Broken rap, by Stephanie Spiers

 Broken Rap

When it's weird on the ward, waiting for the locum.

Keep fingers crossed, 'cause everything is broken.

Phone-box all messed up, some old biddy with a token.

Life slips away, bleeding, 'cause everything is broken.

Blues and twos took too long, not a word was spoken.

Kids carry blades, 'cause everything is broken.

Slicing and dicing, mouths full of hokum

Turn your face away, 'cause everything is broken.

Sisters staying safe in packs, keeping wide eyes open

Remember y' never saw nothing, 'cause everything is broken.

Nowt paramedics could do, another momma heartbroken.

Don't say a word, 'cause everything is broken

Bridges, by Peter Morford

 .I can be impressed by a noble building; a cathedral, a pyramid or a monument. I admire the skill of its design and construction and its aesthetic beauty. In this secular age, I ask – “What practical use were they, other than to enable the clergy to secure their place in their imaginary heaven?” Nowadays we are more down to earth. We want to spend our money on things that work for their living. I confess that I’m more interested in beautiful structures which do something useful. Like bridges.

This unlikely structure is the Arkadina Bridge in Greece. It looks like a hole in a wall but it’s a real bridge, built around 1300 BC to carry charioteers to war. This dry-stone masterpiece is Europe’s oldest working bridge for pedestrians and cars still furtively cross it.

Bridges are different. Can there be any artefact which is as useful from the start? Or, to put it another way, imagine the world if there were no bridges. Where can we ford the river? Where’s the ferry?

I remember the first time I went to Skye. It was Saturday evening and we knew if we missed the ferry we’d be stuck because, at that time, everything stopped for Sunday. What we needed was a bridge. After an anxious wait a shaky little car- ferry. we persuaded a reluctant old salt to take one more trip. We arrived in time for dinner.

A few years later, there WAS a nice new toll-bridge. Of course, the community was divided on the matter. The ferry folk were redundant. The islands feared the invasion and the Sabbath was defiled as shops and pubs opened. Sassenachs like me admired its sleek lines and revelled at the new freedom.

Just think of the wonderful variety of bridges. It might be few tree-trunks across a narrow stream or a slab of rock resting like a table on two mounds. From these simple things have emerged some of the most impressive objects in the world. Ironbridge; the overgrown Meccano set of The Forth Bridge; suspension bridges of steel and concrete crossing the Severn; the Chesapeake Bridge-Tunnel.

Then in France, the Millau Viaduct standing on legs as tall as the Eiffel Tower. You ask yourself “Does the music of the spheres play in the wires on a windy day?”

There’s also a majesty in the more prosaic. Where several ways meet there is an excuse to weave a three-D pattern of roads. I’m thinking of Spaghetti Junction. Look at it objectively. Forget for a moment your worries about pollution. Remember how easily you navigate what would have been an almost impossible confusion before there were overpasses.

How to write, by John Steinbeck

 I really don't see how this advice can be bettered. It no doubt applicable to other fields too

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The motor-bus in Oxford, by Alfred Denis Godley

(This famous comic poem was written around 1941, and is here dedicated to all those who remember having to learn Latin at school!) 

What is this that roareth thus?
Can it be a Motor Bus?
Yes, the smell and hideous hum
Indicat Motorem Bum!
Implet in the Corn and High
Terror me Motoris Bi:
Bo Motori clamitabo
Ne Motore caedar a Bo---
Dative be or Ablative
So thou only let us live:---
Whither shall thy victims flee?
Spare us, spare us, Motor Be!
Thus I sang; and still anigh
Came in hordes Motores Bi,
Et complebat omne forum
Copia Motorum Borum.
How shall wretches live like us
Cincti Bis Motoribus?
Domine, defende nos
Contra hos Motores Bos!.

Squares, by Michael Carding

 

Forty five times forty five

Equals twenty twenty five; (20+25) X (20+25) = 2025

This year, so rare, a perfect square

Unique in years I’ve been alive.

The last was nineteen thirty six

Now wait until two one one six

Rejoice! It’s good to be alive

Square up to twenty twenty five.

Our Queen Elizabeth the Second

Reigned seventy years, or so it’s reckoned , Elizabeth 1952 – 2022

In all those years upon the throne

Not one was square, not one alone,

Yet Charles her long-awaited heir

Reigned just three years and got a square, Charles 2022 – 2025

Tiberius Caesar, greedily,

Was not content with one, but three. Tiberius 14 - 37

Pythagoras would doubtless muse

The square on the hypotenuse, 272 + 362 = 452 = 2025

But sum three squares (does that seem naughty?)

Try five and twenty, lastly forty. 52 + 202 + 402 = 2025

Square of five, fourth power of three,

We’ve met the product recently; 52 X 34 = 2025*

Or integers to nine from one

Add them up and square the sum. (9+8+7+6+5+4+3+2+1)2 = 452 = 2025

I’m still not done, please pay attention,

We’ll rise into the third dimension:

Cube one, cube two, then three then four,

Carry on and cube five more,

Add all these cubes from one to nine

The sum, a number for our time.13 + 23 + 33 + 43 + 53 + 63 +73 + 83 + 93 = 2025

With special properties to cheer

Embrace! Enjoy! Happy New Year!

