It is reported that a survey has shown that most women prefer a man of average attractiveness as their partner, while most men prefer a super-attractive wife.

If you are female and you can,
Choose any kind of partner man,
Then one would think, I would have thought,
That you would want to choose the sort,
Of man that’s rated pretty high,
By other females passing by.

So … maybe … out of ten, a nine?
Which means he would be in his prime?
But, in fact, I would not be right,
For your preferred man, day or night,
Is for some Mr Average who,
Is scoring only three times two.

The reason for this, I can see,
Is that you really fancy me!
But on a more pragmatic note,
It’s ’cos the other girls would gloat,
And they might try most every day,
To steal your lover right away.

But if you are a man, it’s said,
The woman that you’d like to wed,
Is one with a much higher score,
At whom most men would gaze in awe.

For what men like to have, it seems,
Is really the girl of their dreams,
And they’re prepared to take the risk,
That over lunch of lobster bisque,
Some other man might hove in view,
And steal the woman off them too.

So when you’re choosing, take your pick,
But don’t have any Tom or Dick,
’Cos for the one you want to marry,
You might be better off with Harry!



Amsterdam cheese shop

It is reported that Amsterdam has banned the opening of any more tourist shops since it believes that there are enough already and that more would degrade the cultural experience of the city.

In Amsterdam are lots of shops,
They sell all things from cheese to tops,
And now the city has decreed,
That there is no increasing need,
For windmills, tulips, cheese or clogs,
As you can learn here in my blogs.

So new shops will not be allowed,
Because the tourists can all crowd,
Into the shops already there,
And probably with some to spare.

But what of shops with lights of red?
Well, I think I have heard it said,
That there where folk shop in the buff,
Of those they’ve also got enough!



It is reported that a Royal Mail strike is threatened at Christmas.

Now Christmas comes but once a year,
And generally you would prefer,
To send your cards by Royal Mail,
But don’t send cakes – they might go stale.

Cards, formerly, were just a few:
Your best friends – maybe one or two –
And probably the mother-in-law,
Which brings the total up to four.

But over time the list has grown,
As your bank balance might have shown,
And dozens of the things get bought,
Which then the postmen have to sort.

Now if you’re stingy, that’s like me,
And buy cards for about three p,
You’re bound to be distressed to find,
That even this much cheaper kind
Of card will cost the same to post,
As pricey ones that cost the most.

It’s fifty-six pence – second class,
Or for those who’ve got too much brass,
The Royal Mail will them deprive,
For first class of pence sixty-five.

“That’s thirteen shillings!” you exclaim,
“It’s daylight theft in all but name!
Time was when an amount like that,
Would buy the wife a Sunday hat!”

But, anyway, I have digressed,
Because I do not know what’s best,
But if the strikers don’t relent,
Perhaps they have a lifeline sent.

For if there is no post at all,
Even my cheap cards, which are small,
Cannot be sent so won’t be bought,
Thus saving more cash than I thought.

So who says news is always bad?
A strike might be the best we’ve had;
And it might bring much Christmas cheer –
At least to stingy folk round here!



It is reported that a primary school in Otley has been searching its children’s lunch boxes for banned foods!

If you’re a schoolchild do take care,
And not just re the clothes you wear;
Your lunchbox might contain some food,
Which by the school’s not been approved.

You probably know what those are,
They would include a chocolate bar,
But also breakfast bars are bad,
Depending on which sort you’ve had.

These sorts of things, crisps and drinks too,
Are said to be quite bad for you;
And so Miss X will check your lunch,
Sometimes just acting on a hunch,
And should she see unhealthy food,
Although it may seem rather rude,
Which might be wrapped or on a plate,
Those items she will confiscate.

She’ll put them in a little bag,
Which has your name there on a tag;
And when at home-time mummy comes,
She’ll be told you have empty tums,
Because you weren’t allowed to eat,
What she had thought was just a treat.

She’ll be embarrassed, there’s no doubt,
’Cos she left fruit and veggies out;
And she’ll not want the rules to flout,
So next time you’ll get Brussels sprouts!

So if you don’t like sprouts take care,
Fill up with fruit and some to spare;
It’s better to have fruit than not,
Then Mrs X won’t take the lot!



It is reported that the Prime Minister’s speech to the Conservative Party Conference did not go down well, being interrupted by an imposter brandishing a fake P45, a coughing fit, and a collapsing slogan sign.

