The Analogue Kids #2 – A Spittoon in the Lounge Bar

Photo by Thomas balabaud on Pexels.com

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
Harry nodded and Muriel sat down unheeded, placing a pint of beer in front of him.  “I hope you don’t mind but, it’s really heavy isn’t it, a pint of beer?  If you don’t take it I’ll have to pour it in the spittoon.”
He wanted to smile but he found himself pouting like a toddler and he had no idea of how to stop.  “I saved you the seat last week,” he said, “but you didn’t come.”
“I know,” she said.  “And I’m sorry.  I couldn’t call you because I don’t have your number.  I phoned the pub…”
“Really?  Who did you speak to?”
“I’m not sure.  She said she was too busy to act as your unpaid answering service, especially on quiz night, and hung up.  I presumed she’d let you know when she wasn’t so busy…”
“I left early – straight after the round on Soul music – this is the first time I’ve been in since.”  Harry moved his empty glass from the beer mat and having taken a sip, put his new pint in its place.  “It might have been better in the spittoon,” he said.
“Isn’t that what you normally drink?  I’m sorry, I thought it was…  Shall I?…”
“It is what I normally drink,” he said.  “It’s always horrible.  I don’t know what they do with it.”
“Why don’t you drink something else?” she asked.
“I like it,” he answered, looking puzzled.  “And what kind of pub do you think has a spittoon these days?”
“I thought they all had them.”
“I think something might have misled you.  Is there a John Wayne season on the iPlayer or something?”
“I don’t really come into pubs very much.  They’re not easy places to be in when you’re on your own.”
“They’re about the only places I do go in on my own.”
“So when you say you haven’t been in here since last week?”
“I’ve been sat in front of the telly, eating frozen meals for one and generally pondering my navel.”
“And did you reach any conclusions?”
“I need to get out more.”
“Good.  Where shall we go?”
Harry picked up on the you/we transition immediately, but all in all he thought it best not to mention it.  She might change her mind.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I never really go anywhere.”
“What about the seaside?” she answered.  “You can’t go wrong with the seaside can you?  Do you have a bus pass?  We could go on the bus.”
“It’s years since I’ve been to the seaside,” said Harry.  “So many people and so noisy… I’m not sure.”
“It’s not all ‘kiss me quick,’” said Muriel, suddenly nervously twisting the stem of her wine glass.  “There are plenty of quiet beaches.  We could just walk, take a picnic maybe, or buy fish and chips.”
Harry fiddled with the wedding ring he had moved onto his right hand over five years ago and gave the impression of deep consideration.  “Why not,” he said at last.  “Yes, I’d like that.  If we win this quiz, the prize will pay for the chips.”
“Better get the form then…”

Harry returned with two glasses, one of wine and one of beer, two packets of crisps (one plain, one salt & vinegar), two packets of salted peanuts, two packets of pork scratching and a cheese and onion sandwich that looked as though its best days may have been before the Crimean War.  He placed them on the table in front of Muriel.  “I wasn’t sure,” he said, “which you might fancy.”
“I’m not certain that anyone should eat that sandwich,” she said.  “I’m pretty sure that the cheese wasn’t blue when it went into it.  Perhaps you could go and put it somewhere where it can rot in peace.”  Harry departed with the offending butty, returning without it seconds later.  “Landlord took it back,” he said.  “Put it in the dart team’s buffet.”
“They don’t play until Wednesday,” said Muriel.
“He doesn’t like waste,” said Harry.  “He’s got steak pies in the warmer that lived through Brexit.”
Muriel looked at the smorgasbord on the table.  “Shall we share a packet of ready salted?” she asked.  “The one that’s still in date?”
Harry smiled agreement and sipped his beer as he lowered himself into the chair.  “I registered us as The Analogue Kids,” he said.
“That’s good,” smiled Muriel, testing an over-large crisp on her front teeth.  “No-one will know who we are.  If we lose we won’t be humiliated and if we win, we won’t get mugged on the way home.”
“For twenty quid?”
“Harry, where I live, they’ll mug you for twenty pence.  Well, they don’t need the money actually: they’ll mug you just for the fun of it.”
“Bloody hell, are you ok going home?”
“Oh yes, the bus stop is right outside my door and the bus driver always waits until I’m in.”
“That’s good of him.”
“Her.  I pay her with humbugs.  It’s a long night for her and her breath smells like she’s swallowed a dead fox by then.”
“Right… well, there’s two teams of students in tonight and one team of dons, not to mention the extremely uncomfortable middle-class foursome over near the window who have somebody outside with a mobile phone giving them answers when they think that nobody’s looking, so I definitely wouldn’t go spending the prize money just yet.”
“Is there nobody ‘normal’ doing the quiz?”
“Lots of them.  Half a dozen ‘normal’ teams doing the quiz, but absolutely none of them winning it.”
“But you still think that you can win it.”
Harry allowed himself the slightest of smiles.  “We,” he said.  “I think that we can win it.  We did ok last time until they had the round on Social Media Influencers.”
“Derren Brown seemed like a perfectly logical answer to me.”
“To all ten questions, yes…  Anyway, if I have a good day today, yes, I think we can win it.  If you have a good day, I think we can win it and if we both have a good day then nobody will stop us.  The fish and chips are as good as ours.”
“But what about the team of dons?”
“No problem with them.  Away with the fairies, all of them.  They’ll do well in the Classical Greek and Philosophy rounds of course.”
“Are there really…?” Muriel stopped short, warned by the amusement in his eyes.  “I suppose you think that’s funny don’t you?”
“Well,” he grinned.  “It is a bit.”
“Misplaced I’d say,” she pouted.
“Like a spittoon in the lounge bar,” he said.

