I can see why a British populist would name himself after First World War soldiers known for going over the top, but not so much the UK’s biggest-selling brand of squash. He’s less concentrated fruit, more concentrated bull. Tommy Bovril.
The Camps
Last February I wrote some limericks inspired by my fears for America’s future. I left another in draft at the time, as it seemed premature, and I wasn’t entirely happy with how it scanned. This month’s events have—terribly, infuriatingly—given me the B-rhyme to nail it.
Attention span, attention span,
Does whatever gets mentioned, man.
Surfs the web, any time
Tempting links catch its eye.
Look out!
Here comes a shiny thing.
Hoots, Mate!
My kids have been learning some Scots poems at school for Burns Night over the past week—Burns’s “To a Mouse” for my older son, and “Twa-Leggit Mice” by the late Edinburgh poet J. K. Annand for my younger daughter. Cue a week of her asking for a snack by exclaiming, “Jings! I get fair hungert.”
I amused them both by reading out the Annand poem in my broadest Aussie accent. (It’s more honest than trying it in faux-Ewan McGregor.) Which reminds me that Burns Night on 25 January aligns with the morning of Australia Day on 26 January back in Oz, thanks to the time difference. Jings, I could go a snag.