by Rich Hobbs

On Saturday 29th April 2023 The Guardian published a cartoon of mine about Richard Sharp’s resignation as Chairman of the BBC, the top news item the previous day. The main focus of the cartoon was Boris Johnson sitting naked on top of a dungheap holding bags full of dollars, with various wheeliebins around its base, labelled “Patrons”, “Friends”, “Families” and so on. Johnson was saying to Sharp, as the latter was leaving the dilapidated and clearly fire damaged room they were in, “Cheer up, matey! I put you down for a peerage in my Resignation Honours List!”

I think the purpose of the cartoon was fairly obvious - Johnson’s blithe toxicity by association, and how Sharp was the latest bit of blowback from the former Prime Minister’s
casual if all consuming sleaziness and selfishness. None of that, however, seems to have fuelled the furious response to the cartoon. That was all down to how I depicted Richard Sharp.

In the internal narrative of the cartoon, I’d wanted Sharp to play the stooge, the fall guy Johnson had brought low. I also wanted to hint at other parts of the story, and how the networks of croneyism cut every which way among our rulers. It is common knowledge, for instance, that Rishi Sunak used to work for Sharp at Goldman Sachs, the multinational bank infamously described by Matt Taimmi in Rolling Stone in 2008 as “a vampire squid wrapped round the face of humanity”. To signify this not insignificant connection between Sharp and the current Prime Minister, I had him holding a cardboard box, the standard accessory of the just sacked, with the Goldman Sachs logo on it, albeit partially covered by his CV, also held in one of the hands holding the box. The logo’s been crossed out and “BBC” scribbled beneath it, also now crossed out. In the box are Sunak and the aforementioned vampire squid, in a rather cutesy cartoon form, and with the typical yellow polyped skin that stretches between the tentacles of vampire squid.

And this is where things started going wrong. The portrayal of Sharp takes up 3% of the overall image. I was trying to draw him looking silently furious, by implication with Johnson, in the standard caricatural way common to all political cartoons of exaggerating various of his features (most prominently, I thought, his large forehead and rather hooded, baggy eyes). I thought, at the time, it was a fairly mild caricature compared with how I’d draw Johnson. But I’d also never drawn Sharp before, so maybe overworked it to satisfy myself I’d “caught him”; in David Low’s famous phrase, made him look more like him than he does.

Oh, and then I added, just for a laugh as a tiny detail, an empty packet of “Dignity Shreds” at the base of Johnson’s dunghill, with a pig behind an attendant fur cup snarfing a clump of them up.

I like to produce complex cartoons, crammed with incidental detail, partly it allows layers of nuance to be added to the overall umage, partly because it’s the English Cartooning Great Tradition, from Hogarth and Gillray, via Giles and Pont. Also, I know, a lot of the readers enjoy it. But sometimes, like in this case, in the mad rush to cram as much in as possible in the 5 or so hours available to me to produce the artwork by deadline, things go horribly wrong.

Satirists, even though largely licenced to speak the unspeakable in liberal democracies, are no more immune to fucking things up than anyone else, which is what I did here. I know Richard Sharp is Jewish; actually, while we’re collecting networks of croneyism, I was at school with him, though I doubt he remembers me. His Jewishness never crossed my mind as I drew him as it’s wholly irrelevant to the story or his actions, and it played no conscious role in how I twisted his features according to the standard cartooning playbook. Likewise, the cute squid and the little Rishi were no more than that, a cartoon squid and a short Prime Minister, it never occurring to me that some might see them as puppets of Sharp, this being another notorious antisemitic trope. As for the pig and the “Dignity Shreds”, I think I painted them red as like scraps of licorice, again not appreciating they could also be interpreted as blood, repeating yet again antisemitic blood libels that have recurred poisonously for millennia. Finally, fatally, many people assumed the yellow polyps on the squid were gold coins and the truncated Goldman Sachs logo simply read “Gold Sacs”.

For this I apologise, though I’m not going to repeat the current formulation by saying I’m sorry if people were upset, which is always code for “I’ve done nothing wrong, you’re just oversensitive”. This is on me, even if accidentally or, more precisely, thoughtlessly. It’s a personal mantra of mine that satirical cartoons are like journalism, all about Afflicting the Comfortable and Comforting the Afflicted. In other words, I should never attack people less powerful than me (which narrows the field more than you might imagine) and I should only attack people for what they think, not who they are.

So by any definition, most of all my own, the cartoon was a failure and on many levels: I offended the wrong people, Sharp wasn’t the main target of the satire, I rushed at something without allowing enough time to consider things with the depth and care they require, and thereby letting slip in stupid ambiguities that have ended up appearing to be something I never intended. But as I’ve always said, once my work is in the public domain, it no longer belongs to me but to the beholder, in whose eye offence dwells just as surely as beauty.

Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. To work effectively, cartoons almost more than any other part of journalism require eternal vigilance, against unconscious bias as well as things that should be obvious and in this case, unforgivably, I didn’t even think about. There are sensitivities it is our obligation to respect in order to achieve our satirical purposes. Despite the tyranny of the deadline, in future I’ll make sure I’ve drawn what I really mean, and mean what I draw.

Addendum added Sunday 30th April 2023

On Sunday morning, 24 hours after I sent it, someone on Twitter reposted a direct message in which I thanked them for backing me against the growing number of accusations that the cartoon was antisemitic. In that DM I said that offence was in the eye of the beholder, a point I repeated in my apology, written three hours later, but the way I worded it it appeared that I accepted no responsibility. I misspoke. At the time I was still processing the storm I’d inadvertently caused, and to be honest I was in a state of shock as I’d never intended - idiotically, crassly and carelessly - to depict antisemitic tropes. Between that DM and me writing my apology,  I fully realised the depth of my mistake.

What I’m feeling now is enormous regret, idiocy and deep shame at the needless upset I’ve caused to people through my thoughtlessness, people I never intended to offend. I also feel shame at my own stupidity in failing to apply the rigour I called for in the apology. As I should.

A little Kipling pastiche by Rich Hobbs

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are telling you its contents don't inspire;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
Based on evidence that you’re a liar;
If you could say, when you stood for election.
That you’d do this or that, however crass,
While simultaneously, upon reflection,
Readying yourself for your volte face...

If you can say, straight-faced, you think Fraternity
Will guide your every step, yet think it’s fine
To deny your party’s own paternity
And run away from every picket line;
If you can blithely organise a witch hunt
On anyone if this will guarantee
You consequently reassure some rich cunt
And keep spreading the lies though all can see...

If you behold a whole electoral system
That’s so unfit it’s worse than a disease
But say (though never quite getting to list them)
“Fix this? It’s not in my priorities”;
If you can see your country being broken;
Trashed; by fascist bigots’ bluster struck,
But say “This is no time to be awoken!
We’re going to build a better Clusterfuck!”

If you can dream (but only when you’re sleeping);
If you can think (so quiet it seems you don’t);
If you can make a stand (but then start creeping
Away from where you stood, saying you won’t);
If you can see the poorest people queuing
For food banks or a place where they’ll keep warm
And think that this endorses you pursuing
Yet more Public Sector so-called “Reforms”...

If you can use a play book that you reckon
Works, though it’s three decades out of date;
If you can see the chance of power beckon
And yet won’t see the failing British State
Is so beyond repair that this whole nation
Is doomed - and let me now be quite explicit -
Then your placebos for resuscitation
Mean, that when they call it, you’re complicit...

If you, to sum up, continue being wooden,
More woodily than forests full of trees,
More woodenly than puppets, then you should in
All honesty admit: it’s to appease;
And if you think that that is Opposition,
And means the next election’s duly won;
Even if it does, Keir, my suspicion’s
That that’s no Labour Government, my son! 

Yet more by Rich Hobbs

Imagine you're a protoplankton at the moment of your death

And the Universe with wild caprice then infuses your last breath

With the gift of sudden consciousness, and with some foresight too

So that first you know you're dying, but also that you now see through

Countless aeons of future time, and likewise through the laid down strata

Of rocks piled down to crush you to a goo, just like a squashed cassata,

Along with all your family and friends until you've all been squelched

By Time and pressure to a greasy gunk, a hydrocarbon belch

Beneath the Earth, where you'll reside in death, near Hell, a tacky slime

For vast incomprehensible extents of geological time

Though now, of course, you see through Time like glass, and likewise through geology

To clearly see the future path pursued by subsequent biology

High up above you on the land that pocks through oceans on the crust

Of Earth, and with it humankind, that imago of future dust

Who makes its money, wages wars and lays down strata all its own

By burning up your corpse, your family's too, like it's testosterone,

Ceaselessly grasping godhood by devouring the hecatomb

Which honeycombs the Earth whose surface it infests like fungal bloom,

A thanatocratic death cult, a necrophagus parasite

Which, like a stupid virus, will destroy its host. And then you might

In the nanoseconds prior to your own last consummation

Smile reflecting that each schmuck who's queuing at a petrol station

Is, despite their hunch that they're recruits for some angelic host,

Exactly like the rest of Life on Earth: eventually toast,

Destroyed by oil executives, share prices, sheiks and thieves who knew

That burning up the bodies of the long dead would then kill them too,

For death's built into life, as a failsafe measure, as a brake,

A mechanism that will, given time, correct each bad mistake

In the case of humans through the suicide of Global Warming.

And then you'll laugh, for in the oceans' depths the plankton still are swarming.

The Putative Alpha Male Dreams of His Triumph by Rich Hobbs

The putative alpha male dreams of his triumph,

Of how he’ll snap his ageing rival’s spine!