I hope you’ll forgive me.  I enjoyed these two so much last week that I felt I had to give them a second episode today.  Unless everyone hates them, they will appear again I think.


The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Cabal to Collaborate)

CABAL                       Secret plot.  Most of your D.I.Y plots will be extremely secret: you will probably be the only person ever to know anything about them.  If you feel that you are perhaps getting too much of a good thing, tell your wife¹, but expect to be held up for ridicule.

  1. Subversion is a notoriously sexist occupation and ‘partner’ still sounds a little too ‘woolly hat and lentils’ for many ‘traditional’ subversives.  If you are the wife, then tell your husband and expect the same result.  If you are single, then tell anyone you can think of and expect total apathy.  If you have a friend, then you are not a subversive.

CANT                         Hypocritical speech.  This is not the word I thought it was and it doesn’t mean anything like the same, however, no turning back, and it is quite an appropriate word for our guide.  Being hypocritical is one of the most essential subversive skills.  Without it, you may end up saying what you really mean.  Fatal.  Never fall into the truth trap.  Truth is a four-letter word to the subversive¹.  Lie at all times.

  1. Inevitable, as most of them cannot count beyond three.

CAPITALIST               Owner of capital.  Think of everything nasty, everything evil, everything you most covet – that is capital.  Think of the owner of the capital – that is a capitalist – and sheer, naked envy will make him your sworn enemy.  He has it and you don’t.  Now, how can that be fair?  Being fair is all about you having the capital and the capitalist slaving away in an attempt to get you some more.  Life, of course, is seldom fair.

CAPITULATE              Surrender on terms, give in.  This is something the good, honest, decent subversive will never do – unless it is to his advantage.  Surrender traditionally requires either the hoisting of a white flag or a good foreknowledge of the safe word.  Capitulation is, in fact, the greater part of subversive valour¹ and very rarely results in bruising other than to the ego – which does not hurt anything like as much.

  1. Oxymoron of the day.

CASTRATE                 Remove testicles.  Not particularly effective as a political ploy, but great fun in the right company.

CEMENT                    Fine mortar.  A fine, grey powder which, when mixed with sand and water, has many applications in building and construction work.  Mainly employed by the D.I.Y subversive in the construction of concrete boots:

  • Place victim’s feet into two medium-sized plastic buckets¹.
  • Three quarters fill with suitable cement mixture.
  • Allow concrete² to set (usually 3 to 7 days, depending on conditions).
  • Throw victim in river or lake.

It is wise to take a few precautions before employing such conglomerate footwear:

  • Spread plenty of plastic around before mixing the concrete – splashes can be very difficult to remove from light-coloured carpets.
  • Ensure that the concrete is correctly mixed.  Incomplete mixing could lead to surface cracking and eventually to the re-floatation of the corpse.  Whilst this may be acceptable in the large marine environment, it can be unsightly in the home pond or swimming pool.
  • Ensure that the water depth is sufficient to cover the victim.  Throwing a six-foot victim into a five-foot garden pond is never going to work³; the weight of the concrete will ensure that the victim remains upright and, even allowing for a certain amount of settlement, his nose is unlikely to sink below the surface.  If you are not properly prepared, you may be forced to haul your victim from the water.  Beware – wet concrete is even heavier than dry concrete.  If you are unable to remove him from the water, try putting a small fishing rod in his hands or, alternatively, decorate his head to resemble a buoy.

Alternative Procedure: 3,000 tonnes of concrete spread evenly across the bridge of the nose will silence even the most stubborn of dissenters.

  1. Traditionally, the wearer of concrete wellies will be dead.  If this is not the case, you may need some help in holding their feet still while the concrete sets.
  2. Mixture of sand, cement and water is known by builders as ‘gobbo’ and is used in building walls – concrete (below) actually relies upon the addition of a harsher ‘ballast’ – usually pebbles or grit – in precise ratio.  It is a well-known fact that these ratios are never actually precise enough and the resulting mix is either too dry to lay, or so wet that next-door’s cat is consumed by it three weeks later.
  3. This is especially relevant if you are trying to submerge a living victim.  There is a very useful technique for ascertaining the vitality of your victim involving a small hand mirror, but I don’t know what it is.  Perhaps it would be best to gag the victim whether alive or dead, but not with one of the monogrammed handkerchiefs that Aunty Sheila has bought you every Christmas for the last twenty years

CHAOS                      Disorder, confusion.  The ultimate aim of the subversive group is to spread disorder and confusion throughout society.  The ultimate dénouement is usually the spreading of disorder and confusion amongst the subversive group itself.

COLLABORATE          Aid an enemy in occupation of one’s own country.  To vote Conservative.  In a war (subversives are always engaged in a war – even if it’s only with the car) collaboration is perfectly acceptable, providing you do it with the winners.  In the Second World War, the French collaborators made three basic mistakes:

  • Collaborating with a party that offered little in return.
  • Collaborating with the losers.
  • Being French.

In order to make a real success of collaboration, you will first have to persuade somebody to occupy your country.  If you are American, Chinese or Russian, I think you might as well give it up as a bad idea straight away.  If, however, you live in Lichtenstein, you have a fighting chance¹.  Your first step is to talk to someone with a larger army and persuade them to invade.  Negotiating with a foreign power is not always easy:

                                  HOW TO TEMPT THEM.

                                  Advise them of the richness of your natural resources.
Offer them money.
Ask very, very politely.

                                  HOW TO DEAL WITH THEM.

                                  Be certain of their aims.
Be certain of your aims.
Get everything in writing.

                                  IS IT WORTH IT?

