Equinox, September 2016


The autumn equinox does funny things to a man




I must be going soft.

I saw a flight of seagulls last night on the way home, migrating north in their classic vee formation, and I thought, why do they follow the guy at the front? What does he know that the ones at the back don’t? Are they whispering to each other, thinking, “does he know where the hell he’s going?”

I woke up this morning and the poem pretty much wrote itself as I lay in bed. On the back of an envelope, literally.


After breakfast, I was taking a stroll round in garden lapping up the 30 degree heat and untypically British scorching September sunshine, when a hundred or so gulls began drifting my way. They formed up over my house in a great vortex, swirling hundreds of feet in the air, as if saluting me, then made off to the north.

I swear, there is magic on this planet we don’t even know.




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Why do we all go crazy for big ass?

Does my bum look big enough in this

Whatever happened to the cliche ‘does my bum look big in this’?

What I’d like to know is this. Whatever happened to that time when women wore girdles to flatten their curves? And when did men suddenly begin finding huge bottoms a massive turn-on? Or have we always done? Perhaps more pertinently in these days of militant feminism, is it right that many women nowadays actually become more famous for the size of their posterior than their intelligence, their talent or looks in general? It’s a question, right?

Maybe it’s because everything is now hyped to the nth degree. We live in an age of largesse. Of excess. Of riches, poverty, fame and obscurity. Of beauty and ugliness. And a parasitic media that thrives on blowing these things up out of all proportion. It’s the hyper-inflation of all things. We’re pumping our bodies up to the size of our egos. And that’s BIG. Prosthetically-enanced posteriors have become de rigueur, titanic tushes and Brobdingnagian buttocks abound.

In one sense you could say it’s just another evolutionary development. We dress, wear perfume, flex our pecs and primp our hair to make ourselves more attractive to the opposite sex. But why stop there? Nowadays medical advances mean we can take our most attractive features and accentuate them into objects of excruciating desire. Our boobs, our lips, our asses – have become the latest fashion items, stuff you pick from a surgeon’s catalogue like a new pair of shoes.

As if that wasn’t a troubling enough trend, as our body parts swell and expand under the cosmetic surgeon’s wizardry, the garments designed to clothe them shrink to ever scantier, tighter, more revealing proportions. Some days you wonder where it will all end. Women with tits like beach-balls covered with postage-stamp sized shreds of cloth? An ass as big as a bride’s train that needs a golf-buggy to get it from room to room? Maybe these people already exist out there. Some of the images I’ve seen on social media recently wouldn’t look out of place in a freak show.

But hey, I guess it’s a free world. And for all the ladies out there with big bums, I wrote this poem.


Does my bum look big enough in this?

 by Frank Bukowski
Does my butt look too big in this?
Chantille asked
Doing a 360
Tyrone shook his head
You’re just saying that, she said
Turning sideways in the mirror
No really, does it look big?
I said, din’ I
Chantille looked at him
Then back at the mirror
Sticking out her butt
You liar, it’s HUGE!
He shrugged, whatever
Awww c’mon hon
I can’t go no weddin
Lookin like I godda goddam beach ball
Sewed on my butt!
Okay, it’s small!  It’s fuckin invisible!
Fuck YOU!
On the drive back in
Chantille sat in stony silence
When he could bear it no more
Tyrone said listen
You really wanna know
Whad I think?
Chantille didn’t answer
I LIKE it big, he said
No, I mean it
Wochafink I’ma allays hot fyo girl?
My personality?
Cain’t fuck no personality
Oh GREAT, she said, thanks a bunch!
When they entered the ramp onto the freeway
Tyrone floored it
For two miles neither of them spoke
When we get back, he said
Finally breaking the silence
Do me a favour, yeah?
Chantille’s head swivelled in slow motion
She sucked in her cheek
Look up dat Kardashian bitch
Know wh’am sayin?
I mean check out her google shit
Beyonce, Britney, Shakira, J Lo
All dem bitches
Chantille’s eyes came out for a walk
Ya’ll lookin for a smack here muthafucka?
Got five the most googled asses onna planet
Right there
Tells you all you need know
Bout motherfuckers and asses
Wait a minute, she said
You saying you motherfuckers LIKE big asses?
Tyrone grinned his answer
You bet yo ass it looks big in dat dress
Goddam right it do
Yeah right
Chantille huffed, folding her arms
And turning away
When he glanced in the mirror
Tyrone caught her smiling
Out the side window
And stop askin damn fool questions



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BBC condemns UKIP for not dusting behind the radiators 1

Feather duster

The £35 feather duster at the centre of the scandal

BBC revelation exposes a tale of cobwebs, economic mismanagement and racist cleaners at the heart of UKIP central office

The BBC, that bastion of fair and impartial reporting the world over, today published a devastating article revealing the depth of corruption, sexism, racism and economic mis-management at the heart of the UK Independence Party.

After going through the rubbish bins at the party’s Newton Abbot headquarters in Devon an undercover BBC journalist, who can’t be named without breaching their own impartiality guidelines, turned up an invoice for some feather dusters which had been purchased for an exorbitant £35 from John Lewis. Apparently, UKIP could have gotten the same posh dusters for a steal from Barry’s Barmy Bargains market stall in Camden Town, for 49p a pop.

“It’s a scandal,” said reporter Jazmin Lawro. “And just another example of the disgusting profligacy that runs from top to bottom of this neo-fascist party. It’s nothing less than a disgraceful abuse of public funding, that’s what it is. It shows they’re not fit to hold office.”

When a UKIP spokesman confirmed that the money used to pay for the feather dusters wasn’t in fact public funds, but had been paid for by donations from UKIP supporters, Lawro was unrepentant. “You would say that wouldn’t you, you evil right-wing trash.”

The BBC investigation also revealed that a cat burglar (who also can’t be named due to BBC ‘impartiality’ guidelines) had broken into UKIP headquarters on Sunday night and after running his finger over several window sills and book shelves, discovered a cobweb behind a radiator in the women’s toilets.

“Absolutely disgusting,” screamed Lawro. “I mean, he didn’t find any cobwebs in the MEN’S toilets, did he? How sexist can you get! And another thing, we tapped Farage’s mobile and discovered the cleaner was an English lady from Finsbury. Can you believe that? English? What’s wrong with Polish cleaners, or Libyans? Aren’t they good enough to clean UKIP’s toilets? If ever you needed evidence of what a deeply sexist, racist party they are, here it is,” she said, holding up the feather duster invoice.

“UKIP need to come clean on this. People need to know what kind of fascist scum they’re voting for. Wait till I get home tonight, I’m going to tweet the shit out of that white, male, middle-aged little Englander’s ass. What? I’m not allowed to do that as a BBC reporter? Who says? Oh. All right. Scrub that then, I never said it. I’ll get on the blower to Evan Davis or Andy Marr, get them to invite Farage onto their show to talk about politics or some bollocks, then they can drop bombs on him about the feather duster scandal and racist cleaner, and kick the shit out of him. I mean, what the fuck are UKIP still doing around anyway? We thought Farage was supposed to disappear into the wilderness after the unrelenting campaign we waged to undermine him during the general election. Can’t he just bugger off and let the BBC get on with indoctrinating the thick UK public on the benefits of political correctness and a socialist European super-state? For fuck’s sake.”

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