The putative alpha male’s planning his triumph

Thinking "In hours all of this is mine!"

The putative alpha male basks in the triumph

He'll celebrate emerging from obscurity,

Considers how he'll rend his rival’s children

Preserving thus his clan's genetic purity!

The putative alpha male bunches his fists up

And pounds them in a tattoo on his chest

And thinks about the sex & feasts & slaughter

That he will soon command at his behest!

The putative alpha male smiles at the triumph

He'll enjoy once he destroys his foes!

The putative alpha male savours the triumph

He'll taste, like salt, as he compounds their woes!

The putative alpha male pant hoots his triumph

In his mind: the gore, the broken bones,

The cringing, fawning, grovelling, supplication,

How each of his adversaries atones.

The putative alpha male's shaking a thorn bush!

The putative alpha male stamps on the branch!

The putative alpha male sees in his mindseye

Their severed heads in one great avalanche!

The putative alpha male grunts with contentment

And teases at a scab caught in his pelt

As the setting sun lengthens the shadows

Of the whitened skulls across the veldt!

The putative alpha male is crowned in glory

In his dreams, establishing the onus

Of brute superior violence as the clear proof

That this year he deserves his annual bonus.

Romagna Haikus by Rich Hobbs

Bertinoro’s swifts,
Slim arcs of screaming darkness,
Black sickle squadrons

Banshee round towers,
Fast basking murmurations
Planktoning the gnats.

Renaissance vistas
Whitening through focal fields
Sanguinary depths;

Ignorant armies
Clashed by right in clear sight of
Fungible beauty,

Whereas cicadas
Within the magnolias
Jam all frequencies.

Bologna Airport:
Departure gates in Retail,
Unwanted items,

They exiled Design
From this Global Shopping Mall.
Italy’s betrayed.

The Refuge(e) by Rich Hobbs

Once the clowns, the class clowns all other kids now shrunk back from in Earth-swallowing embarrassment, playpenned my country and trashed it for a laugh
I began to keen for exile
And when the crooks, their mates, had stripped down the dump of every last remaining ounce or speck of any value
I prayed to be deported
And when the cranks then squeezed the final cloudy drops of decency from every other single thing round here
I paid up and I raced towards the trucks
And then, when after all of that the chancers, in the others’ wake, began to cadge off all of us for just another roll despite having already blown the lot
I held my breath and crammed into the gap
And then when the careerists smiled with patronising eyes and turned away to laugh again too loudly at the monsters' jokes
I slide down pebbles on the beach
And when the charlatans at last monopolised the sole remaining free churned patch of mud - my land - as solely theirs to shit on as they please
I waded out towards the rubber dinghies
Finally then confident that if, as seemed too likely I should soon be floating downwards to the dappled seabed, lungs ballasted with brine
At least they do not own my refuge.
Yet.

More Tory Haikus by Rich Hobbs

Nadine Dorries hears
Of Culture, reaches for her
Sick bag; legislates.

Carrie Antoinette
Leaves her namesake in breadcrumbs,
Entitlement-wise.

Honestly! I mean!
Suella Braverman? No!
Not possible!

Michael Fabricant
Randomly haunts Satan’s dreams.
The Evil One farts.

Lord Frost, gnarled beetroot,
Ham red inconceivable,
Slapstick Jacobin.

Priti Patel has
A Milgram Experiment
Seething in her head.

In short, these Tories
Ratchet up Madness simply
Blindsiding The Void.

**************************

Monotonous Monorhyme

Sir Keir Starmer
No drama
Unalarmer,
Worm charmer,
Seems calmer
Than dead lama.
Bad karma?
Dull Dhama,
A Dustbowl farmer.
Selfharmer?
Just embalmer
Is Keir Starmer,
No Obama
He.

Lines written on my delayed flight to Bologna by Rich Hobbs

The air hostess, mature & kind,
Draws the veil across the aisle
To keep us out of sight & mind
With an apologetic smile.

But up in Club Class, shielded thus
By the Velcro’d curtain’s locks
From the sight & stench of us
I wonder - do they yank their cocks,

Piss in each other’s mouths, fellate
Businessmen from Amsterdam,
Filthily manipulate
Savage instruments and ram

Their bulbous & bejewelled knobs
Up the anuses of chaps
Off to terminate the jobs
Of thousands in the Ruhr? Perhaps

That couple coupling in row three
Across the seats marked D to F
who harmonise in ecstasy
In screams above a treble clef

Are in a start-up in AI
Who’ll meet investors in Milan
Once past their wild climatic high
Which they’re now passing with elan!

And now the ululations drown
Out the engine noise! What now?
The air stewards are dragging down
The aisle a garlanded young cow!

