Category: Poetry

Posted on

BBC Verify is a velvet hammer for smashing inconvenient truths

Listen to the deep dive podcast

What has happened to the BBC?

What happened to the state system that garnered cross-party political and general public support? Once heralded as a bastion of anti-bias news and public education and entertainment has turned into the Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda run by a veritable army of Goebbels.

Baroness Stowell, the chairman of the Lords communications committee, told Ms Turness that “BBC Verify is not necessarily seen universally as something that is helping the BBC’s reputation or building trust and confidence”.

Sir Keir Starmer claims BBC has backed him over inheritance tax raid on farmers

“Die beste Propaganda ist jene, die sozusagen unsichtbar wirkt, das ganze öffentliche Leben durchdringt, ohne dass das öffentliche Leben irgendeine Kenntnis von der propagandistischen Initiative hat.” Joseph Goebbels

Goebbels would be proud of the BBC, his quote in English is a confirmation of BBC Verify’s aspirations “The best propaganda is that which, as it were, works invisibly, penetrates the whole of life without the public having any knowledge of the propagandistic initiative.”

The new BBC Verify department must be approaching it’s first anniversary and I confess I did not believe the former government would allow it to continue for more than a few weeks. It was, after all, offering it’s opinion as fact and opposing opinion’s as “misinformation” or “disinformation”.

I am thinking of writing a paper on BBC Verify but as I am in the middle of a real project have decided it will have to wait, nonetheless, for those fans of Michael Connolly’s “Lincoln Lawyer” Mickey Haller (my current alter-ego) here’s what I think he would think of Goebbels pride and joy, BBC Verify:

BBC Verify? That’s rich. More like a velvet hammer for smashing inconvenient truths. It’s not about finding facts; it’s about dressing up bias in a sharp suit and calling it gospel. If you can spin the lie well enough, package it with enough polish, folks will believe the sun rises in the west if you tell them it does. It’s like hiring a defence attorney not to prove your innocence but to convince the world that guilt is a virtue.

The real irony? They call it ‘Verify,’ but it’s got the credibility of a used-car salesman swearing that a lemon is a Ferrari. It’s not about truth—truth’s messy and inconvenient. It’s about control, about shaping the narrative so the big fish stay big, and the little ones keep swimming in circles. In my line of work, we call that a con. But when you’ve got the money and the power, you call it journalism.”

With my sincere apologies to used car salesman.

Posted on

Healing Through Dialogue: End the Conflict

In fields where bullets meet the cries,
Where broken skies shield weary eyes,
Two sides have turned their tongues to dust,
And left behind the bonds of trust.

Leaders play their age-old game,
Trading peace for fleeting fame.
As war’s cold fingers, cruel and thin,
Entangle hopes and hemmed-in kin.

In homes where empty chairs await,
The echoes whisper tales of fate—
Of children lost and love that grieves,
Of letters soaked by tears and leaves.

Scholz spoke words that cut the air,
With courage rare to make them care.
A voice that dared to break the cold,
While others watched as war unfolds.

A “Pandora’s box”—they cried, enraged—
But peace cannot be cheaply gauged.
It takes more than warlike might—
It takes the will to dim the fight.

Zelensky stands, his people torn,
In trenches deep and weary worn.
He fears the talk, the weight of cost,
Each compromise a line that’s crossed.

Yet hearts can tire, the will can fade,
When war and death the earth invade.
The call for talks—be it naive?—
Is still a hope we must believe.

Families broken, homes now gone,
The breath of peace could right the wrong.
So lay aside the guns and pride;
Let courage draw the lines less wide.

For leaders who would feed the flames,
Who shield themselves with shifting claims—
May their tongues be tempered, soft,
May they learn to lift not scoff.

Peace is frail, its strands so thin,
But bold and brave souls can begin.
The war must end—the talk must start—
To heal the world and mend the heart.

Posted on

The Descent of Liberty

Beneath Westminster’s grey-stained spires,
The wheel of policy grinds our bones into dust,
A bloated beast, with laws spun from wires,
Coiled tight with venomous bureaucratic lust.

