A LATE LUNCHEON AT THE HOUSE OF THE ADMIRAL

Great Gatsby

I’m the first to arrive for a late luncheon at the house of the Admiral. After a nine-minute wait in the frosted gloom, the Admiral answers the door. The Admiral is dressed in his trademark crimson jim-jams, hiking boots and cardboard hat. The cardboard hat is constructed from the box of an Admiral’s Pie.
“So glad you could make it, my old much-of-a-muchness,” says the Admiral.

The Admiral guides me to his sofa. The Admiral and I share a pack of Tesco Value sausage rolls. The Admiral and I share a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

An hour later my flatmate Kingsley arrives. Kingsley’s wittering on about Molly Ringwald as usual.
“So glad you could make it, my old much-of-a-muchness,” says the Admiral.
“Molly Ringwald,” says Kingsley. Kingsley eats fifteen Tesco Value sausage rolls.

Soon we’re joined by James Skipp and Charlton Bloom, both dressed as characters from Toy Story for reasons which never become obvious.
“Molly Ringwald,” says Kingsley.

Eventually conversation runs out as it must do at each and every party. The Admiral is unphased. He prolongs celebrations by dragging out his three pet Labradors from the airing cupboard. We take turns making tin-foil hats for the Labradors to wear, an activity that pleases neither dog nor human.

At midnight The Admiral puts on a CD by Transvision Vamp and we do a little dance (except Kingsley who can’t dance). Then the party’s over. Then we head home.

Back at the flat Kingsley and I stay up to eat Doritos and watch The Breakfast Club. I fall asleep halfway through and awake shivering with bits of Dorito stuck to my stubble.

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Fine Cuisines of Maidstone live

My short film Fine Cuisines of Maidstone, a meal-themed horror movie about the tender highs and terrifying lows of the fine dining scene in Maidstone, Kent, is now live on YouTube.

You can also visit Monstructo Producto’s website here:

https://monstructoproducto.wordpress.com

Fine Cuisines of Maidstone features possibly my greatest poem to date: Theme Song From Fine Cuisines:

Cheeseburger, potato.
Fine Cuisines of Maidstone.
Cheeseburger, potato.
Fine Cuisines of Maidstone.
Cheeseburger, potato.
Fine Cuisines of Maidstone.
Cheeseburger, potato.
Fine Cuisines…
of Maidstone.

Joggers

jogginh

Wheezing and panting and spluttering I jog.
The sun gives me hog sweats.
Splinters in my toes.
Stabbing in my shins.
Howling in my lungs.
Jogging is supposed to be good for my health
but it doesn’t feel good for my health.

Carbon-rubber soles bounce off pavement
bounce off road
bounce off chewing gum
bounce off discarded packs of Frazzles
bounce off discarded condoms
bounce off discarded nappies.
Jogging is supposed to be good for my health
but it doesn’t feel good for my health.

I jog from Pelham Road to Palmerston Road.
I jog from Kingston Road to Balfour Road.
I jog from Griffiths Road to Ridley Road.
Slower now
but still I jog.

A seagull with a broken wing.
Still I jog.
A crashed car.
Still I jog.
A man with blood on his face and no top on
and a knife in his hand.
Still I jog.
The man with the knife jogs alongside me.
“Didn’t happen to see a seagull with a broken wing did ya mate?” says the man with the knife.
I shake my head.
My mouth is so dry I can no longer speak.
The man with the knife jogs in a different direction.

Wheezing and panting and spluttering I jog.
Jogging is supposed to be good for my health
but it doesn’t feel good for my health.

Wild Strawberries

Unknown

We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
There is no variation. There is no change.

We work packing strawberries day after day.
Conveyor belt moves. Every second’s the same.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
Our faces are blank. Our brain patterns vague.

We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.
We work packing strawberries day after day.

I glance around the factory.
All eyes are downcast.
No one notices as I slip a strawberry into my mouth.

WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH

An alarm. Four security men.
I’m taken outside and beaten.

When I regain consciousness I resume my place.
We work packing strawberries day after day.

Bean-Tuna Mash

mashing beans

Place the baked beans and tuna together
in the same saucepan
and mash
into a bean-tuna paste
with your old wooden spoon, honey.

Mash it.

I’d lick the rust from your saucepan if I could!

Mash it.

