Public Transport – No Way, The Man, by Poncington von Dick


Poncington contemplates writing an ode to his testicles


Although poet laureate, Poncington von Dick, always saw himself as a man of the people, it was only when his chauffeur driven Silver Ghost Rolls Royce broke down that he took on the challenge of mixing with the working class and taking public transport.

This fool-hardy escapade almost cost him his sanity. Recovering in Richington’s Private Hospital for the Financially Comfortable, he told ‘Blimey! Facking Poets Everywhere!!’ magazine:

“It had to be done. One felt, to really empathise with the chip butty and whippet brigade, that one had to gird one’s mettle and head into the bull-pit that was public transport. I took both the train – which is no longer steam driven, unlike in those charming Harry Potter books – and the bus, which was nothing but a haven of depravity and oikishness. I am, however, a better man for the adventure. Although mentally more fragile.”

Out of this nerve-shattering experience, he wrote the following horrific screed:

“Howling faces, screaming at me from the mist,
With cor blimey cockney knees up horror, they crush me from all sides,
Smelling of the mines from which they must have travelled,
Or the greasy cafes and dog-fighting clubs they visit,
To gamble away their farthings for a bellyful of mother’s ruin.

Oh, calamity, why dost though beat upon my sensitive breast,
Why dost fate seek to procure me a glimpse of the fresh pit of hell?
The Queen’s English – nary a whiff;
Instead, an endless tirade of ‘fack this’ and ‘bollocks that’ and ‘cant the other’,
My ears cannot be far from death.

But hark, through the sweaty faces of the great unwashed, the wall of plebs break,
For there, the Groucho Club, where Squiffy and Snotty and Two-Arses Toffy will be,
The bus spews me – sweaty, panting and almost driven lunatic by its machinations,
Into the warm embrace of my fellow travellers.
Thanks, Squiffy – I’ll have a large one.”

Dante himself could not have penned a more nightmarish ode.



Tumescently Genius by Poncington von Dick


Poncington contemplates having a shit to encourage his artistic process


Poet laureate, Poncington von Dick, has never been a stranger to the role of the artist in society. A keen advocate of promoting the idea that creative genius is a talent earned through years of painful emotional soul searching, and that the genii who dabble in the plastic arts are to be celebrated for the contribution they give to society, he penned the missive below to show the world just how much raw pain and artistic suffering he goes through when composing his deathless missives.

“It’s all about the idea,” he told Poetry Cretin magazine. “People ask me ‘where do you get your ideas?’, and I always reply, ‘In the ether of life; in the very nature of reality; in the realm of dreams… and nightmares.” By this point they’ve usually buggered off, but my point is made.”

“Fellow travellers in the dark forests of creativity,
Come forth, stags of poetry,
To stride forth like the raging colossus which our art bids us do,
To crush the critic paups beneath the very soles of our mighty talent.

The average prole cannot hope to fathom the depths of our genius,
Walk on, into the night of pensive thought,
And writ large the scribes of wonder and majesty,
Which we knock out if the price is right.

Do not fear the slings and arrows of those who look down upon our talent,
Do not retreat from people who say we’re lazy shites with our heads stuck up our arses,
For we are artists; the people who bring flight to wing-ed dreams,
And they should be bloody grateful for that, the bastards!

But hark, I hear another poem on the horizon,
Flirting tenaciously with the nib of my pen,
Tickling the hairy globes of my imagination
So, I bid thee farewell, to screed another work which is utterly brilliant and great.

A bit like me.”

The UK Society For Poets said of this poem, “It has words,” and “please leave us alone.”

More Pies For Me: The Rise of the Man-Child in Politics


Not this kind of pi


This should have the subtitle, ‘Actually, Has There Been A Rise Or Have Politicians – Principally Male – Always Been A Bunch Of Knobends?’, but that might be a bit too long.

Michael Gove. Boris Johnson. Donald Trump. Jacob Rees-Mogg. Silvio Berlusconi. Nigel Farage. All mad as a boxful of badgers, and all with the intellectual political capital of a shitty stick. Whenever one of these goons, and many more besides, stride onto the world stage and starts performing like the gibbon they are for the cameras, I am reminded that politics appears to be spiralling down into a playpen full of gibbering reality show contestants made of blustering crap and half-arsed opinions.