                                  No.

  1. Although the non-fighting chance is always the preferred option.

© Colin McQueen 2026

The Analogue Kids #1 – Anybody’s Seat

“Excuse me, is this anybody’s seat?”
Harry hardly registered the question as he was asked it so often, but answered automatically nonetheless.
“Help yourself,” he said, barely raising his eyes from the book on his lap.  The chair scraped back from the table, but was not, as he had anticipated, carried away.  Instead a glass of wine appeared and a figure – little more than a shadow to his downcast vision – sat down.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
He did mind frankly, but he was courteous enough at least to mumble something that could just possibly be “Not at all,” with all the conviction of a Socialist Estate Agent.
“I’ve never seen you in here before,” the voice continued.  “But then again, it’s the first time I’ve ever been in here, so…”
Harry felt obliged to look up.  The interloper was female, around – he guessed – his own age and staring straight at him.  He could have felt disquieted – she didn’t look like a stalker, although you never can tell – but instead he was intrigued.  Why would anyone, least of all – on the face of it at least – a perfectly normal woman, choose to sit with him in what was, admittedly, a pretty full pub?
“Well, this is awkward isn’t it?” she said, the pause in conversation having reached Scandi Noir levels.  “Is this situation weird?  It is, isn’t it?  Oh dear, maybe I shouldn’t have sat here.  Should I go?”
“It’s fine,” Harry said, closing his book in an attempt to appear decisive.  “It’s just …  Look, when you’re sitting alone – as you may have noticed I was – people always come to ask you about the spare chair.  It’s no problem, they just take it and that’s where it ends.  Nobody ever just sits on it.”
“I know,” she said.  “Muriel.”  She held her hand out for him to shake.  A bemused smile flashed across his face as he took the hand and said “Harry, I’m Harry.”
“Oh God,” moaned Muriel, “I’ve no idea why I did that.  I mean, we’re not in a business meeting are we.  I just…  It’s busy in here tonight, isn’t it?”
“Quiz night,” said Harry
“Oh, do you do the quiz?”
“In a manner of speaking,” answered Harry.  “I write down the answers, but I don’t enter.  I’m on my own as you can see and people don’t take kindly to you doing well in a pub quiz, if you don’t have a team.”
“Maybe I could be your partner… In the quiz I mean… Obviously…”
“Why not?” he said, laying his book down on the table.
“What are you reading?”
Harry risked a brief glance at the book’s cover.  “A Study in Scarlet,” he said, painfully aware that the slightly tatty paperback was little more than a suit of armour for him.  A means to discourage unwanted conversation.
Muriel searched through her handbag.  “I carry this,” she said, placing an equally dog-eared copy of Cold Comfort Farm on the table in front of her.  “I mean, I love it and I’ve read it a thousand times, but in a pub, or a restaurant, on a bus, or in a hotel, I just open it and stare.  It is my breathing space.”
“I’ll go and get our names down for the quiz,” said Harry, rising to his feet.  “Would you?…” he nodded towards her now empty glass.
“Why not?” she answered.

Harry returned with a glass of wine, a pint of beer and the quiz sheet.  “I didn’t know what to put as a team name,” he said, “so I just put Muriel and Harry.”
Muriel smiled.  “I approve.  Do you normally do well?” she asked.  “You said that you write the answers down, even though you don’t enter.  Do you do well?”
“I do ok,” he answered.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been last.”
“Have you ever won?”
“From time to time,” he answered.
“Oh dear, I hope I’m not a bad omen.”
“It’s only a quiz,” he said.  “I’m like everybody else.  I know a lot of stuff, but I don’t know a whole lot more.  What are you like at music?”
“I like Soul,” she said, sipping the wine.
“Well that’s ok then, because I can’t stand it.  You’re one up on me already.”
“Sauvignon,” she said, smiling gratefully.  “I thought you might get me Chardonnay.”
“I’ve only just met you,” he said.  “I see no reason to upset you so soon.”
Muriel sipped her wine again.  “Why that book?” she asked.
“I like it,” he answered.  “I like the humour in it.  Film-makers, television people, they always miss that.  It’s just subtle enough for them not to get it.  Besides, I’ve read it so many times that I can answer questions as if I am reading it if anyone asks.  What about you and Stella Gibbons?  Somehow I’d have expected Jane Austen.”
Muriel grimaced.  “And we were getting along so well,” she said.  “If there is a literature round in this quiz, you will discover that I really don’t know my Austen from my Bronte, nor, if I’m honest, my Bronte from my Bronte.  I have, I am told, a particular sense of humour.  Cold Comfort Farm made me giggle as a schoolgirl and I have carried it with me ever since.  Most men, I have found, have never heard of it and so are very unlikely to embark on a conversation about it.”
“Would it disturb you if I did?”
“No,” she said.  “…But don’t.  I could have gone to the library for that.”
“Well, I’m beginning to get an idea of where we stand in this quiz: Soul music, tick, literary parody, tick, now how are you on history?”
“I’m of an age where I remember most of it: even life before mobile phones and home computers; two channels on the TV and nothing after The National Anthem at eleven o’clock.  I remember when teenagers shared their deepest hopes and fears with a diary… and that had a lock on it.”
Harry laughed.  “I guess we have to hope there’s no ‘Social Media’ round as well then.  Maybe we should call ourselves The Analogue Kids next time,” he said.
Muriel raised an eyebrow.  “Next time?”  Harry could feel his face reddening.  “Next time would be good,” she continued.  “Perhaps you could save me a seat…

‘The Analog Kid’ is a 1982 song by Rush which, according to t’internet ‘captures the restless longing of youth, the pull of teenage freedom, and the bittersweet transition from a simple childhood into the complex adult world’.  It also, I think, captures the spirit of people of ‘our age’ battling to get to grips with a new world.  