Flame-cook the bean-tuna paste for 12 minutes.
Irradiate a jacket potato
[we used to call jacket potatoes ‘JPs’]
until soft and wet.
Mash it
into a bean-tuna-potato paste.

Mash it.
Continue to mash.
Mash it with your old wooden spoon, honey
and serve to your loved one.

The Case of DC VS MPC

judge from Garrow's Law

 

 

 

 

 

And so the trial begins.

I fix my wig, tap my gavel on the table, ask the microwave prawn curry how it pleads.

No answer.

“You refuse to answer?” I say.

The microwave prawn curry stares back at me.

Do I detect a flicker of remorse? A sliver of regret?

I can’t be sure.

“Guilty!” I say.

I feed the microwave prawn curry to my cat, Edward Jasper, who immediately vomits it back up.

I fetch a Scotch egg from the fridge.

I fix my wig, tap my gavel on the table, ask the Scotch egg how it pleads.

No answer.

Use Your Hands

Image

The first time anyone eats a stuffed owl, it’s not pretty.

Owl skin sticks to your gullet.

Clay and feathers feel like intruders in your throat.

And the copper wire… the copper wire is impossible to digest.

It scratches at your intestines.

But by the time you’re on your second, your third, fourth stuffed owl, you adapt.

You adjust.

Then, when you find yourself in The Owl Museum after midnight, you know what to do.

The Owl Museum doesn’t have knives and forks, so use your hands.

Stranded

chicken

Like an astronaut tumbling to Earth from his disintegrating rocket,
I crashland in your heart.
I crashland violently,
the force tearing sense and reason apart.

Dazed, I gaze around and realise I am stranded.
I am stranded in the land of chickenbones.
I am stranded in the land where the ChickenMasters roam.
I am stranded in a land that’s far from home.
I am stranded in a land that’s far from Maidstone.

A shriek. SHREIK!
From a beak.
The ChickenMasters say I’m washed and ready to eat.
The ChickenMasters talk to me about ChickenMasters for hours.
The ChickenMasters want to cook me in their trousers.
The ChickenMasters say half of me is sweet and half of me is sour.
And the ChickenMasters want to cook me in their trousers.

“Have you heard about the history of the ChickenMasters?” they scream.
And “Your world is heading for disaster,” they scream.
And “We wash our juicy chickens in the sea,” they scream.
And “Being one of our chicks is easy!” they scream.

I am stranded in the land of chickenbones.
And I am stranded in the land where the ChickenMasters roam.

AND I SAY NO!
I’m not one of their lil’ chicks.
AND I SAY NO!
Not one lil’ bit.
AND I SAY NO!
I don’t agree to their deal.
AND I SAY NO!
I won’t end up as a meal.

AND I SAY OH!
I’m stranded, I’ve crashlanded in the plains of your heart.
Now the ChickenMasters will rip my soul apart.

Egg City Blues

eggs

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four million eggs were poached in the city today.
Four million eggs poached and six million eggs prepped in other ways:
two million eggs scrambled,
two million boiled
two million deviled, steamed, coated in oil.
Eggs in the city! Eggs in the city!

Today we eat eggs with friends.
We eat eggs on the subway.
We eat eggs in our PJs.
We eat eggs while sending text messages,
egg yolk dribbling messily onto our phones.
Imperfect eggs are crushed beneath our Jimmy Choos!
Lack of eggs is not an issue, not in our city, not today.

A couple of kids throw eggs at the door of Old Man Joe.
A couple of lovers dip toes in eggs like soldiers
then lick each other’s toes.
Egg tasted. Eggs wasted.
Eggs devoured.
Do cracked eggshells expose egg power? Yes, it’s true.
But lack of eggs is not an issue, not in our city, not today.

“What’s beneath the egg?” people forget to ask us.
“What’s beneath the egg? What’s beneath the egg?”
Some days bodies are poached in the city,
bodies mangled and twisted,
scrambled and boiled like eggs, like eggs.

Some days there are eggshells without eggs.
“Don’t tread on the eggshells if you want to keep your legs!”
they tell the children.
Behold the Egg City inferno:
Abandon all yolk, ye who enter here!

Some days eggs disappear like props in a conjuror’s trick,
and on other days The Age of the Egg seems mythic.
But not today.
Today we enjoy eggs in the city,
eggs poached, scrambled and coated in oil.