It is reported that a new itinerant ice cream seller in Lyme Regis is getting the backs up of the six existing frozen dessert sellers.

Lyme Regis can be rather posh,
And those who have a lot of dosh,
Might like to take a little stroll,
And buy ice cream in cone or bowl.

Along the front six people sell,
Ice cream as far as I can tell;
These traders have a licence bought,
And getting one can be quite fraught,
With charges each one has to pay,
So they can trade from day to day.

This recent upstart, when she tried,
To get a licence was denied,
So it now seems that her intent,
Is trading sans council consent.

The other six say, “It’s unfair.
We’re getting quite close to despair,
For, since she doesn’t have to pay,
She’s taking all our trade away.

She ought, therefore, to be removed,
Because her case was not approved,
And if the council is astute,
They really ought to prosecute.”

The woman says, though, “They cannot.
I sell my ice cream when it’s hot,
But from a tricycle that moves,
And in so doing surely proves,
My stall is not a fixed abode –
It’s always moving down the road.

So the certificate I need,
According to the rules agreed,
Is one for pedlars who can sell
Provided they move on as well.

I’ve one of these from the police,
Twelve twenty-five they did me fleece,
But I had no choice but to pay,
So I can sell the pedlars’ way.

And there’s an extra because I,
As well as selling on the fly,
(Which is the peddling bit in law)
When I move as I must therefore,
To find more folk who want to eat,
I have to peddle down the street!”



It is reported that religious people live almost four years longer than others; owing to cost saving in Heaven perhaps.

You turn up at the Pearly Gates,
Expecting there won’t be long waits,
Before St Peter lets you in –
That’s after he has checked for sin.

But he explains as best he can,
That every woman, every man,
Who’s not already met their fate,
Will have about four years to wait.

The reason, he explains, is cost,
And everyone who is not lost
To Lucifer will be a drain,
And his accounts will feel the strain.

To solve the problem there’s a plan,
That every woman, trans or man,
Will have to live four years or more,
Before admission through death’s door,
And then for residence apply,
In Heaven which is in the sky.

And that’s the best that God can do,
It isn’t perfect, that is true;
The situation’s pretty stark,
With earth used as a buffer park.

And Peter then explains again,
That people wanting to complain,
And keen to leave the human race,
Can sod off to the other place.

There is no waiting list down there,
They always have some places spare,
But mostly folk prefer to wait,
For their slot to incinerate.


Postman Pat

It is reported that Royal Mail has banned the flying of England flags on their vans during the World Cup.

The World Cup is now under way,
So there might be a lot to say,
About the games, who scores the most,
And also ’bout the Russian host.

For politics comes on the scene,
And though I don’t like to be mean,
One must refer to just a few
Things that the Russians like to do.

You will know of all these, of course:
Invading countries, small, by force,
Nerve agent to infect a man,
And hacking everything they can.

But what of dear old Postman Pat,
I haven’t said too much of that,
But as he drives along the street,
With all his addressees to meet,
He’s wondering now if he can,
Fly England’s flag upon his van.

He puts one up, it flies so high,
That Mrs Potts says, “My oh my!”
But Pat’s boss at the GPO,
Says, “Oh my gosh, it’s no, no, no!

We can’t fly flags from our red vans,
It’s one of our long-standing bans;
The reason is, you have to see,
A problem with H S and E.

The safety problem’s always there,
Just like your wheels which have a spare,
And so your big red and white flag,
Will have to stay packed in its bag.”

Pat said, “Well, now, that is a shame,
I’d hoped we’d do well in the game,
And that the flag I’m flying high,
Might Mr Putin terrify.”



It is reported that Russia may be able to hack Britain’s traffic lights and cause chaos on the roads. Have they no ambition? They could try something a bit more challenging!

Remember traffic lights on red,
Mean do not go or you’ll be dead,
Whereas if they have turned to green,
Proceed with caution’s what they mean,

That’s just the basic kind of light,
Which isn’t really all that bright,
But some exponents of the art,
Are frequently described as smart.