How did those onyx knives get past
Security? Those dark libations
Are not from duty free! Aghast
At strange & foul sets of vibrations

Accompanying the screams & howls
That come from beyond curtains plush,
In Economy our rumbling bowels
Inspire us all to rise and rush

And storm Club Class, those scenes Tiberian
The Five Mile High Club’s devotees
Enact in skies Gallic, Iberian,
Teutonic or above the seas

Towards which this plane starts to plummet!
Our forward rush has set askew
Our balance, from celestial summit
To Earth’s embrace! The cabin crew

Use billy clubs & scented towels
In vain attempts to calm the room;
Instead they set off louder howls
As we all realise our doom!

The plane crashes! The fuselage
Splits in half just like a gourd!
The front half being by & large
The Club Class section, and aboard

Sit its denizens, now sated,
Laughing as our back half sinks
While we all drown, quite irritated
They’re being served more free drinks.

The Love Songs of Late Capitalism by Rich Hobbs

The minicab declutches at the lights,
Descants a Doppler shush and jolts to rest;
The heating in this car is turned too high;
The air-freshener cloys, chemically sweet,
Sways in gagging half-arcs from the mirror,
The oblong void against the windscreen’s fringe
Where raindrops stream sideways in coral  reefs,
Are pinpricked into gold refracted globes
Or speckle white to pixilate shut shops,
Then smear off with a thud from wipers wired
With clenched intensity like mods on speed.
A thwack, a screech, some spray, a brutal  sweep,
A Sisyphean mind-fuck written small,
Obliteration as eternal grind.
Then the lights, a greasy splodge, are changing
As music throbs out of the radio,
Music that is older than the driver,
Basses lisping, lung-hawkingly deep,
The trebles harmonising with the ashtray,
A self contained cacophony on wheels,
Capital Gold - Smooth, Magic - playing  louder
The Easy Listening soundtracking our lives,
That stays holding your hand long after midnight,
And leaves my thoughts to segue in the dark.

The isle has always been too full of noises,
A sickle in an oak grove, rhythmic screams,
A lyre plucked, lies retold as plainsong,
Songs of murder yelled down drunken halls,
Chants in chantries, chancing deathly changes,
Full aisles muffling psalms of anxious pleas,
Feudal furrows shielding famished fieldsongs,
Coughs from dust blown in from stolen meadows,
The bawl of pistons orchestrating Hell,
The gold’s percussion counterpoints the sighs,
Haphazard honks of brass grasp at salvation,
Young men in tweeds & cycle clips on raids
To hedgerowed hamlets sack old women's airs,
Anthems, chorales, arias, lovesick ballads,
Echoing dance bands swirl gauche pas de deux;
Songs round the piano in an air raid,
Concert party Pierrots down the pier,
Crooners crooning rationed maple syrup,
Songs of yearning grief & cheap pomade,
Genocidal oompah on the bandstand,
Rounds at rallies, rounding on the foe,
Sanitised to sing round guttering campfires,
Rousing roundelays to flay the  flagging,
Until the time the aisles grew wild with  rockers,
Fairground flick knives flashing to the beat
That beats in time with klaxons on the  dodgems,
Drowns out the silent screams of brylcremed kids
High on dads’ dismay, young lust and  danger
While being broken on the Ferris wheels;
The beat of forest drums, beats forgotten,
The beat of fear and night being repelled,
Reawakening reboots the Post War,
Equips the New Age with its potlatch props,
Grave goods for the pyramids of Boomers,
Its scooters, T-Birds, boys’ haircuts, their shoes,
For culture wars waged by the rising side
With the heartbeat beat of being human
Expropriated from the mouths of slaves.

The Balls Pond Road’s hedgehogging in the  rain
“Once Twice Three Times A Lady”. 2 a.m.
From Tower Hamlet’s hissing thoroughfares
The City rises like a sneered affront,
Its hubristic fruit-machine high towers,
Their algorithmic auguries aglow,
Paying jackpot bonuses each second,
Chorused by designer bells and whistles.
The traders homeward long since roared their way,
Leaving the floors to cleaners and machines.
Buff humming tanks glide polishing between
The desks and termini, gilding the guilt,
Varnishing to sterilise the damage
Done the day before, resumed today,
The ceaseless round of pillage and returns,
Prophecy, propitiation, plunder,
Until time, in Swiss watches of the night
To pause, draw breath, get slaves to hose the decks,
The unperceived, the ancillary serfs
Now guiding all those laundering machines
Across the trading floors, like ploughmen trudged
Behind their straining teams, across unyielding
Rock-sewn land, all owned by someone else
Who always, always, always looked away.

