It is reported that most of the UK’s plastic waste is sent to China where some is recycled but much is burned or buried but in 2008 the Chinese will refuse (!) to take any more.

When you fill your recycling bin,
You look for plastic to put in,
Expecting it will be re-used,
The planet’s warming thus defused.

But you would likely be quite wrong,
For most of it goes to Hong Kong,
Or China in the deep Far East,
Where some of it is burned at least.

And most of that which isn’t burned,
Is buried, we have now just learned;
But China now thinks this unwise,
Because holes of sufficient size,
Are getting few and far between,
And, also, it’s not all that green.

So practices from recent past,
Must be wound up and pretty fast,
And councils here in the UK,
Will have to find another way,
Of getting rid of all this waste,
And do it with unseemly haste.

Because it’s very likely true,
That as waste volumes grew and grew,
The policy for any kind,
Was ‘out of sight and out of mind’.

So putting it all on a ship,
Was paying service of the lip,
By sending it off without trace,
To whence it came in the first place.

So with this problem, what to do,
For shiploads of this stuff aren’t few?

If the Chinese won’t take it back,
Then maybe they could, when they pack,
Their goods in cardboard, plastic too,
Excessive packaging eschew,
And minimise that which is used,
To stop the goods from getting bruised.

This ought to work, I would have thought,
As long as items don’t get caught,
And bashed too much or you might see,
A bend in your flat screen TV!

It’s likely, then, to be u/s,
And might cause you undue distress,
’Cos it’s no good for anything,
Except, perhaps, recycling!




It is reported that Frinton-on-Sea Council, Essex, is to relax its ban on beach huts being painted in bright colours.

In Frinton beach huts come in black,
And owners are on the attack,
Complaining that they are so dull,
And don’t the touring punters pull.

In other places they are gay,
Not painted in black, white or grey,
And people flock there in their droves;
So people say it now behoves,
The Frinton council to permit,
Gay painters to get on with it.

The arguments went to and fro,
With people on both sides and so,
With questions on the undercoat,
The Council put it to a vote.

And now, it seems, there is good news:
The Council’s listened to these views,
And from now on they’ve got things right:
The beach huts can be really bright,
With spots and stars and zebra stripe –
In colour, though, not black and white!



It is reported that England is the happiest it has ever been and Craven, in North Yorkshire, is the happiest part of the country. Right now, some politicians may not entirely agree.

You may be quite surprised to know,
That if you round the country go,
And ask the people, who are real,
Exactly how they all now feel,
A lot of them will say that they,
Are very happy here today.

For England’s such a happy place,
And this conclusion we can base,
On data from the ONS*,
Whose job it is, as you may guess,
To find out everything they can,
About Jo woman and Joe man,
Who in the country now do dwell,
Including some that cannot spel.

I don’t know what questions were asked –
To prep them must have been a task –
But they are experts in their field,
Including things like ‘data yield’,
So they have information that,
Relates, then, to our habitat.

And from all this, they calculate,
Without the need for much debate,
That happiness is at its peak,
For people here but not for Greek.

Why this should be I do not know,
People always complain and so,
Perhaps this outcome does seem odd,
To me and every other bod.

But now there is some more to come:
To find those folk who are least glum,
You must to Craven, Yorkshire go;
But what it is there I don’t know,
For every Yorkshireman I’ve met,
Perhaps because the weather’s wet,
And though he may well show restraint,
Has always some sort of complaint!

* Office for National Statistics


Sep 23 a

It is reported that a major international debate has started about whether a bath is preferable to a shower.

Most people have a daily wash,
Especially those who are posh,
And when I say here ‘wash’ I mean,
Some sort of scrubbing or deep clean.

There are two options – do the math –
The one a shower, other bath;
And most folk do have a preferred
Choice – bath or shower, in a word.

But there are several cons and pros,
When cleaning right down to your toes,
So some thoughts I will now provide,
Which might just help you to decide.

The first is: baths provide a soak,
Allowing, then, a full decoke;
But some would argue all this does,
Is soak you in a grimy fuzz.

Whereas a shower with its spray,
Will wash the dirt and muck away,
And leave your body quite pristine –
The cleanest it has ever been.

