Friday, 30 October 2020

The Smoke Sculptors of Doha


The Smoke Sculptors of Doha



‘Am I not gorgeous, then?’ Stressing I with a scowl,

grabs my box of tipped Sobraines. Preferring pink

then torching it; kisses smoke rings to impress me.

After one or two nimbus missteps, we count three,

then one and one follows another; she raises drink

sending might’ve been winks or else something foul

in her cornflowers. We watch centres hold then fold,

crushed by currents stronger; artificial cyclones cool

these delicate constructs; smoke rippled confessions

scatter quickly amongst wreaths, to fade and lessen.

Not enough, for fingers lacking rings are for old fools

it seems; she shoves both together, squeezing bold,

forms an overripe stilton scoop of freckled cleavage,

all fragrantly powdered liver spots, a tease of nipple,

not a patch on the mistress I’d left behind to be here

with you now, dear, but I’ll smile, be your sightseer,

answer a morse flash of panties and thigh. ‘Crippled

is what we are,’ she brazen cries, stroking silky edge,

blowing another downs another, bullfrog or bulldog,

something lurid like that, but I’m not touching shots

because I can’t stand head in the morning; and those

battered onion rings do repeat on her in smoke frozen

kisses from home. Together alone and sculpting knots

from air - she wonders what we do here; monologues

made for two. Lost traces scattered over desert sand

blow us both one by one smoke rings across the land.

Friday, 23 October 2020






If you were an apple, I’d be tempted to take

a bite. More than just one, offered in your own

outstretched palms up, to catch the sun ripe

in burning, some enchanted late summer eve.

Together, beneath shades of cool, forgiving

bower, stretch in sheltered heaven’s harbour,

shower all apples, wind-falling we lie tasted

cradle me to you in warm long hours wasted.

Those holes you wear weep, they speak tales

of driven nails and how love shall not prevail,

waltz three four in masks so strong, conceal

from you but not us - how storms, how hail,

how currents strong will drive all ocean spray

to shock with grinding teeth battlement rocks

once proud: envious watch all ticking clocks

stand still. On Cornish cliffs pass me your scar

and I will wear it, my love, upon ruffed shirt.

To brave all your tempests will I make it mine

like apples you cast before me, set me chasing

love’s arrows, in heartbeat and pulses racing,

crusader in only your name, make me kneel

to dub shoulders with your tempered sword,

we both will come together under sworn words.

Crisp on my watering tongue, tart apple strong

singing songs in juice that bind our love long.

Thursday, 22 October 2020

#9 Life

#9 Life



The Metro station serving Al Sadd has four exits for each point of the compass. Even in the midday heat, each can easily be reached in seconds with a quick walking pace.

 The gravelly wasteland - all concrete, bits of brick, gritty stone and sand, always sand: fine, powdery and with malicious power to imprint deep on sandalled feet - stretches iron board flat between these four points so that each can be seen from the other without strong spectacle.

 And they resemble desert tents. Scalloped golden shells on top of glass fronted, automatic doors that lead to escalators, descending into cool, dark, air-conditioned depths and mazes of underground automated walkways.

 Tunnels link each of the four tents to one another, criss-crossing underground, a hidden city in themselves, full of shuttered nooks and shadowed alcoves that serve no obvious purpose. Therefore, due to the proximity of the four portals, a casual visitor might wonder what the point of the complex is?

 You might ask just what hides in those shadowy depths? What is it that needs such complete concealment from the over-city? Surely there must be more to it than just a way to cross the C Ring, a near-motorway separating Al Sadd from Bin Mahmoud?

Perhaps the virus lurks there.


Such thoughts were often far from Wendy’s mind as she picked her way unevenly towards the northernmost of these. She rarely used the Metro since the outbreak and, even before, she had mostly left it for the Filipinos to make their way to the shops they served in or the apartments they cleaned. Here were some now, cheerfully chattering in soft, song like voices, sitting upon the sandstone steps outside the entrance, smoking.

They were always smoking. Especially the men, she noted with an inner tone of disapproval. Damned unhealthy – healthy body, healthy mind, that’s what she preached, preacher man.

Those men. What had they to be so cheerful about? See that one? He was already developing a slightly plump belly, noticeable as they approached middle age. Those bright colours he was wearing only made it more pronounced, didn’t it? And the way he was looking at the two girls – night slips of girls – posing coquettishly for a selfie by the Metro sign as though they were bloody tourists. It quite made her gall freeze in revulsion.

But she reminded herself that such thoughts might be racist; unfitting for a teacher, so squashed them almost as soon as they had scuttled across her synapses...but then, like cockroaches they revivified, making a bid for freedom, so:

Why weren’t they usefully employed, instead of wasting time flirting? And there’s more, like some of us have important things to do, we can’t chain smoke to titilize brainworkers, can we?