Behind shutters hard due north of Shoreditch,
So late the inconvenience stores have closed
(The rain’s so hard even the drunks are gone)
Hardened diasporas from everywhere
Beyond the Anglophonic Solipsism
Reach the time of night dreams dissipate,
Displaced by deep defragging sleep. Some scraps
Of previous dreams of former homes still jangle
Above rooms crammed with stock, the cheaper scree
And broken up moraine left by the glaciers
Of Global marketplaces grinding through
And bulldozing new landscapes while pursuing
The paths of least resistance into which
Fresh topographies of mass consumption
And glib geologies are to be crushed;
Dream places, lives ago, the Europeans
Claimed were undiscovered, Brigadoons
Which unperceived by white eyes stayed dark ghosts
Before they found them out and made more ghosts,
Places where the trucks and kiosks rattle
With amplified tracks more Westerners laid down
When small boys, as they watched the white men leave,
Felt the winds of change ruffle their blazers
And now, as old men, wear t-shirts emblazoned
With Queen's tour dates in 1989
And children squat in shanty towns, in lycra,
Embossed with branded white boy bands' sour pouts,
Uncontacted tribes have traded sweatshirts
For arrow-heads or manioc or skins
And consequently end up advertising
One of Guns ‘n’ Roses last LPs;
The bounty of the sweatshops, holey relics,
Indulgences both pirated and pure,
The ineffectual intellectual loot
Of corporations hawking bored elation,
Snapping on the wristband chains of freedom,
In new colonialisms of pure tat
As I board the midnight train to Georgia,
Born to Run to Galvaston or Nutbush,
Clarksville, LA, Memphis, Nashville, Tulsa,
And though from here it's five minutes to Dalston,
The radio plays on twenty-four seven,
Day after day, tied onto the tracks
Only interrupted by the ads,
The shilling, spiel, the barking for the heists,
Hard selling commodified rebellion.
Near the Tower, and indicating left,
Steady cicada throbs over the songs,
The car is still too hot, just like the World
And the music never ending, like the heist.

See! Quarries of light entertainers piled
In sacrifice appeasing Rock's cruel gods:
In plane or car crash, shot, inhaling vomit,
Or suicide; Nepenthe's pick 'n' mix,
Booze, fast living, bad behaviour, drowning
But always young enough, round 27,
To count as golden children come to dust,
Templating standard Romantic hard-ons,
Blue-jeaned Chatterons, slicked-back haired Keatses,
Shit-faced Shelleys or O-d'ing Christs, 
Delicious easy deathfuls of dumb kids
Too high on fame, money and growing up,
Buddy, Ritchie, Jimi, Tupac, Amy,
Jim, Kurt, Sid, Nick, Tim, Janis, Gram, Brian,
Even Elvis dying on the toilet
Undergo tinselled apotheoses
To mount Olympus, all squalor washed away
And sacrament the lie: The Good Die Young.
No gods since the Aztecs' seem this hungry,
Frantically devouring young flesh,
Howling for a Paschendale of pop stars,
Doomed youth designed to go over the top.
Age shall not weary them, nor years contend
With celluloid or vinyl's ersatz aspic
That capture them in blobs now beyond Time:
The Beatles stay The Beatles as they ran
Through black and white industrial decline
That's now cemented in the past; they're present
Like Ziggy Stardust, Bowie notwithstanding,
Should reek of power cuts and three day weeks,
And yet achieved escape velocity
(Chicory Tip vaporised in its blast)
From History's bonds, the Seventies grey pall,
Transfigured into immortality
And Lenined like Snow White in glassed enchantment
Forever then, and eternally now.
Transubstatiating thus, cheap music
Lignifies to tree rings, carbon dating
Exactly memories of time and place,
Evoking more than any hoarded totems -
Snaps and souvenirs, your dead mum's shit -
All those forgotten times we trail like skin scale,
In clouds that haunt like thickening ectoplasm,
Pinpointing memories like ethered moths,
Jerking your leash, a reflex that'll Proust you,
Getting Svengali'd by The Glitter Band,
Just jellyfish in Time's capricious currents.
The only option's worship or despair,
Or queuing on your knees towards the tills
Of superstores, with racks of tabernacles
And sepulchres, stuffed, stacked up to the skies
Filled with CDs, albums, LPs, dowloads
Of packaged troubadours of caught, lean love,
Votive candles flickering rank on rank,
The tallow dripping meatily to sizzle
On cold mosaic floors of Halls of Fame,
Lit to the Trinity, the three chord riff.

