Bag shopping

It is reported that shoppers in Australia have been attacking checkout staff because of a nationwide ban on the supply of single-use plastic bags.

Australians are mostly nice,
So much you’d like to meet them twice,
But recently a few, I think,
Were acting like the worse for drink.

They were quite sober, though, I’m told,
But with goods that had just been sold,
They needed bags, of plastic kind,
And there were none that they could find.

Such bags, it seems, had just been banned,
Across most of the Aussie land,
And so henceforth and from today,
For stronger bags they have to pay.

This went down like a lead balloon,
And some of them were very soon,
Attacking shop employees that,
We’re simply at their checkouts sat.

You will agree with me, I know,
That it’s not right to have a go,
Like this and so they should desist,
And not behave like they are p*ssed.

So when you’re shopping do beware,
There may be loutish people there,
Who all too soon can lose their rag,
If they can’t find a plastic bag.

The brewing people likely know,
And therefore when for beer you go,
You’ll find that it is orthodox,
To pack them in a cardboard box.

So drinkers can this new rule heed,
Because the box is all they need,
To show that they can do things right,
Including not to start a fight.



It is reported that there is a heatwave.

The temperature has been so warm,
And far far hotter than the norm;
For several days it now seems set,
But not quite breaking records yet.

With it so hot things don’t go right,
More so by day than in the night,
Or one could say in any tongue,
These things that don’t go right go wrong.

The list is pretty much well-known,
Like water shortage in the home,
Though this time that is less a pain,
’Cos we’ve just gone through six months’ rain.

Instead, this time up on the moor,
Are fires we haven’t had before,
And while the fires proceed apace,
The water’s all in the wrong place.

The firemen have all done their best,
To douse the flames before them, lest
They might just spread too far and wide,
And burn up the whole countryside.

And so we hope they will succeed,
Will have the flames out soon indeed,
So they can then return to base,
And fight them in some other place.

But other things like buckled tracks,
Tarmac that melts and opens cracks,
Most people would say these all pale,
Compared to shortages of ale.

For there is little CO2,
A fact that you, by now, all knew,
And this fact is now quite the worst,
If you just want to quench your thirst!



It is reported that a vicar in Wales has stopped ringing the church bell at eight o’clock on Sunday mornings so that his parishioners can have a lie in instead of coming to church. He says he sympathises with people who have got drunk the night before.

The Welsh, it seems, can get so tight,
When they go out on Sat’day night,
That in the morning they prefer,
Their getting up time to defer.

They certainly don’t want a bell,
Whose only purpose is to tell,
Inebriated folk like they,
To get up, go to church and pray.

Then enter Reverend Brown, stage right,
Who seems to understand their plight,
For he says there will be no shock,
For of his bells he’s taken stock,
And he’ll make sure they play no tune,
At least until the afternoon.

The drunks are happy, they can sleep,
Though, probably, just in a heap,
Knowing that there will be no sound,
Until the afternoon comes round.

But consequence of being kind,
The Reverend Brown, I think, might find,
That if his bells are silent then,
His congregation – women, men –
Might shrink a bit in numbers so,
Collection takings could be low.

I don’t know if he’s thought of this,
But since they’ve all been on the p*ss,
Perhaps he should go gown the pub,
And ask the landlord for a sub.

The landlord might just answer, ‘No’,
In which case Brown might have to go,
Reminding him, if he declines,
That those yobs buying ales and wines,
Might then find once again that they,
Are woken up at break of day.

And then this breaking of the peace,
Which everyone had hoped would cease,
Might be, the Vicar might persuade,
Not so conducive to his trade.

The drunken louts might then rebel,
At risk of going down to Hell,
And if he won’t provide a sub,
They might boycott both church and pub!


Moth larva

It is reported that moths are thriving owing to an increasing trend to wash clothes at a cool 30 degrees instead of the 55 degrees necessary to kill moth larvae.

