Duodecimal table

It is reported that the Dozenal Society of Great Britain wants everybody to count to a base of twelve, not ten; the dozenal system not the metric system.

Now everybody counts in tens:
There’s farmers with their sheep and hens,
The bankers who count all the cash,
And binmen who collect the trash.

All these folk have ten fingers so,
It’s pretty logical to go,
And use a number system that,
Will work for counting this and that.

But others say that twelve is best,
Because, compared to all the rest,
This number’s lots of factors so,
Can be divided as I’ll show.

To see all this you have to take,
Some sort of pudding, pie or cake,
Divide it into three or four,
And then see who might want some more.

If they do you might go for six,
Small pieces that won’t make them sick,
But if they’re pigs the thing to do,
Is simply cut the cake in two.

But if the base is different then,
You have to go for five or ten;
Of freedom you have less degrees,
To cut it for your guests to please.

So far, so good for eating cake,
But if most people try to make,
Some sense of numbers after nine,
They’ll get it wrong most every time.

For all our brains have been imbued,
With metric measures for our food,
And since our brains just cannot cope,
A change to twelve has little hope.

Computers work with base sixteen,
But ere we see it on the screen,
They check results and only then,
Convert it back to base of ten.

Image – RodrigoSampaioPrimo Binadot / Wikimedia commons



It is reported that the head of the British Plaque Trust believes that too many blue plaques are being put up in England, many to commemorate unworthy recipients.

Blue plaques are put up on the wall,
In praise of some folk but not all,
Who have been notable in life,
And some might mention, too, the wife.

The subjects must be really good,
Have lived their lives the way they should,
And they must have, as I can tell,
Connections with the place as well.

So Shakespeare, Dickens, others too,
Who might, of course, be known to you,
Could get a plaque where they did dwell,
And maybe where they worked as well.

But some blue plaques have now been seen,
Extolling virtues rather mean,
Such as, ‘Do you recall Joe Bloggs?
Not far from here he popped his clogs.’

But that reminds me, poets do,
Get quite a lot of blue plaques too,
But I am really pretty sure,
That plaques for poets are now fewer.

Perhaps there might be one for me,
And even, in time, two or three;
But there’s a problem, although slight,
For though these poems that I write,
Are both informative and fun,
And I have many hundreds done,
I write online, have no abode,
No fixed place where I write an ode,
And it is true there are as yet,
No blue plaques on the Internet!


David Beckham -313595_960_720

It is reported that footballer David Beckham escaped a speeding conviction on a procedural technicality, his lawyer saying that the notice of the alleged offence arrived a day late. It is not reported whether his wife was, as usual, not amused.

If you are some celebrity,
It really is quite wise to be,
Not pushy or, indeed, too brash,
Despite the fact you’ve lots of cash.

And if you’re in a pickle caught,
Most people will think that you ought,
To simply take it on the chin,
Which will help you their hearts to win.

Now all of this is good advice,
In fact, perhaps, worth reading twice;
So it is something of a shock,
To learn when one was in the dock,
He managed to escape, you see,
On just a technicality.

The one in question, David Beck,
While in a Bentley (not a wreck),
Was caught for speeding, “But,” said he,
“I really, truly, did not see,
The notice saying I drove fast,
Till more than fourteen days had passed.

I’m happy to admit the crime,
But owing to this length of time,
You acted not as set by law,
So my brief here can see a flaw.

This means that you cannot convict,
And so the brief that I have picked,
Has done me well, I’m very glad,
He’s earned the thousands that he’s had.

So I am free, that’s pretty good,
My wealth is working as it should,
For if it can’t when I’m not poor,
Then what is all my money for?”



It is reported that a woman has beaten the world cycling speed record, pedalling at 184 mph!

At first sight this does not seem true,
To me or also likely you,
For how could anyone exceed,
A train of that type called high speed?

But now in Utah it’s been done,
There on the salt flats in the sun,
But she used tricks, I have to say,
In order to the record slay.

So on her bike she first gets towed,
(As you are learning in this ode)
Until her speed exceeds a ton,
At which point the rope is undone.