It's late. It's always late, and getting later,
40 years since Marvin Gaye was shot,
But still his voice, like Hamlet's father's, reaches
To me, like a seance in this fug.
The streets are empty as we cross the river,
London's Styx, reflecting Southwark's towers,
Mirrored, pointing downwards into Hades,
Filled with the dead who sleep, bat-like, inverted.
The living boogie on. They keep on truckin'.
Stayin' Alive. Keith Richards' bingo wings
Flap at another gala for The Needy
Watched by Presidents and Queens and Kings
Who sway in time to much loved banging classics
About oppression, drugs, sex, blues and rape
Pastiched by two Dartford boys who spotted
The Delta in The Thames for them to steal
Sixty years ago, though if you Rorschach
Across that fulcrum the way that we all janus,
Those boys would be obsessed with Marie Lloyd.
Mick yowls, his hair inhabiting continua
Divorced in time from what contains his face.
Paul McCartney's mouth, a feline anus,
Mewls words mewled a million times before,
A gerontology of rock and rollers,
Old boys on endless tours singing old songs
In forced communion with men they hate,
Bands of Brothers decayed to Cains and Abels
From decades knocking round and getting old,
Cursed, in shabby reworkings of Dante,
To tour forever Hell’s provincial rings
To milk the last drying fungible drop
Of once being Rod Argent or in Mud
In atavistic senicults in Tring
Or Bailey’s, Watford for the OAPS
Who hunch with spiders web tattoos across
Their mottled, wrinkled, lesioned once young faces,
Pates too bald or thinning for mohicans,
“Anarchy in the UK” droning limply
In another singsong in the care homes,
While the fallen arches of their idols
Mark their mortality, deteriorating 
Into cranks and codgers like their dads,
Mark E Smith recast with 20 woodbines,
Ian Brown van morrisoning crap,
Morrissey jekyll and hyding Farage,

Yet leavening the disappointment seeping
From daring to grow old before they die
With more entitlement than most pub bores
Because their teenage avatars once channelled
The energy of not giving a shit
Making their mates dance and then feel happy
Back in the time when they were first in love
While Brain Wilson glances at his watch
Halfway through “God Only Knows”, the closest
Any of them got to biting chunks of
Heaven directly from the foetid air.

The Christian skygod, since displaced, allotted
To man a span to live exceeded now
By the Hegemony of Teenage Kicks which
Globalised and monetised the yearning
Of nervous boys and girls who want to fuck.
Back catalogues in warehouses of memories,
Hawking nostalgia, evaporated youth,
Universalising toddlers' dress codes
As Freedom's uniforms, infantilizing
Humanity to sell another song.
For merchants merchandise. It's what they do.
Life’s available through ticket agents:
Those psychotropic noises calculated
Like the  bland deceptive fascism of sport,
To trigger massive endochrinal rushes
In every shop and restaurant and club,
Grand anthems that sell shit that no one needs,
Aspirational chord changes on games shows,
In madnesses of crowds in massive stadia
Attenuating into tyrants' fanfares,
To make you cheer or weep or shop or kill.

We're in Jamaica Road now, named by slavers
To honour wealth they stole from shackled toil,
Whose property, to break the chains within them,
Sang songs they'd smuggled on the ships from home,
Songs their captors eventually then captured
To steal the one last thing they hadn’t stolen
Then passed off and packaged up by hucksters 
To trickle down, enveloping the planet
In cauls of sentimental pomp, for sale,
Filling all the gaps between the atoms,
Capitalism’s love songs air forever,
Basically just there to fill dead air.
It's easy. Easy like Sunday morning.
I lean forward to the driver, and we speak.

Demarcation by Rich Hobbs

This poem has no point:
It won’t be read.
You see, it’s not my place to go around
Clambering from my rut.

And if I did
Then I’d deserve the coldshouldering
And resentful sideways glances over shoulders
Both their own & others’,
I’d be receiving on full beam
From the rabble of comedians, poets, novelists & painters hugging the walls to
Blank me,
A massive thinks bubble
Tethered like a great grey Zeppelin above their heads
Its fat flat flanks festooned with words of fire, silently burning:
“Don’t look, but Leopold Fuckoffski just minced in,
The carpetbagging showboating piece of shit”.

Which most of me should reckon
Is absolutely fine
For no one clasps clear demarcation
Closer to their breast
Than I,
And each time I hear how
Another much-loved TV comic’s
Published their new novel,
A poet’s painting water colour still lifes
Of their sadness, a painter’s
Smeared themselves in sticky sonnets
Or another novelist is doing stand-up on the Fringe,
A never ending funeral cortège proceeds once more
Processing through my heart,
Its sullen pallbearers grinding their stubby teeth
Down into dust.

Because, obviously, I know
A baddish fairy breezed up at my birth,
Swaying a tad to obviously
And balancing her champagne flute atop my crib
With just too much deliberative care,
Doing her bit of business with her scuffed and cracking handbag
Forcing back in the cascade of burning rabbits fur,
Empties & cigar stubs,
Before thinking for a bit,
Narrowing her red eyes,
Spitting in my face & drawling
“You’ll be a cartoonist, cunt.
Don’t step out of line and
Be thankful for small mercies.”

It’s like a longlost brother said, so drunk that he could hardly speak,
“If you wern ma brother you’d be
Jus another drawin’ faggot.”