That contemplated, she paused at the steps and squatted down at an safe distance from the colourful mop-topped malingerers who, observing her thin, spiny frame and sheet-metal grey hair, smiled in welcome before rising to greet one of their friends who passed through the station doors – a medical assistant, still wearing her mask and face shield. So, there were a few cheers and much grinning all round.

Wendy sat. It took a little effort due to her back ache, but she placed her satchel beside her, then looked left and right. The early morning sun beat her beige head, dumpling chest and humpback spine like the stick from that fairy story.

What was it called, now? ‘Stick?’ Was that it? The one where the troll says ‘Stick, beat!”

Was it a troll or a fairy? Could’ve been either.

Anyway, Wendy pursed her lips as if she was going to kiss a person, but instead made that immediately recognizable sound that all the world over uses to call cats. “mwuhizz, mwuhizz,” followed by the rapid clicking of the tongue.

And the thing is, cats almost always recognise it. They either trot towards it, stiff tailed and smiling, or scatter for shadows in silent explosion.

Wendy repeated the incantation, clapped her hands and ignored looks she was getting from her distanced companions. Sure enough, after a while, there was movement from within shade and a reasonably smart ginger and white cat emerged, stretching its legs the way they do, and padded quickly towards where she was sitting.

In the evening, and through the night, the cat made itself a home within the vast labyrinth of tunnels of the Metro complex, eluding the security staff with cunning although, in truth, it was more than welcome to hide there. During the day it was to be found sunning itself, stretched out along one of the sandstone walls, perfectly content.

The cat, obviously a stray but friendly anyway, brushed herself against Wendy’s thigh and, in turn, Wendy scratched the scrawny fur between its ears. Not so vigorously as to get anything underneath her nails – because she would feel that in her mind for hours afterwards – but enough to convey affection.

The cat mewed. It was a high pitched and attractive sound.

Wendy’s eyes softened and her face relaxed. This was a daily ritual for her. Whilst she knew the cat was often fussed over by Metro users who would bring tiny handfuls of dried food and even water poured carefully into the ripped bottoms of plastic bottles to form tiny bowls, she liked to fancy that it had a special connection to her alone and she sometimes considered adopting it.

But it would claw at the furnishings in her apartment, so it really was out of the question. Shame.

If the cat had expected something to eat or drink, it was to be disappointed. Still it seemed satisfied enough. But as Wendy rose to continue her day, it batted her leg with its paw. The tiniest of movements, but enough to draw a pinprick of blood.

Wendy scarcely thought about it as she opened the door of the Uber.

And who knows what cats think?




At about the same time as Wendy’s Uber roared off in the direction of school, a turquoise flashed blue bus had welcomed on board passengers bound for the very same destination – a modern concrete semi-circular school, at a drive of half an hour.

Now these teachers, being a mostly young bunch, had bundled into the door and flipped into seats like tossed pancakes. Following them had been a dull sprinkle of mask wearing, middle aged and over riders; easily distinguished by their studied social distancing, lack of communication and uniform looks of disapproval and contempt. These ones were either too mean to buy a car or too new to have made friends with the many of a similar age who already had them.

The young ones either didn’t care or couldn’t drive yet.

In fact, it was a good study in social psychology for any passing practician.

The bus was an almost perfect practical demonstration of stratification: divided, as it was, by an invisible partition. At the back the young ones, barely out of school themselves, were hooting with laughter, screaming, shouting and completely unmasked. Whereas at the front, facing forward and sporting facial protection with grim determination, the old ones ignored them completely. And if they did catch each the other’s eyes, would nod mutely and raise a hopeless eyebrow or two.

Later, each party would bitch about the other, comfortably united in their disdain. In this way, relationships were formed and as months passed, the older ones would lessen in presence and further in distance by lessons learned.

But, as it was today, there at the epicentre of the backseat cacophony, the rock at the ripples’ centre, a tall curly haired Irish boy was holding court. He was surrounded by several smaller, wispy bearded males, who secretly hated his tufty blonde hairstyle, shaven face and confident strut, but relied upon him for any table leavings.

The majority of his audience were female, however, and none had lived beyond the age of 22 yet.

They had been almost literally sucked out of the doors of numerous Dublin or Belfast centres of further education and blown onto planes bound for Kata to teach primary aged kids how to read, write and count to ten.

Peter O’ Sullivan was different, however, which made all the difference; gave him cachet. Perhaps 28, he was upstairs in secondary, dealing with some of the older students. ‘Big School,’ he called it openly, to tease the younger ones and because he knew it pissed his boss off.

Even now, he was broadcasting live to the bus and to any other vehicles on the eight lane expressway foolish enough to be in the vicinity, reliving the weekend. This had been no more or less drunken than the three or four previous ones, since that fateful day they had all tumbled off the plane to replace the previous year’s crop.