This day and age one must be cool,
So folk won’t think one is a fool,
And this includes the clothes one wears,
Which, nowadays, can have some tears.

One also should the planet save,
So after concerts or a rave,
One really ought to wash one’s shirt,
For purpose of removing dirt.

The dirt removal therefore should,
Be cool provided it’s still good,
And leaves the shirt all fresh and clean,
With no marks where the mud has been.

With modern powders all this can,
Be done by woman, even man,
And it can now be done with ease,
At roundabout thirty degrees.

So far, so good, but wait a mo,
There is a problem here and so,
Despite all this that one might say,
The planet might get in the way.

The problem is the common moth,
Now destined to incur one’s wrath,
For after years of diet sparse,
Of polyester, maybe worse,
One’s bedroom drawers again are full,
Of cotton clothes and also wool.

The moths are happy once again,
Although for one it is a pain,
As these moth larvae which one loathes,
Are eating their way through one’s clothes.

But there is action one can take,
To on this peril put the brake,
And that’s to now turn up the heat,
So garments covering one’s feet,
(Which one would likely call a sock)
Would not give one a dreadful shock,
By being simply full of holes,
And quite unfit for walks and strolls.

For moths this might seem rather tough,
But, sorry, one has had enough;
One’s clothes one must again put first,
And let the washing do its worst.

So let your watchword be, ‘Take care’,
When you are washing things you wear;
The larvae must not stay alive,
So wash your clothes at fifty-five!


Stove old-2568425_960_720

It is reported that the Government is considering banning the sale of wood-burning stoves that emit high levels of pollutants.

A wood-burner one time was good,
You should have bought one if you could,
The CO2 made disappears,
By growing new trees far or near.

But, as with diesel cars, this gas,
Although by far the greatest mass,
Is only of the story part,
Which means we have to be more smart,
And get rid of some other stuff,
Also ejected up the chuff.

For you’ll find as a general rule,
Wood burners really are too cool,
By which I don’t mean nice on show,
But that the temperature’s too low.

And this low temp means that they are,
Producing awful things like tar,
Which really need to be destroyed,
So Brussels will not get annoyed.

So it seems likely that we will,
If buying these wood-burners still,
Be forced to choose one that burns hot –
That’s whether we like it or not.

So let your watchword be, ’Take care,’
And when you’re choosing stoves beware;
If it’s cool you might soon be dead,
Unless you freeze to death instead!


Rats coypu nutria-273577_960_720

It is reported that there is a plague of giant coypu rats in Italy and a mayor has suggested that the problem might be solved by eating them.

I’ve written about rats before,
So some of you will know the score,
But that was up in Paris where,
They had too many going spare.

And now in Italy they find,
That rats of just a single kind,
Are playing havoc ’cos they bite,
And eat most everything in sight.

They could be caught, or maybe not,
That’s costly for there are a lot;
But one mayor who thinks he is wise,
Suggests to eat the rats with fries.

“They would be cooked,” he adds quite quick,
“Unlikely, then, to make you sick.
You fillet them, in flour roll,
Then stick them in a casserole.

When they’re all done, they’re good to eat,
You’ll find they are a real treat;
But if you’re eating with the kids,
Maybe don’t tell them what it is!


P sign

It is reported that a National Union of Students ‘Trans’ (do they mean Trams?) conference in Manchester is in trouble for assigning ‘gender-neutral’ status to the ladies’ lavatories but not to the gents’.

I s’pose it had to come to this,
’Cos everybody needs to p*ss,
And if the gender isn’t clear,
Of someone who’s been drinking beer,
One might not know how they will choose,
Facilities they need to use.

They get it wrong? There’ll be a splash,
When they all try to have a slash;
So p’rhaps the cleaner should decide,
To make sure wees don’t go too wide.

The cleaner will pragmatic be,
So that, as far as she can see,
The people use them as before,
And don’t go weeing on the floor.

And if that fails to coincide,
With what some others might decide,
Well, that would be all right by me –
Provided they are all still free.