November 2, 2003

• You know, whatever else I do, I must keep this blog open. This is the truth, this is the pain.

  
  

  I must return to my childhood, so much left to say, I have not even mentioned Cyprus.

  
  

  But other truths some days drag me out. Sophie Lucy Morgan, there was a blog which was doomed to failure, if I had any sense at all, I would have realised that blogs do not work like newspaper columns. My column was famous in the way it helped children. The old ladies who no longer visit my sites are not the same old ladies who wanted me to get a Queen’s gong for helping children.

  
  

  Funny world, I just think I am understanding it, my aspergar’s (that came with my stupid brain) just feels as if it’s going, and a new lot of people hate me, and as usual I haven’t a fucking clue why.

  
  

  But I must not feel sorry for myself, I am a writer, I write, I will not get upset because people who liked my blogs no longer visit them, I have a new lot of readers, until I upset them in some mysterious way!

  
  

  I was not on the newspaper job long, when someone rang the office asking if the editor wanted to judge a “Bonnie Baby” contest. He didn’t. Muggins here, (who had just became a father again) went.

  
  

  Well, there were only ten babies, most of them looking identical, but there was a cute little boy who melted my heart, a ten-month old black child. I judged the black child to have won.

  
  

  I forgot about the fascism of certain country women.

  
  

  “What’s that little nigger got that my child hasn’t?”

  
  

  “Sorry?” I said, not believing my ears.

  
  

  “Well, I’m judging now, and no little chocolate drop is going to win!”

  
  

  I said nothing, I started to write though.

  
  

  “Who said you could take part anyway, take your monkey to the trees!”

  
  

  The racist was not some trashy common woman, this was a woman whose husband had wealth.

  
  

  In the end I took the poor black lady and prizeless baby to her house, and I wrote the whole shite  into a column. The editor publised it. Someone tried to get the editor to fire me, the NUJ said there’ll be a national strike if they did…

  
  

  The racist “lady” made a grovelling apology to me, the paper and black people.

  
  

  But I never judged a baby competion again!

  
  

   

  
  

  Terry.

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  			Isis Lock, Oxford

  
  

  I made some powerful enemies working for the rag (newspaper) and now I have a blog that contains the truth. A few people out there, maybe even MI5 (Our FBI) are out to silence me! (More of this to follow, though I do promise a lot of laughter too!)

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  “Who will remember you when…” (For my late Great-Uncle Frank.) Who will remember these flowers When we are dead, When the last of us comrades Lie asleep in our bed? Who will remember your dreams Your names or your faces, When our last farewell’s Leave these cold places? Who will remember you Jack, Bill, Tom or Fred, Or the war that you fought for Or where you lay dead? Who will remember you then When our little band Have gone from this world And this uncaring land? Who will weep for you when All your brave souls Are just the silent history That nobody knows? Who will remember you, brothers? Who will remember you, friends? Who will stand here and weep for you In tears without end? ——————– Comment: Finally wrote this poem in 2002, over thirty years after I accompanied my dying Great Uncle to the Flanders poppy-fields, where under heavy rain we spent a hour looking at identical stones, and Uncle Frank turned to me and said, “When I am gone, there will be no one left to cry for my friends who died in the First World War.” This poem serves as such a memory.   Lord Pineapple.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  More poems   to come!   More of everything!

  • 7:50 pm
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