Negotiating the weekend’s story was one complex and vast labyrinth of false starts, blind alleys and dead ends. Thrown into this dark pit were stories of rugby set pieces, necking shooters, chasing pints of beer, fumbling with flimsy dresses and trousering cheap offers of lust. Oh, these were the tales of derring-do indeed, by a crew of cut and thrust buccaneers set adrift, their umbilical hawsers cut in twain.

“You shall reap what you sow,” Peter was screaming, to howls of approval, as he neared the end, “aye, that was a good crack, that was a good crack.”

As the noise subsided, the girl opposite to him and within kissing distance – for he was kneeling on the seat and facing to the rear as though it were a stage – reddened beautifully, having thought of a good riposte which she was sure would catch Peter’s attention.

As we so often do, she waited for a moment, choked back the word as if slightly unsure, but then blurted it out: “Aye well, you’ll be calling it that now, Peter, for sure.”

Catching the gist, the audience screamed again, and Peter, liking her pluck, gave her a wink. She reddened still further but the point was made and Peter pushed home his advantage, “aye well, you’ll be catching me wanting, Anne Marie, so you take care, now.”

And the bus, half in silence, half in noise arced gracefully around the cloverleaf as it sped towards the waiting school gates, listening to the never-ending, unfolding tales of drunkenness and cruelty in the best Ray Davies style.

The noise from the rear subdued as it entered the huge iron gates because it signalled the end of the weekend. The elderly teachers picked their way off, showing their cell phones with the ‘Green for Good’ track and trace screen to the security on watch. They entered the cool depths whilst the young ones were caught short.

Nursing the most terrible hangovers, clutching giant bottles of iced water which they constantly sipped like babes at the teat, they fumbled confusedly within Michael Kors handbags in the realisation that no phone meant no entry.

It’s like that, sometimes, isn’t it? And the pounding, aching heads only slows down the thinking.




Wendy had arrived ahead of them. She was now sitting at her desk underneath the blowing air conditioner, the door of her small office open as usual. She shivered as the air swirled around her slender body, dancing with her thin blouse. Wendy scratched at her leg and then, checking to see no one was looking, worried at the rash to her left shoulder where her bra was callously reddening her skin.

Now she was sifting through the weekend’s G Mails and they were mostly a dull read. Four complaints that started ‘Mister, my son is in the wrong set for English, put him in top set’, which she deleted after reading the first sentence; weekly bulletin (delete), memo from health and safety (delete) and a promotion from Kata Airways.

This one she read more closely. It promised free flights for ‘World Teacher Day’, but only if she was out of bed at four in the morning. She wouldn’t be (delete).

And then one G Mail particularly caught her attention, and she stifled a cry.

Instinctively, Wendy glanced at the cover list to see which of her young, hungover slackers hadn’t made it in. Where would she have to do extra teaching? No. He was in. The bloody fool. She cackled and almost clicked her heels together.

As she put a mask on, her mouth twisted halfway between a smile of contempt and a scowl of irritation.

Quickly scrubbing that off with invisible Kleenex, for she, as head of department, always had to project an empathy she seldom felt towards the young ones, Wendy rose and left her office. “We were all young once,” she muttered to nobody and in a voice that betrayed the fact she didn’t believe it herself. She had never been young. Of that, she was sure.

It was a quarter past seven, Sunday morning, first day of the school week and the wide bleaches were empty. A smattering of children queued outside classroom doors, but the virus had persuaded most parents to keep their youngsters at home in their mansions for online lessons. “Which the Filipino nanny will probably do with the camera switched off,” snapped Wendy’s inner voice, harshly.

That one nearly came out. Be careful.

Wendy shivered again. Her head always ached on a Sunday due to the stress she felt being so far away from Kensington, but today it was slightly worse than usual. Why? Well, she was pretty certain it was due to have being woken up at one o clock that morning by a screaming horde of drunks flying into the Apartment block.

There had been a particularly vociferous cry, loud, Irish, and it had screamed ‘There’s the crack! There’s the crack!” over and over for about twenty minutes. Wendy had an idea of the owner of that voice and it was his classroom she was heading for.

“Peter,” she purred, “How are you this morning?”

Peter looked up at somebody who, if he scrunched his mind up for a while, resembled his mother. He always had a little trouble remembering these things, for sure, but as he didn’t like his mother anyway, the remembrance skimmed away like a stone across oceans of pirate ships, hitting the surface maybe thrice before plunging like a cannon ball.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he shouted, from his desk.

Shouted, because when hangovers bite hard, the voice and body language always overcompensate in a manic way when called upon, before lapsing later into sullen, thudding defeat.

“You don’t look fine, Peter. Your eyes look bloodshot and your skin looks a bit waxy. I hope you did not overindulge yourself this weekend?”

“Aye, well there’s no law against that,” replied Peter, loudly again.