Museum Stock by Rich Hobbs

I spied a traveller from an antique land:
To be precise my own curated past,
Crammed with indexed clutter, thick with dust,
Albeit in the odd display a card,
Handwritten, which explains: “This exhibit’s
Now been binned; it was on loan but crumbled
In visitors’ rough, thoughtless hands. Things do.”
I think I’m going to blank this traveller,
Although I spotted him just now, mirrored
In another case, its dusty smeared glass
Preserving 60 years of random trash,
Memories of sunshine on a bus stop,
That kind of crap. I’ll run out to the park,
Filled with salt statues looking the wrong way.

Untitled by Rich Hobbs

Every war, in short, is just a cliche,

From ranting bombast through to pity's tears,

With dumbness, murder, lies & black denials,

Plus mayhem, waste, futility and jeers,

Blood pulsing through your temples, drained through fields,

The thrill, the fear, the hate, the love, the laughs,

The mawkishness which cuts each way you look,

Monotonous statistics, bashful graphs.


Each war, to put it bluntly, is a cliche.

Always will be; always has been too;

Their tropes merely performative show business:

Her child's leg pulped; a medal pinned on you;

A speech to stir defiance or fresh vengeance;

Injustices so ancient we've lost count;

The stark biology of massive trauma;

The way that pus clots in such prinked amounts.


All wars, to ram the point home, must be cliches:

That's the way we know how they'll be waged.

You stretch your purity until the tension

Requires fresh pogroms of the unengaged;

The sublimation of all random people

To hazy myths from whence we might have sprung,

That aging cranks in bunkers can perfect how

The old can wreak revenge upon the young.


This war, in other words, remains a cliche.

If it was me there now I'd howl for blood

At that pathetic cheap hood's crass neuroses,

And how they'd churned my friends into the mud.

I'd want to loose the darkness we all harbour

To fight a darkness of far darker hues.

Freedom, too, is just a cliche. And yet

Cliches are cliches because, well, they're true.

The Shit Inside My Head by Rich Hobbs

Staggering past 63 is it that astonishing I’m still double-taking at the shit inside my head?
And frequently I’m blind-sided by quotidian happenstance of breathtaking mundanity though everything’s been said?
When worlds drowned inside raindrops streaming down a windowpane conspire to leave me breathless with awe conjoined to dread?
While occasionally my prejudices suddenly get ambushed by glimpses of osmotic spasms flowing once I am dead
So the dreams that filled the universe behind my flicking eyeballs will then inform the dreams of worms my body will have fed,
Meaning they and generations of subsequent ingesters will consequently get to share the shit inside my head?
Although, by then, the me I deem I’m teasing from the maelstrom will be the faintest echo in the shit inside their heads?
Wait 63 times 63 times 63 aeons from now and there will still be traces of the shit in inside my head.

How Do You Solve A Problem Li-i-ike Boris? by Rich Hobbs

(after Rogers & Hammerstein)


He has a drink but doesn't think

That anyone will care,

Hosts a bash, goes on the lash

Then claims he wasn't there

When asked for explanations

He'll blub it isn't fair

I think he's going to fuck it for us Tories!


He treats all high affairs of state

As just a silly game

While all other affairs he's had

Will see him shift the blame

While smirking for the cameras

Because he has no shame

Exactly like the rest of all us Tories!


I'd like to say, although it's indiscreet:

He won... me my... seat


How do you solve a problem li-i-ike Boris?

How do you feed an arsehole its own shit

How do you find a word that sums up Boris?

A sociopath! A charlatan! A tit!


Many a gaffe you'd like him to acknowledge,

To tell the truth and lead and know he's sinned,

To wake up and see the score

And settle for cheap decor

How do you nail a fart upon the wind?


Oh how do you solve a pro-o-o-blem like Boris?

How are we going to get this fucker binned?


He's lost count of all his kids

He would fuck some giant squids

And then press the molluscs for a hefty loan

And deny it to Lord Geidt

Who'll believe the lying shite

When he claims that was all done on an old phone


He thinks it's just a joke

Then he'll give your wife a poke

Indifferent to every fresh affront

He's a narcissist, a liar,

A fantasist! He's dire!

He's an wanker! He's an monster!

He's a cunt!


How do you solve a problem li-i-i-ike Boris?

How do you feed an arsehole its own shit?

How do you find a word to sum up Boris?

A Crook! A Chancer! Psychopath! A Git!


Many a time, pretending we're still smiling,

We've been yearning he'd fall under a bus

But how can we wield the knives

To save our political lives

When you're as complicit in his crimes as us?


Oh how do you solve a problem li-i-i-ike Boris

When the alternative will be Liz Truss?

Just wrote this…on my phone in the street. Like you do. by Rich Hobbs

Autumn days like these
Don’t make me think
Of mists or rotten fruit
But throw me back in Kodachrome
To first shit days at brand new schools
And nervous fear, anxiety,
Heat, frantic positioning
Affirming that eternal truth
The Past’s Another Country but
It’s a Penal Settlement
From which escape’s impossible.
We all remain, forever, on parole.