There have always been politicians who were totally bugfuck from the dawn of time. One only has to mention Sir Keith Joseph to anyone in the UK over 50 to hear the screams. But this new strain of politician (or old strain, come to think of it, as these bastards have been knocking around for donkey’s years) seem content to be idiots, and rely on their blustering pantomime to woo the punters into sucking up their line of bullshit. They seem to be wilfully clownish, whilst pushing forward a frat boy agenda cemented to whatever socially destructive ideology they’re trying to plug to get their fingers in as many pies as their bank balance will hold.

But are people buying into it? Just because the majority of the media seem to be hell-bent on promoting these gimp-muffins that doesn’t mean the majority of the public are falling for it, although considering the buffoonish arguments used to shore up the Brexit vote and incredulous shite used to hoof Trump onto the top of the ladder, there’s at least a slim majority which fall for this crap.

Why has this level of idiocy within the political establishment become the accepted norm at the current time. For all their faults (and there were fucking MILLIONS) at least people like Blair and Clinton had the intellectual nous, at least at the start of their careers, to prop up a decent argument against whatever snake-oil they were trying to sell us, but this current glut of mainly right wing cock trumpets seem to have trouble forming even the most basic logical argument regarding their fucked up political belief systems. For those who berate Corbyn – at least the bastard can argue his point, unlike the finger puppets he’s up against.

A solid reason for the propagation and publicity of these clown shoes within the media could be because the fuckers are friends with the top dogs who get their puppies to bark for them (and in Silvio’s case, actually run the fucking media in his country). And because their comedy antics help shift copy and fill up the TV screens with low-grade intellectual plutonium (in that dealing with enough of this shit will cause your face to fall off) we get a never-ending stream of piss over our faces. Seriously, who in their right fucking mind would get a sulphurous helmet like Rees-Mogg to voice his 1950’s comedy opinions on ANY news show, unless the producers were looking for ratings as people tuned in to laugh, gobsmacked, at his blithering cluelessness?

Whatever the reason, it looks as though the B-Movie politicians are taking up the high ground for the near future. We can only hope society gets sick of these dicks and crave something with a bit more gravitas than the gawping buffoons and goggle-eyed morons we have to deal with at the moment.

Slated and Hated by Poncington von Dick


Poncington contemplates the next eight pints


Like most of the greats, the poet laureate Poncington von Dick was a great advocate on the use of alcohol to free up his interior dialogue. In an interview with Turps Sniffer Monthly, Poncington waxed lyrical about, “… the need to explore the full range of hidden voices which speak my art through the genius of my own imagination. To unleash this demon requires the might and fortitude of the spirit muse, which is why I tend to knock back a few creativity-enhancing pints of Knackers Olde Clockweights before starting on the whisky.”

In honour of this muse, Poncington produced an ode to the great emancipator of his artistic vision:

“Oh, golden pint of hops, how you glisten in the sunlight,
Captured within the smoking area, we huddle as though criminals,
Yet are freed by the pintage you offer us, landlord of dreams.

And yes, technically that creativity can get out of hand sometimes,
Like when I was totally justified in micturating in the sink,
Because Johnny ‘Five Pints’ McFisty was being sick in the toilet.

Or when I started that fight with a lamp-post,
Because it called me a big girl’s blouse.

Take me, oh pint, from the shackles that cling me to this earth,
And spirit me off to a colourful world of laughter and song,
Which reminds me, I’ll have a large one, landlord.

And as the muse takes me, the beast within rises,
Which may sometimes lead to me dropping my trousers,
Which is completely valid form of artistic expression.”

Untrammelled genius.

Be Strong, Sweet Princess – An Ode to Theresa May by Poncington von Dick


Poncington muses on why he’s so great


As is well documented, poet laureate Poncington von Dick has always been a great admirer of Theresa May, once referring to her in an ode as ‘a gilded flower of steel-haired bountifulness’ in the poem ‘Can I Have a Knighthood, Please?’

With the news that Theresa May’s popularity was falling in the polls due to the problems over Brexit, Poncington decided to strike a blow for the woman he admired. In an interview with ‘Knobend Monthly’, he said, “People have the wrong idea about Theresa. They see her as a clueless pencil pusher, out of her depth and slowly drowning as she’s attacked on all sides by the equally clueless in her cabinet, but they fail to see the burning intelligence behind her eyes. She’s playing the long game, mark my words. A very long game. A very, very, very long game. A very, very, very – you get the drift.”