“Well, there is here, as a matter of fact. They don’t look too kindly upon vomiting in the street at one o clock in the morning and screaming ‘it’s a crack, it’s a crack’, Wendy pointed out, “notwithstanding the ten o clock curfew the school has imposed upon the building.”

“Oh, that bollocks,” snapped Peter, the façade slipping, and then, regretting it, adding, “I don’t know what you are talking about. I had a quiet weekend, sure.”

“No? Well, never mind, Peter, that’s not why I’m here. Did you receive a text?”

“A text? I don’t remember.”

“Look at your phone,” Wendy advised. She watched as he scroffled through his bag. There was the large bottle of water, a spare tie, but no phone. She wondered how he’d got past security. Some sort of subterfuge, no doubt.

“I can’t find my phone,” spluttered Peter, his face reddening, “I can’t remember what I did with it. I’ve not seen it all morning, you know.” He took a sip from the bottle. Well, two or three long gulps. He was feeling hot.

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Wendy, coolly, “it was found in the road outside the apartments early this morning. In some vomit.”

“Vermit? What’s that?”

“Vomit. Vomit.”

 “Eh? What do you mean?” said Peter, confused.

“Vomit. Don’t you have a degree in English?”

“Not really. I have one in general education, bits of this and that. It’s a cracker.”

“Vomit. Sick. Puke. In the street. Your phone was in it.”

 Peter’s face unfurled in realisation. “Ah! Vomit! I thought you said vermin.”

“Don’t be silly, Peter. Why would I say vermin?” snapped Wendy, thinking of one or two reasons almost immediately, then repeating slowly, “your phone was found in the street in vomit.”

“Ah, that’ll explain it. No harm done. I’ll collect it tonight and run it under the tap. That’s a relief.”

“Hmm,” muttered Wendy. She tried really hard and her face looked sympathetic. “It’ll be sent to you because I doubt you’ll be able to pick it up. You won’t have the time.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m afraid, Peter, that you are off to stay a hotel. I imagine you will be there for quite a while. You see, I…” Wendy paused for a beat, “…received an email this morning. The same text you would have received had you not mislaid your…ah…phone.”

“What would that be, then? What hotel?”

“You have the virus, Peter. You came into contact with it during your quiet weekend.”

“Oh, shit,” groaned Peter, “you mean…that virus?”

“Quite so. What other virus is there? You must go to The Principal’s office, straight away.”




Principal Putney hefted his large frame in the fake leather armchair, behind his desk and looked in his lunchbox with irritation. “Maureen! Maureen! Are you responsible for this Tupperwared abomination?” he screamed from within, his voice carrying and echoing across the mausoleum that had once been reception.

Maureen poked her nose around the corner of the door. She was, of course, wearing a mask, however the nose peeped impertinently from the top due to mask slippage. “Can I help you, Principal?”

“I would like to know…very much like to know…which twat shook up my luncheon box so that the eggs have become mixed with this lamb shank juice in a quite revolting fashion?

Maureen shook her head, “I asked Mohammed to fetch it for you, sir.”

“Mohammed, eh? Did you also ask him to dance a fandango on the way here too?”

“Certainly not.”

“I wouldn’t mind, but that carnal crocodile Mrs Putney ladled in an overgenerous portion of sauce and it has congealed to my par-fried egg. It looks like diarrhoea, for Christ’s sake!”

 “Principal, please. There are parents present.”

“Are there? Where? I can’t see any of them. Are they hiding under your skirts or have they, at last, discovered the secret of invisibility that has hitherto eluded our greatest minds?”

“Well, there aren’t any present at the moment,” admitted Maureen, in a reasonable tone, “but I’m sure one will turn up before long.”

“I doubt that, I doubt that very much indeed, Mrs Maureen. This school is empty of them and empty of their odious offspring. The only people who turn up here on a regular basis are expensive bloody teachers with little to do except bloody talk to bloody cameras as though they were presenting Blue bloody Peter. Bastards.”

Behind the mask, Maureen cleared her throat with a slight cough, as we do – well perhaps not so loudly these days in case it causes alarm – and signalled towards the foyer. “Blue Peter? No, no, not blue Peter, Peter O’Sullivan.”


“You know, Peter,” she stressed wriggling her eyebrows because any movement of the mouth was obscured. “Peter.”

“Peter? Has he come to fart on my shanked egg?” Then, Putney glanced at his phone. “Oh, that Peter. One of those drunk small ones. Well, he’s not coming in here, Maureen. Tell him to piss off. Bloody time wasters.”

“He’s got the virus.”

“Has he?”

“Yes. I think he infected the whole bus.”

“What? Even the old ones? That’ll teach them not to own cars, the cretins.”

Putney reluctantly rose from his desk and his portly frame waddled to the door, avoiding Maureen at under a safe social distance, but avoiding her nevertheless. “Where’s this wretched boy, Peter?”

