I write for me. I'll write for you. Features, reviews, opinion pieces on life's foibles, film & TV nostalgia, Belfast and more. I have a crack at poetry and short fiction too. Contact: firstname.lastname@example.org NO FEAR OF TIGHT DEADLINES! Page views since 2011 below. Creative artists guest posts will be considered.
Thursday, 23 February 2017
NAMING OF STORMS ON DORIS DAY - WHEN IT GETS TO H, CALL ONE HUW
Another day and another storm with a cute name hurtles
across the Atlantic en route to be lead story on the nine
presented by Huw Edwards as Eeyore, looking miserable and
and delivering the words like a lay minister at a graveside.
Storms, nature’s perverse blow jobs, named after old school
and kindly aunties, that will test nerves and bricks and allow
action reporters to model Barbour jackets and Hunter wellies as they wade in
pointing to the desperate and the damage, one eye on the camera
and the other twinkling to impress BAFTA judges. Huw tells us
the live reporter tells us the same news, Huw and the reporter
the same news and our eyes glaze and nostrils flare just as they
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
above us, as if God had an itchy arse on a leather chair and was
to Father Fat to shut the hell up and get on with the praise and
If macho storms are to be christened, they need macho names, not
Daisy, Barney, Frank, Nigel, Wendy, Barbara, Conor or Doris
(Ewan and Fleur to come, gawd ‘elp us!).
Call them Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Mephisto, Armageddon,
Call them anything that describes their baggage of destruction,
misery and despair.