Hmmm… – 1

Screen Shot 2015-12-06 at 06.38.16Interesting that the la-la who wakes up in the US and decides he/she wants to be a jihadi tools up with assault rifles, pistols, body armour and pipe bombs – while their UK brethren (because they are all symbiotically linked, ye ken?) has to make do with a steaky bought from Morrison’s. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there? Read the story/watch the video here.


‘Hmmm…’ is a series of short observations, too long for Twitter, too short for a proper posting.

Poets, not Athletes


‘Someone asked me, what would have been the make-up of your ideal platoon – athletes? No, I said: poets.’

  Sydney Jary, WW2 Platoon Commander

At times like these I would suggest we might do better to listen to the poets, rather than the politicians, the soldiers, the commentators et al. With that in mind, my favourite living poet, Warsan Shire, in the aftermath of the London riots:

what they did yesterday afternoon, by warsan shire

they set my aunts house on fire

i cried the way women on tv do

folding at the middle

like a five pound note.

i called the boy who use to love me

tried to ‘okay’ my voice

i said hello

he said warsan, what’s wrong, what’s happened?

i’ve been praying,

and these are what my prayers look like;

dear god

i come from two countries

one is thirsty

the other is on fire

both need water.

later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered




Title image is ‘Response to the Sandyhook School Massacre’ by Jeremy Collins

If you’re about to comment on Paris…

If you’re about to comment on Paris (or Beirut, or Baghdad), pause: imagine what the terrorists behind the attack would like you to post.

Anti-immigrant? Tick.

Anti-refugee? Tick.

Anti-Islamic? Tick.

This is a war? Tick.

Our tragedy is greater than your tragedy? Tick.

This is France’s/Russia’s/the US’s/the UK’s/the Arab governments’ fault? Tick.

Don’t let the terrorists work you like a ventriloquist’s doll. Unless, of course, you enjoy having someone’s hand up your arse.