It is reported that Spanish police have seized thousands of fake Harry Potter wands from a shop in Barcelona.

If you’re a Harry Potter fan,
Perhaps a woman, child or man,
You might not like it if you lacked,
Some Harry Potter artefact.

Imagine, then, your great delight,
When, suddenly, right into sight,
Comes one shop with more than enough,
Of all this Harry Potter stuff.

You push the door, it rings the bell,
You’re looking forward to a spell;
So in you go to look around,
And see what magic might be found.

The shelves are full, they have all sorts,
Of things you’ll need when at Hogwarts;
And then . . . that of which you’re most fond,
It’s there! . . . It’s Harry Potter’s wand!

In fact, they’ve several types of these,
To part you from your cash with ease,
And so you pick one to select,
Quite sure your choice will prove correct.

You pay for it then out you go,
Impoverished dad now in tow;
But you will soon put all that right,
When you start on the spells tonight.

So later on and after tea,
It’s time to have a try and see,
What sort of spell you can now do,
And can you get your cash back too?

You take the wand, you wave it round,
It doesn’t make much of a sound;
You’re not sure how long it should take,
But now it’s looking like a fake.

And then, alas, you see the news,
Explaining that there’s been a ruse,
And all the folk with wands on sale,
Will likely now end up in jail.

The wands, it says, are little use,
A fact you could by now deduce,
And though the wand was just for fun,
You have been well and truly done.

So if you find a wand you’ve bought,
Is not quite working as it ought,
You first could try a spot of grease,
But then report it to police.




It is reported that a large group of businessmen attending a men only charity fundraising event at the Dorchester Hotel were attended by a not-quite-so-large number of young hostesses in skimpy dresses, to the general consternation of anybody who heard about it afterwards.

Before I start, I want to say,
I don’t approve of things this way,
But to pretend that no-one knew,
Or didn’t really have a clue,
Just how the evening was arranged,
Most likely is a bit deranged.

For some the clue was simply there,
Perhaps the skirts the girls would wear,
While some might have had to rehearse,
Though, hopefully, in prose, not verse.

The complaints did not seem to be,
About the morals – he, not she –
But whether girls, however dressed,
Were in some shape or form oppressed.

And, too, the gender gap in pay,
Now in the news from day to day,
Was raised again post this event,
Relating to the ones that went.

Now this seems odd, you might agree,
Because, as far as I can see,
The only people getting paid,
Were those dressed as upmarket maids.

But back to morals, I’d have thought,
In lots of places that this sort,
Of entertainment still goes on,
For wealthy people wanting fun.

So those complaining should have known,
And would have, if they’d interest shown,
Before, last week, it came to light,
That this would be a seedy night.

So when there’s an event like this,
That you’re not sure if you should miss,
Do check it out and then you’ll know,
If it’s appropriate to go.

And if you do go, know the rules,
So that you will not look like fools,
If you should think it’s just a lark,
And maybe overstep the mark.

The test for morals, it is said,
Is whether you would go bright red,
When, if a girl should smile and pout,
Someone you know should then find out.

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It is reported that the Royal College of GPs has warned that the traditional image of Father Christmas is unhealthy and he should stop smoking, eating and drinking … but may otherwise have a merry Christmas.

When Father Christmas comes to town,
He is a figure of renown,
But underneath his coat and hat,
I’ve long suspected he is fat.

The evidence for this is scant,
I’ve never seen him puff or pant,
But that might be ’cos Christmas Day,
He doesn’t walk much anyway.

But now suspicions are confirmed,
Because, today, I have just learned,
That doctors – and I mean GPs –
Say that he’s fat above the knees.

He eats too much, drinks sherry too,
He smokes a pipe like some men do;
And one more thing as you may guess –
He might have work-related stress.

And if all that were not enough,
On Christmas Eve his work is tough,
For even if his gifts are cheap,
He’s sure to be deprived of sleep.

So when you go to bed tonight,
Do think of him in red and white,
And leave no cake or sherry glass,
Because, although this may sound crass,
Just one more drink or some mince pies.
Might well result in his demise.

Then we would all the poorer be,
With Santa Claus in A&E,
Although, no doubt, the NHS,
Would save him from still more distress!


Swearing Jay_&_Trey

It is reported that Andrew Marr swore on his show last weekend while interviewing the Brexit Minister but academics think that ‘bloody’ is no longer really a swear word but is more an ‘intensifier’ for the word that follows it.

Most people swear from time to time,
Mostly in prose but sometimes rhyme,
And it’s accepted common sense,
That some such words might cause offence.

The watershed is on TV,
And swearing programmes should, you see,
Be broadcast later, like that clown,
Who goes by name of Mrs Brown.

So when, last Sunday, Andrew Marr,
Thought maybe he had gone too far,
With that word which begins with B,
Without a second thought then he,
Apologised, just like you do,
Before complainants grew and grew.