The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Blindfold to Burglary)

BLINDFOLD                If you have ever played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, you will know that it is practically impossible to properly blindfold anybody, especially if they do not want to be blindfolded.  Placing a bag¹ over the victim’s head is generally more successful and easier to do.  If you must go for a blindfold avoid handkerchiefs, which are never big enough; silk scarves, which are never opaque enough, and pink fluffy elasticated eye-masks, which, in my opinion, are never tight enough.

1. It is generally worth investing a few pence on a cloth ‘Bag for Life’ rather than a supermarket plastic carrier, as, not only are they more environmentally friendly, they have less of a tendency to leave your abductee dead.

BLOOD                       It is my firm opinion that blood should be neither seen nor heard.  Spilling blood is never good.  If you feel the need to prove your commitment to the cause with the acquisition of a physical injury suffered in the pursuit of your principles, try to develop a blister or bloodless abrasion.  Pain is one thing, we all know the discomfort a paper-cut can cause, but bleeding to death is quite another.   Remember, blood on the external surfaces of the body is almost always a bad sign.

BOMB                         Explosive projectile.  Explosives, effective as they are, are expensive, difficult to obtain and apt to blow bits off the unwary – so why not avoid them altogether and pop an empty crisp packet instead?

BOURGEOIS                A person whose political, economic, and social opinions are believed to be determined mainly by concern for property values and conventional respectability.  The Bourgeoisie are held in contempt both by those who have no property and therefore no interest in its value, and also by those who determine just what exactly amounts to ‘conventional respectability’.  Heads you lose, tails you lose. This dichotomy was experienced most acutely during the French Revolution when the Bourgeoisie were reviled by both factions of the Gallic Class War.  To be honest, I don’t think they lost too much sleep over it.  ‘Here’s your options –  the nobility are going to treat you with contempt because of your petty concerns over conventional respectabilities, whilst the proletariat are going to hold you down on a block of wood so that Monsieur Guillotine’s latest invention¹ can permanently separate you from the full range of bodily functions – now, who are you going to support?’  The Bourgeois are currently known as The Conservative Party and, strangely, have a deep affection for over-priced French Red and pieds-a-terre² in Normandy.

1. Monsieur Guillotine did not actually invent, but rather improved, this instrument of capital punishment – formerly known as the Scottish Maiden (Demoiselle Ecossaise).  The guillotine replaced the previous method of execution in France, known as the Breaking Wheel (Rupture de la Roué) which was so barbaric that not even the French could stand it – and remember, this is the nation that dismembers frogs.

2. Literally ‘foot on the ground’ – because the kind of hovel that the French generally sell to the English will have mud floors, three walls and a roof that is fine as long as it doesn’t rain.

BREAK                       What you do to legs, arms etc.

BRICK                        What you do it with.

BUBO                         Pus-emitting swelling in groin or armpit.  See Policeman’s Boot (below).

BURGLARY                 The act of entering a building or other premises with the intent to commit theft.  Whilst this is not strictly an ethical act, it can be a highly efficient, if risky, method of raising funds, but then again, so can spending the day in a bath-full of baked beans.  As with all such endeavours, the primary objective is ‘don’t get caught’.  If you feel that this objective is not achievable, it is always advisable to pursue the secondary objective ‘persuade somebody else to do it for you’.

A TYPICAL D.I.Y BURGLARY – Walking along a quiet street, you notice an open window on the secluded side of a luxury, detached house.  You scale the fence and climb in through the window, using the wheelie bin as a step.  As you push your way through the open casement, the wheelie bin scoots away and demolishes the garden gate depositing week-old Indian take-away all over the drive way.  Stepping from the window ledge, you catch one foot in the sink and the other in a giant potted hibiscus, which crashes to the floor followed by a) the better half of a twelve-piece dinner service and b) you.  You attempt to clamber to your feet but find yourself staring into the glowering, yellow eyes of a giant, snarling bullmastiff.  You exit the window in one bound, smashing your shin painfully against the kitchen tap and your forehead against the window lintel.  Once outside you try to flee the scene, but slip on an extremely viscous Tarka Dahl and fall to the ground where you are immediately accosted by thirteen spitting feral cats and a postman with something brown and odorous on his shoe.

EXERCISE – Grow a beard:

  • Do not shave for at least six weeks.
  • Do you have a beard? (If the answer is ‘No’, you are a) a woman, b) a child, c) looking in the wrong place)
  • If the answer is ‘Yes’, eat a soft-boiled egg.
  • Try to look in the mirror without being repulsed by the aftermath.
  • Shave it off.

© Colin McQueen 2026

A Norwegian Blue* Kidney

Photo by Daniel Gomez on Pexels.com

Every day, they say, is a school day and this week has been a particularly educational one for me.  At the beginning of the week, for instance, I learned of the difference between Urology and Nephrology.  It is a tiny one, but nevertheless, there is little overlap between the two schools of medicine and furthermore, no information is shared between them.  I also discovered that a kidney, having spent eight months being considered, measured and assessed has more than enough time on its hands in which to completely conk out.  Maybe, like Schrodinger’s cat, it could have remained in a happily indeterminate state if nobody had looked into it, but the box got opened.  I have discovered that I no longer have one fully-functional kidney taking the strain for its temporarily ailing twin, because that, to all intents and purposes, has popped its clogs.  It is an ex-kidney. 