Three cheers, perhaps, for Mrs May,
Who gave a speech just yesterday;
She gave it – glad it wasn’t me –
In face of great adversity.

So, first, some goon comes up on stage,
There brandishing a single page,
Which someone had tried to contrive,
To look like a P45.

“Why, thanks,” she said, “I know just who,
That’s for, if you’ll allow me to;
I’ll Send it, after you have gone,
To that old guy in Islington.

I’m sure he’ll need it more than me,
For he is more than sixty-three,
So thanks for coming here today,
And now you can be on your way.”

She turned, then, to resume her speech,
With voice now sounding like a screech,
Because, although she’s not so old,
She’d turned up with a dreadful cold.

The coughing started, it’s not good,
You cannot speak well like you should,
But with some corporation pop,
She carried on and didn’t stop.

She got through to the very end,
Though coughing she could not forfend,
Then as a cheer was raised by all,
Some lettering fell off the wall.

It was a slogan, or had been,
On which she had been rather keen,
But what was left did not allude,
To anything so very rude.

So that was lucky, in the end,
The less that’s said, the less to mend;
But with the interruptions there,
The journalists seemed not to care,
What were her words nor what was meant,
Expressing her future intent.

So that was it, she’d got a cough,
They had enough at which to scoff,
But should we judge her as PM,
Because she had to say, “Ahem”?


Catalonia map

It is reported that Spanish police violently tried to stop a referendum on Catalan independence from Spain which had been declared illegal by the Spanish courts.

The Catalan folk have long said,
That their small enclave on the Med,
Should from Spain independent be,
So that its people can be free.

They’ve had this view a long long time,
As I am telling you in rhyme,
But the Government in Madrid,
Has always tried to keep a lid,
On any separatist dissent,
And never on this would relent.

So when the Catalans declared,
That people’s views should now be aired,
By voting in favour or not,
You might think it had lost the plot.

It blocked the voting in the court,
To try to take away support,
Then when the people didn’t cease
It sent in riotous police.

The police with a heavy hand,
Said, “Voting here has just been banned.
You have to disperse very quick,
Or else we’ll hit you with our sticks.”

They didn’t go, so some were bashed,
As voters and police then clashed,
And injured ones went pretty fast,
To where they sold Elastoplast.

They got patched up as you could see,
From images on the TV,
And police tactics could not hide,
As pictures quickly went worldwide.

The EU was asked for its view,
But words it uttered were so few,
That people started to conclude,
That in this Inter-Spanish feud,
They thought the separatists should pay,
But didn’t really want to say.

We don’t know what will happen next,
With everybody pretty vexed;
The whole wide world now waits agog,
And you can read it in my blog.

Image – Mutxamel, subido por Rastrojo / Wikimedia commons

LIVE TO 125!

Old woman

It is reported that various pieces of research have concluded that human beings may … or may not… be able to live to the age of 125, exceeding the current record of 122 and a bit.

You could live, if you stay alive,
To one hundred and twenty-five;
And though this statement may seem vague,
You really must avoid the plague,
And other things that may be rife,
To have a chance of longer life.

Research now done most everywhere,
Which tries to make assessment fair,
Though contradictory at best,
Concludes you can outlive the rest,
By doing certain things which might,
Work if you don’t get in a fight.

First, gender: you should female be,
Be married and same age as he;
But otherwise, if you are male,
As well as drinking wine, not ale,
Your best key to a longer life,
Is having a much younger wife.

Then, secondly, your diet can,
Make you as fit as Desperate Dan,
But to put off the day you die,
Go easy on his favourite pie.

In fact, don’t eat cow pie at all,
’Cos helpings are so seldom small,
And if you’re rather more astute,
You’ll fill yourself with veg and fruit.

And then there’s exercise at last,
The best sort’s running rather fast,
But don’t just run from bar to bar,
And don’t get run down by a car.

Then, finally, do go to church,
Because one piece of new research,
Has found a link twixt church and age,
Though why this is is hard to gauge.

It could be God there takes a look,
Decides against you as a spook,
And since He’s angels there galore,
Consigns you to a few years more.

There are more but that’s all I’ll tell,
I hope they’ll keep you feeling well,
And help you with the daily grind,
But please do not go off your mind!