It seems, though, that there was no need,
For academics said indeed,
That this word is now often used,
’Cos many people like to choose,
The word to emphasise the next,
And put it more into context.

But people on TV beware,
This isn’t a green light to swear;
To use this word you might be free,
But do please use it sparingly!

Image – Threeboy from Richmond, Canada / Wikimedia commons


Pig in bed

It is reported that Dr Brown Bear, who seems to be Peppa Pig’s dedicated physician, is setting a bad example by being constantly on call and making home visits for the most trivial of complaints. The NHS can’t keep up.

The NHS does pretty well,
You are alive – that’s how to tell,
But then for an appointment date,
You sometimes might just have to wait.

It could be one day, maybe two,
But seldom more than just a few,
And, in most cases, you must go,
To surgery as you well know.

For visits home are rather few,
(Those where the doctor comes to you),
And if your complaint’s rather small,
He probably won’t come at all.

But if you are a pig, it seems,
You get the doctor of your dreams,
For if he thinks you might be ill,
Although with no more than a chill,
He’ll pop round quickly – in a trice –
And offer you his sound advice.

“Just go to bed with some warm milk,
Which will treat complaints of this ilk,
But if it doesn’t seem to work,
It, probably, is just some quirk,
So call me back at any time –
We might, instead, try gin and lime.”

Now you’ll know as you read this rhyme,
This all just wastes the doctor’s time,
And people who aren’t pigs might say,
Doctors should not behave this way.

They should be fair but always firm,
And if the pig’s just caught a germ,
It really should fend for itself,
With tablets are that off the shelf.

But if the pig should go and die,
It could be that it left its sty,
And then slept in a place too warm,
Which, for a pig, is not the norm.

This would get one pig off the books,
To go and live with ghosts and spooks;
But relatives might complain if,
The doctor only saw a sniff,
And left the pig to overheat,
For half an hour per pound of meat.

So if you are a pig beware,
There are not many doctors spare,
And if you should complain too hard,
You, too, might get turned into lard!

Image – http://www.clipartof.com



It is reported that Prue Leith, one of the Channel 4 British Bake Off judges accidentally tweeted the name of the winner, a secret that had been successfully kept since filming ended several months ago.

Now Bake Off is on Channel 4,
It’s not much different from before,
And, as before, the filming’s done,
At time of year when there’s some sun.

In England, then, that’s May and June,
When contestants with wooden spoon,
Mix up their many buns and cakes,
Each hoping they’ve got what it takes.

This means the outcome, then, must be,
Kept secret, top, from you and me,
And this, you’ll see, makes perfect sense,
So we can all watch in suspense.

But this year, with twelve hours to go,
Prue Leith, a worker on the show,
Was so excited that she told,
The world who would the trophy hold.

Like Donald Trump, it seems that she,
Must constantly on Twitter be,
And when you’ve not got much to say,
You start to give the game away.

Now Channel 4 was quite aghast,
For also in that judges past,
She’d fallen foul of them before,
By seeming viewers to implore,
To take from her a handy tip –
Record it then the adverts skip.

So Mrs Leith must watch her step;
As well as judging cakes and crêpes,
She must show she’s got what it takes,
To secretise her bread and cakes!



It is reported that Thomas the Tank Engine is to be made more politically correct by replacing Henry and Edward with Rebecca (who is presumably female but only if she is happy with that) and Nia (African, orange and perhaps of indeterminate gender). The Liverpudlian narrator is also to disappear and Thomas will leave his home on the Isle of Man. Sodor that!

With all these changes, where to start,
And not upset the apple cart?
The Thomas, he whom we all love,
Is under pressure from above,
To reinvent some of his friends,
And in this way to make amends,
For all the sexist stories he,
Has told in the last century.

So out goes Henry, Ed as well,
To both of these we bid farewell,
And in their place comes Nia who,
Is African and orange hue.

To go with her is Becky who,
Is likely to get in a stew,
’Cos in the world of trains and steam,
Girls are not held in high esteem,
Because with Barbie, also Ken,
They just do different things than men.

But, nonetheless, we have to pay,
Lip service now from day to day,
To make sure everything you see,
It perfectly – you know – PC.

So, to this end, more changes are,
Required so Tom is not bourgeois;
And one more consequence of this,
Is everybody will now miss,
The dulcet tones of Ringo Starr,
Which I’d have thought were on a par,
With persons who’d not claim to be,
A member of the bourgeoisie.

And finally, Tom goes on tour,
To countries, some of which are poor,
To show some empathy with those,
Where a steam engine never goes.

But with all this it’s a surprise,
Especially with coal’s demise,
That Tom’s steam engine friends have not,
Been scrapped now and all left to rot.

But above all steam engines are,
Still very, very popular,
So changing things to be PC,
Is fine if not causing ennui,
But if it should sell fewer words,
Well, then, PC is for the birds!

Image – Duncan Harris / Wikimedia commons