Rubbish: the state of things to come, by Peter Morford

  We are grateful that our Council has used our money to buy a shopping parade in a falling property market. It has further endeared itself to the taxpayers by cutting back on services in an attempt to recover some of the capital loss. There must be cuts, starting with changes in the recycling operation.

Recently when I visited the local site I was stopped by a traffic cone and an official ith an I-pad. He asked me in a very suspicious manner if I had a reservation. He stared at his screen. “Your name?”

I asked him if he wanted to send me a birthday card.

“If you’re not booked I can’t let you in,” he said.

“It’s 3.30. Are you congested?” I asked ambiguously.

“You need an online booking.” I told him patiently that I had no idea that this strange arrangement was already in use. I declined to say how daft the whole thing was as I had arrived at off-peak time and the staff were probably enjoying their afternoon tea and crumpets.

Reluctantly and in the manner of a flunky challenged beyond endurance, he moved the cone and waved me in. But my trials were not over. Another Gauleiter in a glow jacket said the sentry should have sent me away. His three partners nodded like Ernie Wise in the Previn sketch.

“What yer got Mate?”

“Grass for the compost.”

He kindly let me carry on and watched me heave about 50 kilos over the 4ft wall into the dead plant zone.

As I drove off I had one of those fearful visions. It’s no longer 2024, a golden age when we only need to make online appointments to see Bank officials, doctors nurses, conceited restaurants and electricians. I saw my 2028 diary. Whole days, weeks and months were full of appointments. On the third of March I’d booked Sainsburys, 0900 to 0930; Aldi, 945 to 1115; haircut? What for? Only four minutes from 1355. That’s OK. Costa 1415 to 1500; Spoons 1800 to 2300. The spreadsheet warned me. Please observe the times. Do NOT be late or early and do NOT overstay as you will incur charges.

I’d have organised my household. Told Mrs P that breakfast is at 755 so that I can get the weather forecast. Lunch 1255 for 37 minutes. Allocated ten minutes to read The Times online newspaper. Booked TV three weeks ahead and all my personal movements would be held on the cloud. We will thank AI for this meticulous planning.

Meanwhile, back in 2024 I already have a long list of passwords in my key-safe. With my leaking memory I have to keep a note of the safe number so I have cunningly written it on a card covered by a picture of Fido, deceased. Don’t tell anyone.

After a few years these annoyances will cease. AI will do the planning and I will obey because it’s easier to let it run my life. Now, where will I be on 5 th June, 2040?

Never mind.

Typhon, by John Durant

 For some weeks past, Udlotwyn the wizard had become increasingly troubled by his dreams. At first these had consisted of no more than obscure shapes, dimly perceived, but which nonetheless caused him a vague disquiet; but then, as night followed night, the vision gradually solidified, until he beheld an ancient city of tall towers and minarets, domes and battlements, strange in form and utterly black in colour, seen in the distance with the foreground shrouded in a strange bluish mist.

   Udlotwyn was disturbed. He was certain that these dreams portended something of great importance, but he could not identify the city, or even ascertain whether or not it had a real existence outside of his mind. He wondered whether anyone else had had similar dreams. As a wizard, he was naturally more sensitive to such things than ordinary people. But there was no-one he could consult: he was the only remaining true wizard in that country; perhaps the only one left in the entire world, for all he knew. For sure, there would be some amateur dabblers in magic, and all he could do was hope that their foolhardy experiments would not create too much damage.

 The dreams continued. Now sounds were heard too: voices chanting in an unfamiliar language and discordant notes of harsh music. Udlotwyn became increasingly worried. Finally he decided he must take action. He read reports that an unfortunate inmate at a mental asylum, who was generally placid and was encouraged to paint pictures as a therapy, had produced a canvas of a fantastic city-scape and then lapsed into violent ravings. In rare moments of coherence he had stated that he had painted what he saw in his dreams.

   Udlotwyn consulted his books of magical lore. What he eventually found there filled him with dread. The city he saw in his dreams could be none other than Typhon, that legendary home of evil warlocks, on the hill overlooking the Blue Marsh. No trace of it had ever been found by archaeologists, and some authorities maintained it was no more than a myth. And one name especially was associated with it: Magathan.

   Magathan! The most terrible of all the black magicians of past aeons! Of course, that was not his real name: no-one would dare pronounce the real name of a great wizard out loud: you never knew what might happen; though doubtless there would be hidden conundrums that allowed you to discover it. According to legend, Magathan had not died (for such a powerful wizard would never die in the way that ordinary mortals did) but was eternally asleep, no-one knew where, waiting to be awoken.

   Udlotwyn wondered whether some foolish dabbler had discovered his name and thus aroused him. For the situation was becoming more and more alarming. Groups of people were now reported to be wandering around, babbling incoherently about searching for a lost city, and in his dreams Udlotwyn could see them, trekking at great peril through the Blue Marsh towards the gates of Typhon. After much thought, he decided only one course of action was open to him. He must himself locate Magathan, and if his unquiet soul was indeed stirring, then silence him by banishing him from the world, if such a thing was possible. Udlotwyn sighed, knowing that this could be the final task he would ever undertake as a wizard, and might in every likelihood lead to his own fall and destruction. But what else could he do?

   He concentrated all his powers, in the hope that somehow he could sense the presence of Magathan in some place and make his way towards it. Nothing. Nothing at all. What now?