Never mind, it is not the end of the world and I am assured that I only need one of them – although why, in that case, nature’s default model presents me with two I am uncertain – and the other one appears fine, providing, of course, that it does not find its own way to fall between the diagnostic cracks over the next few years.  I have learned that whilst a kidney function of 90+ is acceptable for most people, the doctors are happy with 45 for the mono-kidneyed amongst us, so – on a per-kidney rating – I am bang on track.  Although the consultant is at pains to point out that I am not, in fact, down to half the expected number of renal organs, I am merely carrying a non-functional member of the fraternity around with me much like the parents of a psychology student or a three year-old with a handkerchief.  She is also at pains to inform me that everything she has told me might just prove to be factually incorrect once the urological Ying to her nephrological Yang has had the opportunity to appraise the scan images that she, as yet, has not been privy to.  But she doesn’t think so…

I need, apparently, to eat well, to drink healthily, to exercise and to lose a little weight.  All of these, I am told, should reduce the hypertension that has been having a playtime in my arteries for the past eight months of uncertainty.  My blood pressure will, I am sure, fall like a stone with the knowledge that I am still unsure of anything except the likelihood that things are now somewhat less repairable than originally anticipated.  Probably…  I have no certainties and in that, I suppose, I am in exactly the same position as everybody else.

Accepting what you have got is not difficult, it is essential if you don’t want to drive yourself mad.  One way or another, things are definitely not bleak: they’re ok, I’m ok.  I feel well and there is nothing I cannot do (which is amazing because there was so much that I couldn’t do last week – swim without looking like a drowning dog; run without looking like my final day has dawned; bend down and get back up without audibly grunting).  My diet is good, I’m relatively healthy (once I’ve taken the pills) and I’m fit.  There were other, far more concerning options, so I am, all in all, in a good place.

I know that I tend to over-think things, which is certainly not the healthiest of habits, although I do try to keep my concerns to myself by and large.  I do talk to my wife of course who tells me ‘you over-think things’ so that’s ok and I am fully aware that most people have more than enough problems of their own without having to listen to mine. 

Which leads me to the final thing that I have learned about myself recently.  I have discovered that I am far more British than I could possibly have imagined.  I have spent the last couple of days consciously trying to make light of the situation because I am aware that worrying about such things achieves nothing.  Finding absurdity is what I do best.  Physically, I am visibly well and although my fitness tracker (which appears to have been programmed by my ex-headmaster) continues to tell me that I must try harder, I am actually far fitter than thirty year-old me ever assumed I would be at this age.  To  moan about this set-back would seem incredibly disingenuous.  Outwardly, the biggest reaction I have allowed myself to date has been a proto-Gallic shrug; the kind of thing a Parisian does when his morning coffee is not quite up to scratch: c’est la vie and all that.  I’ve got football to play tomorrow, grandkids to mind over the summer holidays and a drawer-full of chocolate to resist.  Most of the pending D.I.Y jobs have been put on hold over until the weather starts to cool, but they are waiting for me.  (Boy are they waiting for me!)  I will try to be good with both food and drink (three litres of water a day I am told which, given the size of my prostate1 in relation to that of my bladder, may prove a very interesting challenge – but I’m always up for those) and should I fail I will blame any ill-effects on the non-operative nephro-bean – it might as well serve some purpose…

*“This parrot is no more.  It has ceased to be.  It’s expired and gone to meet its maker.  This is a late parrot.  It’s a stiff.  Bereft of life it rests in peace…”  Monty Python’s Flying Circus – The Norwegian Blue Parrot.

1In a similar vein, I have just read through this post (Prostate) from way back in 2018.  Time passes, but it would seem that the more things change, the more they stay the same…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y. Subversion (Blackmail)

BLACKMAIL       Money extorted by threat; hush money.  A simple and relatively inexpensive method of subversion, requiring the minimum of equipment:

  1. A smart phone with camera and voice recorder or, at a push, a camera and a voice recorder.
  2. An insight into the daily routines and habits of a notable public figure who is likely to do something disgusting enough to make him vulnerable.
  3. A large thermos flask and a Tupperware box for your sandwiches.

Blackmail is definitely not the kind of thing that you can go rushing into willy-nilly.  Planning must be thorough, meticulous and written down in really big capital letters to avoid any confusion.

Take great care when identifying your victim:

  1. He/she must be financially viable – there is little point in blackmailing someone who cannot pay.
  2. Ensure that they are doing something that they shouldn’t be doing – paragons of virtue are notoriously difficult to blackmail.
  3. Ensure that they care – you’ll get nowhere if your victim doesn’t give a toss what other people think about them.

In gathering the evidence you will require in order to execute your plot, you will almost certainly have to conceal yourself at some stage.  Take great care when selecting your hiding place: there are some wonderful places in which to secrete yourself, but they are of very little use to you if they are on the other side of town to the naughtiness. Try and find somewhere to hide in the room where the action is expected to take place.  Having decided on the wardrobe, ensure that the door can be opened from the inside – there is nothing worse than being trapped inside the closet whilst the action is taking place on the bed outside, particularly if the flash goes off.

Having leapt out of the wardrobe and captured an image of your victim(s) in flagrante, you must now face the biggest challenge of the whole operation – escape.  Plan, plan and triple plan your escape.  Have as many alternative escape routes arranged as possible and be aware that you will be attempting to negotiate them whilst lugging your out-of-shape frame along passages and alleyways at speeds far greater than furred-up arteries will appreciate, into a fire door that someone will, inevitably, have locked.

Should you manage to affect an escape, send a simple, straightforward blackmail note to your victim, informing him/her that you will turn the photographs over to husband/wife/police/avoid nausea, unless you receive £10,000 in used notes1 before the end of the week.  Don’t be dissuaded from proceeding if, in the excitement of catching them ‘at it’, you got the angle all wrong and cut their heads off in the finished photograph.  There is often incriminating evidence to be found on photos of knees and ankles.