Upon hearing his name, Peter rose to his feet. He had, of course, seen the Principal before on a couple of occasions, hobbling around the vast, empty building, but had no particular respect or fear of him. He treated him as he would anybody else who was older than him. Whatever was said would be of absolutely no relevance. Like Morrissey might have sang, he’d: ‘have nothing to say about my life’, except Peter had never heard of Morrissey, or if he had, he’d forgotten him by now.

No matter. He was probably right because Principal Putney simply scowled at him, spat and told him to piss right off.

“I was told you would be wanting to see me on account of I have the virus, Principal?” replied Peter. Even if he had heard him, Peter was unconcerned and stretched out his hand. He had been taught that was the way to greet older people. Or he thought he had. By now it was instinct rather than a conscious decision.

Putney ignored the gesture.

No, he didn’t ignore it but looked with revulsion. “Have you even washed that hand?”

“Aye, I recall doing that very thing yesterday. Or maybe today.”

“Are you simple?” Shaking his head, Putney wondered why every year they employed this plane load, only to send them back ten months later. Why, if he was in charge of the recruitment, if he was, well things would be very different. “No. Don’t come any closer. You think I want to catch it?”

“Well, now, if you lost a few pounds, you’d have nothing to fear, would you? It’s only a wee sniffle for most of us.”

“You arrogant, young puppy. It’s off to Hotel Quarantina for you, boy.”

“Is it now? What will that be like, then?” Peter looked at him with clear blue eyes then snorted to retrieve a trickle that was dribbling out like a fine stream from his nose. What he couldn’t retract, he wiped with his shirt cuff.

“Piss off there and find out.”

And when later, the rest of the bus turned up, he repeated those very same words, then retreated back to his office where he spent the rest of the afternoon moodily poking at a congealed lamb shank with a biro, before hurling it at the wall. “At least that solves the issue of the payroll.”




For Wendy, the day that had started so promisingly was getting worse.

After sending Peter flying downstairs in a blur, then watching many other teachers pack their desks and leave, some with smiles, others with scowls, she had returned to her office.

But after removing her mask, she shivered again and scratched at the sore on her leg, wondering how it came to be there. It was throbbing in time to her head like a lump-hammer into concrete sending shards of pain into her eyes which watered as she scrolled the text downwards on the screen in front of her.


Throbbing like Derek’s…no, she pushed that image away from her in panic. It had not happened. It did not happen. It would not happen again, if it ever had. Oh, my, that bra strap is so tight; her skin flared in rashers of shame.

Rash. Oh, so rash.

Wendy coughed. A strong cough that caused her lungs to rasp against her throat like sandpaper. Her heart flipped around like a deck of cards in the hands of a sharp and the office was dancing; flecks of light bouncing like the reflections of a glitterball.

Steadying herself, she looked up as the Deputy Principal approached her office door. Collected and with the physique of a tennis player, Anita stood outside the glass fronted space, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other. “Wendy, my dear, how are you feeling? Did you have a relaxing weekend?”

Wendy coughed again. “Very quiet,” she managed, getting it together, “nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good, good,” replied Anita, with a bright smile, looking at her clipboard again, “and we are in a mess now. Yes, my dear, a mess, what with Derek and all our teachers, the virus…”

“Derek?” snapped Wendy, ignoring her aching head as her bowels did a little somersault. “What do you mean? I have nothing to do with Derek. Derek is gay. Everybody knows he’s gay.”

“Bi, surely? He told me that once, I believe…oh, I’m sure he always is careful, but he is such a terror, isn’t he, for someone of…advanced years? Well, I hope he is careful. One should always take…precautions.” Anita’s mild, breezy gaze stiffened into something approaching a brisk wind billowing her sails, “my dear, what is that on your leg?”

“A rash.”

“It looks quite unsightly. How has it spread like that?”

“I haven’t a clue, Anita, I only noticed it this morning. How can I help you?”

“Oh yes, ah, well, with 34 teachers now in quarantine, I wondered if you could teach their…my dear, perhaps you should wear tights?”

“Tights always give me a rash.” snapped Wendy.

“Maybe that explains it. I heard Derek has a penchant for wearing them on his head.”


“Yes. On the top, with both legs hanging over his ears whilst he hops around the bedroom naked like a bunny, calling himself Mr Flopperdop.”

Wendy lost her temper at this ludicrous image and it blurted out before she could stop it, like hitting a toothpaste tube with a truncheon: “Well he certainly didn’t use my tights on Friday, if that’s what you mean.”

Anita’s clipboard fell from her chest and hung limply from her left hand as Wendy’s face reddened. “You were with him on Friday?”

“Yes. Well, for a bit.”

“You were with him for a bit? A bit of what?” Anita gasped, taking it all in. She dropped the board where she stood and began tapping her phone in time to the clang it made as it hit the hard floor. “Did you enjoy intimate relations, Wendy?”