These smart lights are quite good, all told,
And by some centre are controlled,
So that they change throughout the day,
In order then to speed your way.

A problem, though, has come to light,
For when he’s spoiling for a fight,
The Russian leader might decide,
To try to make our cars collide.

It’s pretty simple, it would seem:
The lights would all be turned to green,
And then a lot would likely crash,
And be turned into so much trash.

It’s like a version of fake news,
Designed to normal folk confuse,
With red and green, I think you’ll find,
A sort of extreme colourblind.

Then on TV in Russian bars,
They could all watch these dodgem cars,
Because to keep his fans on track,
He also might the cameras hack.



It is reported that John McDonald (no relation to the lady in history whose name is the same as a tub of margarine), a bagpipe player on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, has been arrested for playing too loudly and refusing to give his name to the police.

The bagpipes as all people know,
Are played a lot in Scotland so,
If you go there you can’t avoid,
These pipes which can make you annoyed.

And all along the Royal Mile,
If you should linger there awhile,
The pipers that the city serve,
Can really get upon your nerves.

They walk about, they play so loud,
Collecting money from the crowd,
And though they might complain and bleat,
In Scotland that is no mean feat.

But many people now object,
Because their ears are being wrecked,
By the high volume of these pipes –
At least that’s the gist of their gripes.

The police sometimes then intervene,
Arrested one man on the scene,
Who had to promise not to play
So loud or he’d be locked away.

But I, myself, think that there might,
Be something else makes folk uptight,
And that the endless, constant wail,
Which really is beyond the pale.

So not so loud might help a bit,
But if you want a cure for it,
Then everyone must take a stand,
And call for bagpipes to be banned.

Some native Scots might disagree,
But likely only two or three,
Who’ll wonder when they are no more,
Why they put up with them before!


Poundald 2 17108691436_a286675686_b

After Poundland’s recently reported spat with Thameslink perhaps we should take a look at its service.

The Poundland name perhaps implies,
To people who think they are wise,
That everything should cost around,
A British – that is Sterling – pound.

And maybe one time that was right,
When one could tell by means of sight,
That this must have been Poundland’s aim,
’Cos all its prices were the same.

But maybe this is not still so,
Because if in their shops you go,
You’ll find most prices one pound, or
In several cases rather more.

I don’t deny that things one pound,
In their shops and on line abound,
But if you on their website go,
Look for a bag of Bonio,
Most likely for your dog to eat,
It’s two pounds for this canine treat.

And although that is pretty rum,
It seems there is still more to come:
A set of bedding for the bed,
Will leave you five pounds in the red.

So Poundland could just clear the air,
So everything is fair and square,
And maybe they should make it plain,
That Poundsland now could be their name.

Or, since the price they seem to round,
Up or down to a complete pound,
Perhaps it would now make more sense,
From now to call themselves ‘No Pence’.

Image – Jeff Djevdet /


Pigeon spy

It is reported that a special MI5 unit was set up during the War to deal with German falcons and other birds of prey that were killing British homing pigeons bringing secret messages from occupied Europe to London.

A secret weapon in the War,
Of which you may have heard before,
Was homing pigeons which were used,
Within the art of subterfuge,
To carry messages across,
From Europe with low risk of loss.

Messages were top secret so,
Important for the birds to go,
In the direction of their loft,
Waiting with food and bedding soft.

But at one time the British thought,
That Germany’s armed forces sought,
With hawks and falcons to attack,
The pigeons on their long flights back.

So with this problem, what to do?
The Brits could play at that game too;
And so a special group was formed,
Whose fighting skills were not the norm.

Then trained and armed right to the teeth,
These sharpshooters could stand beneath,
These birds belonging to the Hun,
And Shoot them with some sort of gun.

The shotgun was the best, of course,
This avian plan to enforce,
So that our pigeons, once released,
Would not keep coming back deceased.

So did this work? We’re none too sure.
Fatalities were slightly fewer,
But though the falcons caused a fright,
These birds of prey, its now thought might,
By dint of listening to their call,
Not have been German birds at all!