hacked Ericsson’s emails

And poached Sony’s technical elite,

He stole their ideas and began

To develop a plan.

His intentions were clear;

The very next year

He presented a clone

Of the Ericsson phone

And called it his own.

Jobs said, “This is my phone—

I call it the iPhone.”

Friends said, “Lief, you must sue! It-

’s not fair! ”

No, Lief, don’t you dare!

Don’t grapple

With Apple!

If you do, you will rue it!

He has lawyers in mobs:

That’s Steve Jobs!

*     *     *

Steve Jobs is dead and gone,

His knell has been rung,

But his lawyers live on—

Apple’s now suing Samsung

For stealing the look

Of the iPhone Jobs took

From the Swede…

Traveller, take heed!

When you come

To Stockholm

Leave your iPhone at home!