Arrange somewhere very unusual for the money to be left; get somebody else to collect it in case things go wrong and always count the cash before you post the evidence.  Do not simply count bundles – remember they may be a ‘sandwich’ of real notes filled with carefully cut newspaper.  Always be suspicious if they are carried in a suitcase and the carrier removes one bundle and flicks the corners in front of your face before closing the lid and handing it over.  Also, beware of other people in the vicinity carrying identical cases, particularly if they sidle up to you whilst you are waiting for the bus.

A TYPICAL D.I.Y BLACKMAIL PLOT – You are probably the last person this side of Alpha Centauri to discover that your boss is having an affair with his secretary.  Through astute investigation and by asking the cleaner, you discover the location of their weekend assignations, and fight your way into the wardrobe where you wait for the main event.  You are woken by the 37 other subversives scattered around the room firing off their Yasichas in deafening unison.  You leap to your feet, partially garrotting yourself on a pair of braces and take a brilliant flash photograph of the contents of your nose, which the local chemist over-develops.  On leaving the hotel, you trip on the stairs and snap the shutter release from your Kodak.

  1. Personally I always prefer crisp, new ones, but the secondhand appears to be the preferred subversive note of choice.

© Colin McQueen 2026

Haphazardly Poetical – An Ode by Any Other Name

Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

I don’t write poems1 like I used to
The demands that they make are too great
The time that they take is excessive
I’ve got too much else on my plate2.

The hours that I’ve wasted on scansion
The days when I’m searching for rhyme,
A page of adjectival twaddle3
Is something – I think – of a crime.

A paragraph slips from my fingers
As swift as a cat from a hat
But a stanza could take me a fortnight
And a limerick longer than that4.

A pageful of prose is so easy
My jokes litter just as they please
But fitting a gag in a poem
In exactly the requisite number of syllables is often considerably more than anything that could be dismissed as ‘a bit of a squeeze’.

And all that I know about poets –
A knowledge I trawled from the net –
Informs me they’re all slightly barmy
So I’m already part of the set.

Though I’m not really wracked with depression
Nor the symptoms of some STD
I don’t steal the partners from others
Or breakfast with dope in my tea.

I don’t have to lighten my senses
To summon the scent of a rose,
To remember the lure of a fragrance
I don’t need some coke up my nose.

I don’t have the poetic5 outlook
I don’t have the anguish required –
My poor soul has dreaded exposure
Since the day that my body retired.

I can give you a verse about something
Or possibly two about nowt6
But an epic with angst and with meaning
Well that I most certainly doubt.

My pentameter’s never iambic
Unless I miss out a few words
Whilst my rhyming is less than proficient
And my structure just borders absurd7.

If ever I’ve wandered ‘round cloud-like
Then I’ve not put it down as a verse.
You’re nothing like a summer’s day
And to claim so would seem quite perverse.

If I should tell you a story in iambs
My intention is seldom to frown
Whatever the point I am making
It ends with its trousers pulled down.

And should I aspire to be Shelley
Composing an ode for a lark
I’d never aspire to his lofty heights
McGonagal8 would more be my mark.

Now poetry grates on my senses
Like a Doberman chewing a bone,
And I just keep on adding in verses –
I can’t leave the damn thing alone.

And I cut out my words and I twist them,
My syntax takes more than a hit
Whatever my written intentions
It ends up just sounding like… words9.

And as the whole thing gets longer
It’s easy to just lose the thread
Of why, when or where I was going
So I just try to end it instead.

To pull the whole thing together
To give it some meaning and flair
Is honestly far too demanding
And I just leave it up in the air…

Envoi
However twisted my scope is
Whatever the words that I bend
My problem with poetic tropes is
I never know just how to end…

The End.

Some notes for the scholar:

  1. For the purposes of this rhyme, the word ‘poem’ definitely has two syllables.
  2. A damnable lie – obviously – but they are allowed in poetry.
  3. “Adjectival Twaddle – The Life and Times of Colin McQueen” has a ring to it, don’t you think?
  4. I once decided to write a book of limericks.  I got through a few dozen but, my word, it’s hard work, as witnessed in my post ‘There was an old poet called Lear’ from 2019 – although with the benefit of time, the ones I managed to finish did make me chuckle when I revisited them.
  5. Po-e-tic.
  6. English colloquial meaning nothing as in ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk10
  7. Which reminded me of the post ‘An Appreciation of Poetry’ also from 2019.
  8. Revered by the genius Spike Milligan, William McGonagall is widely acknowledged as the worst poet of all time.  Check out his Wiki page here and read, if you possibly can, ‘The Tay Bridge Disaster’ to understand the true genius of genuinely dreadful poetry.
  9. With grateful thanks to Fankie Howerd’s Lurcio (Up Pompeii) and his poet master Nausius for helping me lose the rhyme.
  10. English colloquial meaning people – as well as music sung with a finger in the ear.

This flippin’ thing has been lying around on my desk for a thousand years and has been rewritten a million times,  The time has come to release it before it drives me nuts.  I don’t write poems like I used to – and I presume you can now see why…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Bacterium to Bilbo)

BACTERIUM               Microscopic single-cell organism; a disease or germ.  The subversive’s brain.  Not to be confused with Bactrian, which is a camel with two humps on his back – similar to the shoulder/chip ratio of most subversives.