“I have never enjoyed intimate relations.” Which wasn’t quite a lie given the amount of effort it had taken to stiffen his resolve. Quite revolting. She would never drink Campari again.

Even as the words left her lips, though, she coughed again and this time there were real spasms.

“My dear, you have the virus.”

The office wheeled around her head like a spinning top upon hearing these words. “I can’t,” she gasped, “I refuse. I’m a grown up, I’m a grown up.” And seeing herself see herself in a dream, gas hissed through the keyhole as she struggled towards the bed, upon which was an opened suitcase; towering above her skyscrapers which melted, melded in cross fades until she stopped struggling and collapsed.

And Anita might have said something like welcome. Welcome to your home from home.



Diary of O’Sullivan


This being the true and actual thoughts of a lost boy far away from his home which he made among the green and rolling emerald forest hills and sparkling blue seas upon the event of his dying a painful death from the virus which was undeserved and uncalled for and also in the desert amongst those other rats who abandoned him.

Day One

The name is O’Sullivan. Peter O’Sullivan.

I got the virus and I’m dying for it – that being the virus. In bravery will I be trying to write these words to the future from the past. The pen is my master. It’s my true promise to write each day and track the progress of the virus through my body and I’ll leave this great work to mudical science.


Day One - Suppository

Today I wrote the introduction that you just read if you’re reading this. I found most of the words in an online bog. I left him a comment. I think it said: ‘I’m burrowing these words, bye’. I told the bog person that I’ll promise to be writing each day and leave this great work to mudical science. And that today I was writing the introduction based on ‘your bog’.


Day Two

I have tracked the virus to my left foot. It smells very bad and has left its mark. A sniffle today. I made a mess all over my sheets. And my pyjamas. I didn’t have my hanky. Ma would do that and say to use it if I finished my snack. I have made a new fiend. He’s the man from the bog. He’s asking me to RETURN the words when I’ve finished with them. That’s a good crack. He wrote ‘RETURN’ using all capital letters. I think I’ll start to do that to HIM.

I have decided to write a poem to commiserate my great work for medical Science and here is the fist line which is mainly mine.

‘On a lone desert virus highway.’


Day Three

It is now in my right foot, which is now as bad as my left foot and the smell is worse. I woke this morning to find both my feet had got caught in a pizza box. This virus is thirsty work. I asked the guard for some Guinness. He said ‘none sir at Hotel Quarantina’. Due to his bad English and Arabic accent I didn’t understand him. So would you not. They should speak batter in this country and louder. He was a Muslim.

I can no longer leave comments on my fiend’s bog. The bog is blocked.

‘cool virus in my hair’


Day Four

Today is the fourth day in Hotel Quarantina as shown from the date.

‘warm smell of a virus’


Day Five

Today I misremembered that I am dying. I tracked the virus to my head. There are spots all over it. They look different from the usual ones that Ma told me not to squeeze. One is very big and I thought I should. I asked Abdul for more pizza. I shied him the spots but he put his mask on and pointed to my door and shook his finger at me.

This is a Muslim custom.

‘virus into the air’


Day Six

I tracked the virus to my eyebrows. I plucked at them There was blood.  I told Abdul he’s my brother. This is also a Muslim thing to do. As he can’t speak Irish I’m speaking Muslim to him. ‘Hallas’ and ‘Yallah and ’Chub’. These are words he shouts at me a lot when I go into the corridor and now I’m shouting them back.

There was no pizza today. Hungry and I must be close to death now.

‘up ahead was a virus’


Day Seven

On my floor of Hotel Quarantino there are lots of other dying people. They are also into virus tracking. You can hear them moaning and wailing. It keeps you awake, the feckers. I saw some sick in the corridor too. So when Abdul was somewhere else I knocked on a few doors to ask why the sick was still there.

I found that lots of them are from my school and get the same bus as me.

‘saw a shimmering virus’


Day Eight

I am dying for sure. I tracked the virus to my brain. Last night I had visions of people on the bus pointing at sick and they were laughing and wailing ‘it’s the crack, it’s the crack’ over and over again.

I woke up with a terrible mess in my pyjamas. I was sweating and my sheets were sticking to my lad. It was throbbing like it would burst.

‘my head felt heavy and my virus grew dim’


Day Ten

I missed day 9. This is because I hid in Anne Marie’s room on the floor beneath my floor. I didn’t want Abdul to see me even if he is my brother. Me and Anne Marie are both dying, so we got to riding, and she asked me to stop the night. I saw a few of the others doing the same. It was a good crack. Some old people told us to ‘shut the feck up with your moaning and wailing’. They’re dying too but nobody cares that we are.

I was pleased to get out of Anne Marie’s room due to her telling me ‘to be careful to pull it out’ every time. She’s got some gob on her, that one.