From this point on it’s pedal power,
That gets her extra miles per hour;
But things are still not as they seem,
For she rides in the car’s slipstream.

I expect this reduces drag,
And makes sure that she doesn’t flag,
But it seems pretty strange to me,
That the rules which this oversee,
Allow tricks like this to be used,
And, really, I am quite bemused.

But anyway, the record’s there,
Achieved by tow and flowing air,
And I s’pose it will there remain,
Until someone does it again.


Drug dealers only 2

It is reported that residents of Tower Hamlets, East London, frustrated by a lack of action by the police, have put up ‘Drug dealers only’ signs to shame them into taking action.

Drug dealers ought to be aware,
The residents all know they’re there,
And so, in fact, do the police,
Which means dealing in drugs should cease.

The fact that it does not is bad,
But with few policemen to be had,
There’s no-one there from day to day,
To catch the drug dealers as they,
Stand on the corners of the streets,
Purveying druggies’ smokes and treats.

So residents devised a plan,
To shame the police if they can,
So that they might patrol the street,
With more of them back on the beat.

The plan was simple in extreme,
They bought paint – black and red, not cream,
And painted signs black, white and red,
‘Drug dealers only’ what they said.

The dealers knew not what to do,
For them these signs were something new,
It really did seem very weird,
So for a while they disappeared.

We don’t know what will happen next;
The residents are all still vexed;
The message these signs should convey:
That drug dealers should stay away!



Police Uniform-794101_960_720

It is reported that West Yorkshire Police are introducing Moslem-friendly uniforms for female officers; by being loose-fitting they do not show the shape of the wearer and presumably have bulges in all the wrong places. What type of headgear might be used with it is not explained.

If you’re a Moslem in the Force,
You want a uniform, of course,
But for females the current norm,
Is those that show the female form.

But in West Yorkshire, home of pud,
The people in charge thought they should,
Dress up their lady policemen in,
Outfits so people would not sin.

They did not want to be obtuse,
So dressed them up in garments loose,
And then put antipadding on,
So female features would be gone.

Of course, perhaps I ought to say,
On this or any other day,
That clothes like this are mainly worn,
By Moslems for whom they’re the norm.

They tried them on, they looked a treat,
The perfect clothes for on the beat;
But then one Moslem womac said,
“What should I now wear on my head?

The uniform goes top to toe,
Is baggy as you all now know,
But so more features aren’t revealed,
My head and face should be concealed.

So now for sure and without fail,
I need a helmet with a veil,
And the best one that I have got,
Is black and fitted with a slot.

The slot makes sure that I can see,
But persons cannot look at me,
And so I think that it will fill,
The needs of both me and the Bill.”

But others said, “Now wait a bit,
For on the beat that isn’t fit.
No matter what their their creed or race,
Most people want to see your face.

It isn’t really very wise,
If people only see your eyes,
They’ll think that you are in disguise,
And so we need to compromise.”

“Since I’ve my suit I don’t much care,
So I think that I can just wear,
My uniform as aforesaid,
And also wear a hat instead!”



It is reported that staff at Preston prison are foiling prisoners who are obtaining drugs by having their friends soak letters in them, which can then be smoked, by the simple expedient of photocopying all the mail and destroying the originals.

Some folk in prison, so it’s said,
Can be completely off their head,
Because they’re taking drugs en masse,
Which, as you know, is pretty crass.

In lots of ways they get this stuff –
That is these prisoners who are rough –
And one arrangement that we know,
Comes through the good old GPO.

The trick, it seems, is that they soak,
The letters in some type of dope,
And when the letter has been read,
They smoke it and go off their head.

But two can play at tricks, you know,
So that the prisoners might forego,
Their fixes which are really bad,
And now much more than just a fad.

They take the letter, steam it first,
Expecting, at this stage, the worst,
And then they make a copy which,
Would not make any dealer rich.

Of course the copy is drug-free,
Though no-one really can yet see,
Until the prisoner lights it up,
And finds that he’s been sold a pup.

And that is it, solution cheap,
And drugs recovered in a heap;
The prisoners might not be too chuffed,
But I’m afraid that is just tough.

(The picture is not Preston Prison!)