BALLISTA                   An ancient military engine for throwing stones or other missiles.  Now known as a child¹.  A ballista comprised a long wooden arm, tied back and weighted at one end before being released, hurling the missile from the other end over a considerable distance, causing a significant amount of discomfort to anyone unfortunate enough to be under it.  Considerable physical effort was required in pulling back and tying the wooden arm prior to its release.
A child is a soft, warm frenzy of snot and noise, generally smelling faintly of chocolate, which will happily throw anything you give it – as long as you ask it not to.

  1. Whilst most right-thinking people would deplore the deployment of children in the furtherment of subversive activity – it would have to be considered almost reckless to ignore the opportunity when it is there.  Subversively speaking, little measures up to the explosive effect of a strategically placed baby in a full nappy.

BANG                         A loud, sudden, explosive noise.  Result of a gunshot, an explosion or a teenager leaving the room. 

BARBARITY                Brutal or inhuman conduct; cruelty.  ‘Brutality, Inhumanity and Cruelty’ appear to have taken over from ‘Liberté, Égalité et Fraternité’ as the basic principles of revolution in the twenty-first century.  Unfortunately, nothing has taken over from the principle of slaughtering those who oppose the ‘revolution1’. 

  1. In this instance, ‘revolution’ means ‘more of the same – and none of it good’.

BASTARD                   A person born of unmarried parents; an illegitimate child; a vicious, despicable, or thoroughly disliked person.  Oh, come on, this is the twenty first century.  There is no place in our society for blind, ignorant prejudice of this kind.  Ok, he’s vicious and despicable – it doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person does it?  Goodness knows, if most of us disowned everyone we know who fits this description, we would have no friends left. 
If the word has any power as a term of abuse, then its significance must surely have been seriously eroded with the news that more children are now born out of wedlock1 than in it.  Perhaps, in the long term, it may become an accepted term of approval – maybe ‘legitimate’ will become an abusive term.  Think of it next time you whack your thumb with a hammer.

  1. Very similar to ‘arm-lock’, but with longer-lasting consequences.

BASTINADO               Beating with a stick, especially on the soles of the feet.  A method of torture that is reputed to cause excruciating pain whilst leaving no mark – a little like a James Blunt concert.

BATTER (1)                 To beat persistently or hard.  Violence and subversion are often assumed to walk hand in hand – it is not necessarily so.  Many subversives are deep thinkers; much more inclined towards cerebral rather than physical methods of sedition – especially if facing an opponent with a small vocabulary and a large stick.

BATTER (2)                 A mixture of flour, milk or water, eggs, etc., beaten together for use in cookery; to coat with batter.  This is what politicians are really for – although subsequent deep-frying may be a step too far.

BAYONET                   A dagger-like steel weapon that is attached to or at the muzzle of a gun and used for stabbing or slashing in hand-to-hand combat.  If you’ve any sense at all, you will forget this weapon, it is messy and unpleasant and, most importantly, generally used in circumstances where there is a 50/50 chance of being on the receiving end.  If you are invited somewhere and asked to take a bayonet, go with a light bulb.

BEARD                       Facial hair.  Generally speaking, subversives wear false beards as an occasional form of disguise – unless, of course, they normally wear a real beard, in which case they shave them off as a disguise.  Either course of action is legitimate – as long as you are not ginger.

BEAT                          Strike repeatedly.  A sort of all-encompassing bastinado, generally giving extreme pleasure to at least one of those involved.

BEG                            What subversives do when they’ve been caught.

BICYCLE                     Two wheeled vehicle propelled by the rider.  A cheap and efficient method of getaway, particularly downhill.

BILBO                         A long iron bar or bolt with sliding shackles and a lock, formerly attached to the ankles of prisoners.  Be honest, it’s not what you thought it was, is it?  A modern adaptation of the Bilbo is the Electronic tag, which, whilst not actually physically manacling the prisoner, does make it extraordinarily difficult for him to wear novelty socks.

© Colin McQueen 2026

Art for Art’s Sake

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

When I first decided to retire I told anyone that would listen that it was my intention to take ‘take up art again’ as a hobby to fill my time.  Unfortunately this single naïve statement has proven to have more inaccuracies attached to it than any other thought that has ever before flitted across my poor benighted brain.  Not even Donald Trump in the midst of a fever dream could come up with such an easily disproven statement of fact.  For a start I have yet to find the time required to submerge myself in existing hobbies, let alone begin a new one.  I remember as a far younger man listening to silly old codgers bemoaning the fact that since they had retired they could not imagine how they previously found the time to go to work and now I am one of the daft old buggers myself.  I seem to spend more time ‘working’ than I ever did at work: I don’t get to lay in bed, to drink tea whilst watching daytime TV, or to wander around town driving scurrying workers up the wall by walking very slowly before stopping vacantly comatose just inside shop doorways.  If I don’t have something to do at my own house, then my services have generally been made available to someone else who needs something doing at their place of residence.  I feel like some kind of peripatetic caretaker: not to be trusted with plumbing or electrics, but handy with a hammer.

Then comes the problem of ‘returning’ to artistic endeavours when, in truth, it is something I have barely considered since my ‘A’ level days of fifty years ago.  Art has not really been ‘a hobby’ since the 1970’s.  As soon as it became ‘a subject’ at school it lost some of its appeal and if the art studio had not become such a refuge for me after I had been thrown out of other classes by tutors who had far more sense than to waste their time on a feckless wastrel, I very much doubt that I would have pursued any artistic endeavours beyond ‘O’ levels, cider and daydreaming.  I had an art teacher who tolerated my presence, my appreciation of colour and a plethora of grand ideas that I was not within a million miles of realising.  Thanks to him I scraped an ‘A’ level pass before packing my paints away into a box where they remain, hard and faded, today.  He was one of the first people to visit me in hospital after a teenage motorcycle accident and I regret having to disappoint him with my assurance that I was unlikely to die and that I would almost certainly return to his art classes.  It is greatly to his credit that he did not hand in his easel at that point.