Guess where I’ve just been staying by Rich Hobbs

When you breakfast with the cunts who put the cunt in Countryhouse Hotel
You have to wonder if a single one of them would then go tell
The children who have served them with their granola how much they’re worth
And how meagre are the scraps the Meek will get inheriting the Earth.

And the cunts who put the cunt in Countryhouse Hotel are sleek and tanned
Darker ochre than the panels in their rooms, which each night cost a grand
Including of course breakfast, which comes with a small but fresh infusion
Of berries & a local spice the colour of a new contusion

And the Cunts that put the cunt in Countryhouse Hotel come from afar
For the hip Modern British cuisine & a greasy pummelling in the spa
And a face towel drenched in fennel & a candle scented with some myrrh
For the cunts in Countryhouse Hotels are quite divine & never err.

But as the World these cunts have made & own gets nearer to the edge,
Which they’ve destroyed by hedge funds which is how these cunts have made their wedge,
Will any of them get it in their tanned, toned, tousled blonde haired noodle
That the cunts in Country Houses were and always will be feudal?

The parasites, the scum on top, thieves leeching off the dieting land,
Squandering our health to flaunt their wealth that crumbles into sand,
Oh let the bells of just desserts & doom & neverending woe tell
And thus settle with the cunts who put the cunt in Country House hotel!

Left on Hold by Rich Hobbs

Do you still remember when

They kept the whole wide world on hold

And we sat there waiting months

Just left out hanging in the cold

Month on neverending month

While every week or so a voice

Blamed the volume of our calls

As if this whole thing was our choice

While they played us scratchy trance

And ears numbed and hands went dead

Til, eventually, it changed

To endless days of Simply Red?


And do you remember still

How hypnotised by their delay

Thought would drain away to leave

Our reveries the space to play,

To imagine other paths

To future possibilities

And alternatives took flight

Each spawning new infinities

Of how to live, what to do,

A Galaxy of Different Worlds,

Sat there, waiting, left on hold,

While inside all those knots unfurled?


Then with a cardiac click

A voice in Bangalore or Bray

Said "Sorry that you had to wait.

What can we do for you today?"

Then their flat Call Centre tones

Announced "Full Service is Resumed!"

Worlds inside your head collapse:

Our old, dead one has been exhumed;

The possibilities constrict;

We're stitched in a tightening suture,

Despatched, packed in a cardboard cage,

To our claustrophobic future.

Peter Hitchens by Rich Hobbs

They say that you crash funerals as your anointed job
And spit into the mourners’ faces, catching them mid-sob,
Proving thus the efficacy of your brilliant gob
That brays that you crash funerals as your anointed job.

Young Adult by Rich Hobbs

Yesterday, just by chance
I met some Young Adults
Obviously in a clearly defined
Responsible way
And finding we had
Nothing in common or
Indeed
Anything to say to one another
To break the ice
I wrote them a “Young Adults” Novel,
And quipped
“Here’s looking at YA, kiddoes!”
As I leaned over to
Pass them
The fraying manuscript.
They smiled politely and glanced up at me
From deep beneath their fine
Young Adult fringes
And pretended
Thanks to atavistic conditioning
To be grateful.
It’s good to bridge that vast and gaping
Generational gulch
And politeness,
Please remember
Cost nothing.

Here's an addendum... by Rich Hobbs

In days of old when knights were bold

They'd joust and cry "Have a you!"

Machine gun hoods, to grab the goods,

Routinely rat-a-tat you.

The PLO will strike a blow

And blithely Arafat you

And even cows, between the ploughs,

When stressed might well cowpat you.

The cricket pitch can be a bitch

When dark-skinned chaps 'owzat you

While Russian crooks, to cook the books,

Expertly laundromat you!

Sarajevo's no place to go:

Warlords Serbo-Croat you

And at Oxbridge they'll drop a fridge

From spires to exeat you.

For any thug might pull the rug

To anonymously splat you

While all your kin would give their skin

To requiescat you

And some bent Ron in Babylon

Still yearns to ziggurat you

Or random kids, now on the skids

Will simply copycat you.

Yet not one dares, despite hard stares,

TO TAKE ON CHURCHILL'S STATUE

CHURCHILL'S STATUE CHURCHILL'S STATUE

TO TAKE ON CHURCHILL'S STATUE


Everything's hateful, so just be grateful

We'll jerk your leash and pat you

And let you see how we stay free:

IT'S DOWN TO CHURCHILL'S STATUE!

CHURCHILL'S STATUE CHURCHILL'S STATUE

DOWN TO CHURCHILL'S STATUE!


And should you doubt this truth, you lout.

Your family will rat you

And firing squads will sort you sods

AT THE BASE OF CHURCHILL'S STATUE

CHURCHILL'S STATUE CHURCHILL'S STATUE

AT THE BASE OF CHURCHILL'S STATUE