Here, in it’s entirety, is von Dick’s rallying cry to May.

“Fear not, o’ cupid bow of untrammelled innocence,
Hark ye little to the vultures circling over one’s bonce,
For they are vermin creatures of ill repute,
Hell bent on tearing your sterling legacy to shreds.”

To some, it may seem as though you haven’t got a clue,
And that you wear the trousers of brown,
Now that you’ve realised the full implications of something you didn’t vote for in the first place,
But of heed, take none, for they are just jealous.

That’s right, my love,
Jealous of your sparkling eyes and coquettish, trilling laughter,
Jealous of the clever way you can misdirect them by appearing a bit rubbish at everything,
Jealous of your inner strength, which you appear to hide extremely well.

But keep strong and carry on, for this dream of Brexit will come to an end one day,
And then we can sail away on a barge to a far-off island,
Where a charabanc of pleasure will guide us to our love,
But only once you’ve ditched the hubby, as my poetic ‘girth’ (wink, wink) is much bigger than his.”

The Daily Mail called this piece ‘a work of staggering genius’.

Give Me Your Plebs, Your Paups, Your Pond-Life by Poncington von Dick


Poncington, on the front line of the fight for the working man


Poncington was a great campaigner for the working man, and sometimes – if he was feeling generous – the working woman. A well-known figure at Labour rallies, he would often take to the stage and rail against whatever the popular bugbear of the time was, whether it be wages, working hours, or not enough canapes with his macchiato.

It was during the infamous Shouting Men’s Party Against The Toffs march that Poncington delivered one of his best known poems, where he takes a vicious and uncompromising swipe at the ruling elite, in a style which, in an interview with Art Balls magazine, he hoped “Would replicate the down-home chirpy anger of Sleaford Mods”:

“Bloody, bloody toffs and their stupid rich cars,
Driving ‘round my way like they don’t give a fig,
About the workin’ man – that’s right, fellow paups, I don’t pronounce my ‘g’s,
Becoz I am just like you, and you’re just like me,
But without the talent or publishing contract, obviously.

We don’t have to take no stuff,
From the ruddy toffs no more,
Bloody monetarist autocracy – NO WAY!
For we ain’t got nuffink, nor nowt, nor stuff,
Because we are definitely angry and we like to shout.

So fig off, Thatch and fig off May,
Go back to your money bags because you smell of corruption,
And just wait in fear whilst us working men,
Fight for equality which we can do because we’re rough and hard,
And drink pints and play darts and shuffle ha’penny,
And ride on horses and carts and swear and gob
And we refuse to doff our caps when you pass by in your rich cabs,
And our whippets won’t work in no coalmine, okay?
Because we ain’t gonna take no more of this plop,
And we’ll ruddy well shake our fists at you as long as we RUDDY WELL WANT!”

This rousing speech then led to the Great Poetry Riots of 2017, when many shops selling Poncington’s work were burnt down as an act of solidarity.

The Gilded Lilly of Love by Poncington von Dick


Poncington contemplates saucy ladies


Poncington von Dick was a poet known principally for his political and social poetry, picking holes in the great and the good, but every now and then he was known to dabble in the heart. “We are all creatures of feeling,” he told What Ponce Magazine. “Creatures whose hearts lead us astray and weave fine pitards for our emotions to fall on. Creatures who become folly for the delicate sways in life, or the accountant’s trousers if you’re my bastard of a wife!”

Before his separation he wrote what Poetry Knob magazine called ‘one of the finest love letters to the heart’. We present it here in it’s entirely:

“Oh, fairest maiden of my heart,
As we sit in the fields and contemplate our dreams,
As the clouds weave shadows over our sight,
And the Summer breeze plays with our hair,
Like an old lover lost to the mists of time,
I contemplate our forever lasting love,
And know that all those rumours,
About you and the milkman,
Weren’t true.
And all the rumours,
About the postman,
And the handyman,
And Johnny the Tramp,
And Wanking Vic from the pub,
And that bloke who barks at care,
And smells of wee.

All those rumours are nothing but dust,
Floating under the radar of our love.”

Two weeks later divorce papers were filed.