‘I had to stay for the night with a virus’


Day Eleven

I am close to death. I tracked the virus to my lad. The spots on it are worse and my nose is still leaking onto my pillow and I soiled my bed. The smell was fecking terrible. I told Abdul to take out the sheets but he refused. I had to put them out of the window. Later I saw some mudical experts in the street pointing at them and shouting.

I hope the mudical experts will add ‘soiled sheets’ to their encyclopaedia. With a picture of me next to them. I think

I will be dead tomorrow for sure.

‘not plenty of room at the Hotel Quarantina’


Day Twelve

I saw them taking an old woman out to the ambulance. This woman looked pretty dead and she was in a right state, writhing all over the carpet. Feel too weak to write now. I have tracked the virus to my right wrist. It cannot hold the pen.

Very sticky.

‘it’s a fecking shite, bollocks, fecking feckering place full of feckers like Abdul, the bollocks, with no fecking crack and a virus and that’s fecking that.’


Day Thirteen

I found another online bog to help me write my final words: ‘Oh, cruel world that has such feckers in it’.



The Eulogy of Wendy Darling

To be read during the funeral…


My dear friends and all of you also gathered here today.

This is probably the hardest thing I have ever had to set down on paper. I thought it best if I wrote this; you cannot trust a priest, can you? You read such awful things.

Is it raining? Strangely, that is the first thing that occurs to me, because it seldom rains out here in the desert. If it is, I hope you remembered to pack your mackintoshes and the priest remembered to put a plastic flimsy around this eulogy. If that is not beyond him and he has time between his other unsavoury activities.

On the other hand, your standing around my grave in the rain is a pleasing image because it will hide the tears or lack thereof. Forgive me if I have a sniffle and a catch in my throat.

I suppose, thinking about it now, I could have recorded this using Zoom. But the thought of my words from the grave at the grave truly terrifies me. Also, I wonder if a parish priest has the necessary tech and, if he did, could he be trusted to use it? These days, you cannot trust a priest not to fiddle about and I do not want to be misinterpreted or, indeed, fiddled about with.

I did not make a fortune, and the only fame I can expect is linked to this aforementioned bad fortune. Whatever is left, after transporting my body to England, you can divide amongst yourselves or donate to the Crematorium. As you pass the bag amongst yourselves to collect the offertory, keep a close eye on the priest. I have heard it said that they will go with false bottoms.

Mine is a life of unfulfilled potential, it’s true. But I bear no bitterness as I go into the flame. I might have been a Brown Owl, but my sister Mavis was before me, always. She chose the trodden path, I chose a different direction. Hers led her straight into the clutches of Reverend Roger Rowbottoms.

I complained bitterly, but she never did, and I often wonder how their marriage fared. We lost touch soon afterwards. If Mavis finds her way here upon hearing of my tragic demise, I bear her no malice. All is forgiven.

I contemplated taking the orders and a life in the nunnery. ‘Hie thee to a nunnery’ as someone once said. But one reads such terrible things. Those nuns are all at it, aren’t they? In any case, I saw a film about nuns once and it gave me nightmares. It was all running around mountains, singing and escaping from Nazis. Also, I wasn’t seventeen going on eighteen by then.

I went into teaching and hereby lies the beginning of the end. One has such terrible colleagues.  Most of them want to take you out, in the hope of a quick grope. Or just grope you anyway without even taking you out.

I thought I would make Headteacher soon but was pipped to the post by Myrtle who’d take her bra off and let her nickers down for anyone, especially Doctor Pottle. If Myrtle finds her way here upon hearing of my tragic demise, I bear her no malice. All is forgiven. Hope the marriage worked out just fine.

Also there’s always a priest hanging around the gates, isn’t there? Waving a cross and demanding access that he may convert one or two stray sheep, while addressing the faithful. I didn’t like the look of them at all, I can tell you. I reported them straight away to OFSTED.

It was my sheer bad luck that Hashtag Me Too hadn’t been thought of then; I found myself in the desert, but it wasn’t all bad. There was a cat I was fond of, and pretty soon I was made up to Head of Department when the other one, Mary, had to go off sick with expecting a baby thanks to Professor Pommelsnatch.

Still this tale has a tragic ending, as you, my dear friends and others standing here in the rain (probably) know only to well. Made worse by the unwanted attentions of Derek Pumfrey who gave me the virus after three or four stiff Camparis down the throat. But Derek, if you made your way to be here today, I bear you no malice. Also you might want to chat to the priest later.

All I have left to say to you is this. I tried to live the life of a grown up. I tried to be responsible. Avoid temptation. Look after the pennies. And my reward? Well, my reward is this.

I hope you are partial to Quavers. Enjoy the snacks I have provided at some expense, and, if you feel able, raise a glass to one who loved herself not wisely but too well.