Then there’s the cost: a shower is quick,
And you can also play a trick,
Turning the water off then on,
Till soap that’s been applied has gone.

The cost, then, can be very low,
Whereas deep bathing’s bound to show,
On bills for water and for heat,
As consumed by the bathroom suite.

And, finally, there’s time elapsed,
While sitting there between the taps;
This may not matter much at night,
As you lie in the fading light,
Soaking, as up above I’ve said,
As you prepare to go to bed.

But if it’s morning, maybe dark,
And you rise daily with the lark,
You probably don’t want to see,
There sitting on a pole or tree,
That bird of type we call an owl,
As your hands fumble for the towel.

For, though an owl is quite a sight,
It means it’s still the dead of night,
And far too soon for many folk,
To get up just to have a soak.

So, of the choices, take your pick:
Slow bath or showering at a lick;
Which you have chosen, none can tell,
As long, that is, as you don’t smell!


Shaun the sheep 1

It is reported that farmers near Lyon have been parading their sheep through the city in protest at the number being killed by wolves which were re-introduced to south-eastern France in the 1990s.

The French know well how to protest,
And farmers there are quite the best;
They know just how to get their way,
On this or any other day.

So when wolves started eating sheep,
Instead of counting them to sleep,
The farmers started to get tough,
Because by now they’d had enough.

So they took over Central Square,
To consternation of the Mayor,
And filled it up with many sheep,
In rows that were a hundred deep.

The wolves, however, kept away,
Although the square was full of prey,
For though the wolves had lots of pluck,
They didn’t want to push their luck.

So they kept themselves out of sight,
Lest they should give the folk a fright,
For with the sheep and some to spare,
The wolves were all outnumbered there.

They knew that if they stayed away,
They’d live to fight another day,
And in the hills they could all keep,
Still feasting on the farmers’ sheep.

Image – Elliott Brown / Flickr



It is reported that the local council on the Cumbrian village of Coniston has ordered the bells of the parish church to be silenced during the night following complaints by the new owners of the village pub and its guests.

You’d think that if you went away,
Such as, perhaps, on holiday,
You’d want to take in sights and sounds,
Because that’s why you’ve paid your pounds.

And if you’re in a village small,
One thing that’s free for one and all,
Is church bells tolling day and night,
Which some folk say just isn’t right.

“At night,” they say, “we want to sleep,
But even if we count the sheep,
We find it isn’t very long,
Until the clock once more goes ‘bong’.

It’s every hour and without fail,
And really is beyond the pale,
So we now want the noise to stop,
So that we won’t be in a strop.”

But local residents say, “No!
If they don’t like it they can go.
We’ve had the chimes a hundred years,
And folk including lords and sirs,
Have found that they are quite all right,
Including in the dead of night.”

The Council steps into the fray,
“Bells can be all right in the day,
But in the night they make no sense,
In present, past or future tense.

So from tonight they’ll be turned off,
Because our guests have had enough;
We don’t want them to stay away,
So they’ll just in the daytime play.

We’re sure this outcome is the best,
The logic will pass any test,
And though a few folk may be glum,
The bells at night will be kept schtum!”



It is reported that Jaguar has made an electric version of the iconic E-Type which would seem to show incredible foresight in whoever named it all those years ago.

We’ve all heard of the Jag Type E,
Which often is held out to be,
The whole world’s most attractive car,
And better than the rest by far.

In sixties, seventies it was made,
About one and a half decade,
And then, sadly, production ceased –
The end of that great masterpiece.

But now they’re making them again,
Though with a different power train;
Instead of pistons one plus five,
They’ve given it electric drive.

So where the engine used to sit,
The space is filled up – every bit –
With boring-looking battery packs,
That won’t appeal to anoraks,
But do, in fact, at any rate,
Allow it to accelerate,
One second faster than before,
With pedal pressed down to the floor.

So could this car turn out to be,
What everybody wants to see,
As cars move on electrically,
Abandoning the ICE*.

I s’pose that only time will tell,
But maybe if you are heeled well,
You could afford three hundred thou,
And make do with this one for now!

* Internal combustion engine