Finally I have the issue of ineptitude: I have high artistic intentions, but a general inability to draw anything that is in any way recognisable unless I have labelled it.  My ‘still-life’ compositions have a tendency towards the torpid; landscapes appear to have been crudely coloured-in by a three year old chimp and all attempts at portraiture are accompanied by the implicit peril of litigation.

Yet I remain convinced that I will soon find the time to pursue my creative dreams.  I have purchased a small department store’s-worth of variously hued paints, pastels and pencil crayons; I have a drawer full of brushes, palette knives, sketch books and pencils; I have more charcoal than a pizza oven.  What I do not possess is the wherewithal to make a start.  I think about it constantly, I make plans and occasionally rudimentary sketches, I arrange my ‘stores’ by colour, by media, by sell-by date, but seldom open a box or unscrew a lid.  Most of my artistic dreams remain encased in cellophane.  I will unwrap them as soon as time allows…

N.B. for reasons that are too numerous and far too boring to go into, this post is a full day late. I know it makes absolutely no difference to anybody at all, but I apologise nonetheless…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y. Subversion (Accused to Assassinate)

ACCUSED                   Person charged with crime or offence.  Try not to get accused of too much.  Being hounded by MI5 is all very well for a little while, but it soon becomes exceedingly tiresome.  Far better to be an accuser and accuse MI5 of hounding you, even if it’s not true – which, of course, it is not.

ACQUIESCE                To comply; to admit without interrogation.  Acquiescence is not encouraged in subversive circles unless, of course, it saves a lot trouble.  It can certainly spare you an enormous amount of pain during interrogation.  Admit everything: be remorseful; weep uncontrollably; call everybody sir.

AD NAUSEUM            Latin term to describe anything that has continued to the point of nausea.  E.g. Noel Edmonds.

ADZE                         A type of axe.  But a far more exclusive word.  Why be the 357th Mad Axe Murderer, when you can be the first Mad Adze Murderer?  Exclusivity is the key¹.  Make the spelling clear to the newspapers and make sure that the handle is fixed good and tight.  There’s nothing worse than your adze-head flying off, mid-assassination and ruining the wallpaper.

  1. Unless you’re trying to open a lock, in which case it’s probably a Yale.

AMBUSCADE              Ambush.  Conceal yourself in some bushes, wait for your victim to appear, leap out from your hiding-place yelling ‘This is an ambush – you’re surrounded’ and try not to look too embarrassed about the fact that you are alone. 

Surrounding a victim is not easy for the solo subversive.  You could try using mirrors, but beware – the reflections are indiscriminate.  A subversive friend of mine was reduced to a gibbering wreck when faced with the multifarious images of his victim staring out at him from the 17 strategically placed mirrors that he’d forgotten all about.

Be certain of your reasons for wanting to attempt an ambush.  Is kidnap the motive, or perhaps gang-violence?  Perhaps you are just not very good at making friends and this is the nearest you ever get to normal social interaction.  If the latter is true, you could always try to ambush a psychiatrist¹.  (N.B. You will find this impossible during the summer months, unless you live in the Caribbean.)

  1. If you do decide to detain a psychiatrist in this fashion, ensure that you have enough cash to pay his bill.  Psychiatrists seldom accept cheques – nobody trusts a loony.

AMMUNITION            The painful, nasty bit that fits inside the weapon: the bullet in the gun; the pebble in the catapult; the lie in the politician.

ANARCHY                  Lack of government within a state; lawlessness; confusion.  Creating a state of anarchy is the penultimate aim of all subversion, because, only when this is achieved, can one move onto the ultimate aim of all subversion e.g. installing a government that represents all your own views¹.

In going about your legitimate subversive activities, you may be able to take the opportunity to accuse the government (or, more likely, the Parish Council) of ‘allowing a state of anarchy to exist’, which is both a damning indictment and the ideal springboard for your efforts to create such a state.  As in all matters, the wise subversive must be wary of public opinion.  The general perception of anarchy is not terribly good; it invariably receives a very bad press.  There is little that the solo subversive can do about this – good P.R. men² are very expensive.  If you are caught out and accused of being an anarchist yourself, try this argument – ‘In a truly Utopian State there would be no laws, as there would be no law-breakers.  Hence, the truly Ideal State would be an anarchistic one.  Just imagine that.  You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.  I hope someday you will join us and the world will live as one.’  If at all possible, attempt to end all public statements with a quote from John Lennon, but be prepared to paraphrase Salman Rushdie or Good Housekeeping in an emergency: it is unlikely to convince any but the terminally stupid, but might just work with a journalist.

  1. Better still; install a government that is you.
  2. Game of the Page – Spot The Oxymoron.

APATHY                    

ARSON                       Crime of intentionally setting fire to property or possessions.  Although burning things can be politically prudent, one has to accept that setting fire to the seat of our government is perhaps a little ambitious for the solo beginner.  Try burning unpaid bills.  Utility bills are a nice size in general and suitable for warming your hands by after you have been cut off.

ASSASSINATE             To kill by treacherous violence, especially for reward.  Don’t get involved in this sort of practice; it does not help your image.  If you feel that you really must rid yourself of a troublesome person, try sending them somewhere with a message and then changing all the locks before they return.  

HOMEWORK              Carefully plan an ambush: prepare maps, timetables, escape routes etc, and then think of 101 reasons why you should not go ahead with it.

© Colin McQueen 2026