Another day and another storm with a cute name hurtles
Across the Atlantic en route to be lead story on the nine o’clock news
Presented by Huw Edwards as Eeyore, looking miserable and hopeless
And delivering the words like a lay minister at a graveside. Storms,
Nature’s perverse blow jobs, named after old school friends and kindly aunties,
That will test nerves and bricks and allow action reporters to model
Barbour jackets and Hunter wellies as they wade in flood water,
Pointing to the desperate and the damage, one eye on the camera lens
And the other twinkling to impress BAFTA judges. Huw tells us the news,
The live reporter tells us the same news, Huw and the reporter discuss
The same news and our eyes glaze and nostrils flare just as they did
When we were six listening to a church sermon about dungeon, fire and sword,
Words spoken by a fat priest with a hangover from a pulpit that creaked
Above us, as if God had an itchy arse on a leather chair and was signalling
To Father Fat to shut the hell up and get on with the praise and glory bits.
If macho storms are to be christened, they need macho names, not Gertrude,
Daisy, Barney, Frank, Nigel or Wendy*. Call them Satan, Armageddon, Bastard,
Call them anything that describes their baggage of destruction, misery and despair.
Call at least one of them Huw.