Goodbye forever.




The funeral was a quiet one and, it being the desert, the grave was fittingly shallow.

At the centre of the four Metro station exits, serving Al Sadd so well for each point of the compass, a small entourage began to gather quietly under the midday sun, for each is within walking distance of the other and the paths cross above just as well as below.

People quietly exited from each one, forming a train, then gathered around a small, female medical assistant. All were masked, one or two looked sad.

In her hands, the Filipino nurse held a small cardboard shoebox. This she laid, without ceremony, into the grave.

Now, the gathered began to throw minute handfuls of dried cat food, dark like soil, and, as it hit the box, it made hollow pitter-patters, like drops of rain falling onto cracked mud.

“He was a good cat,” said one.

“She. She was a good cat.”

“They say it is passed by animals.”

“Poor cat. All those months hiding so well in the Metro tunnels and, all the time, it was out here.”

One or two of the Filipinos knelt and gently pushed the small amount of grit, sand and gravel on top of the small shoebox. That done, they all stood back and contemplated the little patch of slumbering earth.

“She must have thought it was safe.”

And with that said, they began to drift away, in ones and twos, back towards their continuing lives.

Because who knows what cats think?

Friday, 2 October 2020






Do you sometimes wonder if love generates gravity?

If you have enough of it, will other bodies

wrap themselves around you


drift quiet into your outer orbit, these wandering

worlds of wondering thoughts, dreams

unspoken, reflections undisclosed


like a dark distant platonic Pluto, far too far out

to reflect the warmth of your remote sun?

Some flame brighter than others


exerting a pull on her spark as it pulls on you

in turn, tugs hard at you, jerks you full in:

you forget if you end or she begins.


Then whose gravity is whose? Did you find orbit

as binary partners, waltzing twins serene

amongst the music of spheres


or grow so great in love, just to tear it all in pieces

where no light can escape a dread black

mass of denial, spite and fear?


Holes. So dense in pact they weigh the heart

down like worn stones in the pocket

of a tossed and drowning man,


looking towards space where her body spinning

far distant, like a long dead lost star

is warping memories of time,


memories of space, memories of the warmth

that two suns close together can bring

when they choose to sing.


And all seems lost, but not quite, for those little

stars may come, may grow in strength

may one day grow in might


then draw your strength to shed warmer light

into weeping holes of black burnt hearts

 loose love from cruel bonds tight


and somewhere still faint and out on the rim,

well love’s gravity could still yet bring

that body’s cold spark in.

Wee Bits of Wee Wee


Wee Bits of Wee Wee


As a boy, I listened closely when they sang

about 3000 holes in Blackburn, Lancashire,

then flipped over to find they’d all been fixed.

You talk of leftover holes that still need filling,


but I’d barely call that life or even living.

I say you provide me with the ocular proof,

tape decked screams of joy, of raising roof,

twin monochrome poses from hell, why not?


I’d add them to my well-thumbed collection:

Paired one dimensional splashed grinning

nudes, rouge tipped stiff peaked gobbing lips

drooling over fleshy mountains and sticky hips.


It might get the motor running, let’s suppose.

No. Reminds me of James Bond making quiche

not war; whipping up yolks into sticky lathers,

names it omelette; eggs well past expiry dates,


every perma-pressed wrinkle stretched in hate

and thereby hangs grim the tale of your tape.

And look at all those fillings, fine plaster work

on grouted skin, machine coarse paper sanded


into Ready-Brek bumps; glops of crusty slanted 

turkey wattle ends, a chin where a neck begins

or doesn’t; for who unscrambles a face of gruel?

One who snubs a working tool for a stagnant pool


with cat tongues lapping sour milk. I was briefed:

on clear days you can see where the road bends

underneath the singing stars, which way it wends

watch it weep and count many miles until it ends,


chosen paths choose us preferred destinations,

then witness two spiteful hags spit frustration

when spells fail to enthral but hold them, fast

railed buffering, buffering futures linked by past,


both tramping along a ghastly predictable path

spouting inevitable cliché, declarations of unique

amongst a body of bleating sheep: minutes pad

beside you; vulpine cunning of a silent comrade.


Squeals of ‘red card ref’ masthead all the dailies,

while hats and hooters rock your jiggling trailers,

conceals the heady musk of struggling failures

who set collision courses with plasticene ravers


then all night screech in megaphoned prattle

gathered hugger-mugger, ooze pools of cackle

onto tables that deserve better care than this.

Unfurl like flags your all-purpose satin sheets


bought in bargain aisles and basement shopped

with simpleton smile, grey edged from slopped

wet stains, engrained dried flaky, scaley rotten

from shoving those truncheons up your bottom.


And any holes you report that are still intact,

yawn long boredom, or flee fast, or draw back

in horror to witness distended lips flapping free

fouling a world over with wee bits of wee wee.