‘Proud’ Englishman sectioned under Mental Health Act.

‘Proud’ Englishman sectioned under Mental Health Act.

A man from London has been locked inside a padded room after boasting he is still proud to call himself ‘English’.

Paul Hill, from south London, was heard by members of the public speaking in tongues and babbling things like, “We’ve still got a lot going for us. The tennis is on, which means we can drink Pimm’s and eat strawberries. The parks of London are beautiful at this time of year. Our music is the envy of the world. Shakespeare is from England, you know? Things aren’t so bad.”

Dr. Stephens, who is overseeing the care of Mr. Hill told us, “National pride is now considered a mental illness. Patients presenting these symptoms are clearly delusional and suffering chronic denial.”

Paul is being kept under 24hr surveillance at South London Mental Hospital. Reports from staff claim that Paul remains stoic, with his chest puffed out, sometimes bursting into powerful renditions of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

Dr. Stephens concluded, “Paul is a mentalist.”

Weather reports answer prayers of thousands of Glastonbury non-ticket holders

FeaturedWeather reports answer prayers of thousands of Glastonbury non-ticket holders

The Glastonbury forecast is in and the outlook is muddy, to the delight of thousands who were unable to secure tickets and scores more who didn’t even try.

George, an elated non-reveller told us, “I went to Glastonbury once and it rained. Everyone pretended it was OK, but it wasn’t. Booze and ketamine helped, but I can do that at home, thanks very much.”

Jane, owner of eight cats, has never been to Glastonbury and has no intention of ever going. “Nothing makes me happier than a wet Glastonbury. I watch all the coverage on television, but only to see the mud-caked crack-heads dressed in fluorescent bin bags swaying in misery to a band I’ve never heard of.”

We spoke to one unlucky ticket holder, ‘Fred’, on his way to the site. “I really don’t care if it’s raining, mate. I grant myself these five days a year to ingest a range of illicit powders and I’m not going to let fucking drizzle get in the way of that.’

London Monsoon

London Monsoon

Passing ransacked umbrella stands,

grasping newspaper with their hands.

Holding shelter above their heads;

sloshing through tar riverbeds.


Hailing taxis from the pale;

the diesel saviours from the hail.

Wading through the flowing street,

committed to their client meet.


London converted to a wet-room,

The Shard bathed in humid gloom.

Meetings start with sweaty handshakes;

small talk steams as some run late.


Returning home to tiny flats,

they open up the door out back,

to sit on decks and regroup,

but the garden slugs have staged a coup.


London mourns suede shoes:

ten thousand pairs lost in June.

Today the weather won again,

we must prepare for war,  good men.


But sleep well, beloved city,

for tomorrow will take pity;

the weather programme on TV

said, “Mostly sunny, highs of twenty-three.”



Beach, inspired by Barrett

Beach, inspired by Barrett

Humans clothed in their own skin,

Bare for all to see,

Chasing plastic bags,

Turning towels to face the beams,

Like soft sun dials,

Who leap in the waves

And share salty kisses

As the foam breaks against

Their cooked leg meat;

Then return to dry in the grit

And the dust of the beach.

The eternal sand,

Found weeks, months, years

After the beach is forgotten,

In creases at the bottom of bags,

Dug out by finger nails searching

For some miscellaneous crap.


We must go back to the beach.