Elderly souls count pennies in trembling palms,
Taxed twice to keep the coffers fed.
While cold hands grasp ancestral farms,
Spirits broken, land bloodshed red.

Entrepreneurs pack bags for foreign lands,
Start-ups flee like whispers in a storm.
Treasure Island shackled by fumbling hands,
Burying seeds where hope once warmed.

In hollow chambers, debate becomes a mime,
Soundless screams pass through lifeless lips.
Policy inked in deceitful rhyme,
The ink of betrayal that drips and drips.

“Come for a chat,” the constable grins,
Non-crime etched in trembling files.
Liberty’s skin stretched thin,
Each smile masked with Kafkaesque guile.

Parliament convulses, a clockwork jest,
Where minutes churn and reason drowns.
The monstrous dance of tax and unrest,
A procession of clowns in tattered gowns.

Dark words echo down cobbled streets,
The farmer lost to silence, his land to fate.
A thousand voices in protest beats,
While Orwell’s ghost weeps at the gate.

A government failing, imploding within,
Rote schemes and blind masks lead astray.
Minds enslaved in logic’s grim spin,
As night’s chill devours light’s last ray.

And so, we march, heads bent to the storm,
Through corridors drenched in despair’s stain.
Darkness festers where laws deform,
Till the cycle begins again.

Posted on

Embracing Love and Loss: A Poetic Farewell

I saw his ‘Adieu’

Time closes soft the weary lids,
Where toil and hope have marked their bids.
The man of care, of quiet grace,
Now turns his gaze from life’s vast chase.

I fought for heights I could not scale,
In boardrooms cold and tempests frail.
Yet in our home, warm hearth was laid,
Where little hands in mine once played.

Two sons I led with gentle hand,
Their steps now firm upon the land.
I saw their laughter, joy alight,
And kept them safe through storms of night.

I held your hand, my loyal wife,
Through all the turns of mortal strife.
Temptation’s snares were met with scorn—
For you alone, my heart was sworn.

My brother, bound in bonds so thin,
I gave you all, I pulled you in.
You fell, and though no love returned,
I watched the pyres of sorrow burn.

Parents frail, by time unkind,
I bore their burdens, turned the blind.
To needs they could not understand,
Still, I upheld their trembling hands.

Alone at sixteen, paths unknown,
I sailed to lands, by wind was blown.
In northern skies and distant seas,
I wrote my fate on shifting breeze.

You see me now, these breaths so slow,
I fear there’s more I’ve yet to show.
But whispers break this final veil—
Love’s silent strength will never fail.

To sons who walk with heads held high,
To wife who made each moment fly,
To grands who gleam with sunlit eyes—
I leave not grief but starry skies.

My gift was small, unmarked by fame,
Yet in your hearts, I lit a flame.
I leave this world with trembling sigh—
The man you loved says soft, goodbye.

Posted on

The Political Circus: Unravelling Promises and Failures

Send in the Frowns

They rose to the helm with bravado and cheer,
But it seems that the circus has settled in here.
With promises flashy, bold on the tongue,
Now look at the mess where they’ve left us all hung.

Winter winds howling, fuel bills to soar,
They said they’d provide, but there’s ice at our door.
And freebies for Labour in a scandalous sprawl,
Yet the clowns couldn’t juggle or balance at all.

“Smash up the gangs!” they declared with glee,
Only for Rwanda to slip out to sea.
Immigration’s a show of mayhem and fright,
With no end in sight, just a botched border fight.

Israel left out in the cold, they abstained,
Banning arms that defenders proclaimed.
Pensioners pummelled, the poor set adrift,
While jobs disappear like a magician’s swift lift.

Farmers now groan under tax-heavy loads,
Food security crumbling, the last of the toads.
And off to Chagos, they’ve ceded with flair,
While Chaonians stare in absolute despair.

They’ve failed to deliver on every vow,
From strikes to crime, it’s a farce somehow.
They end disputes with billions thrown wide,
Yet who foots the bill for this payout ride?

Prisoners freed early, a hasty retreat,
While reoffenders march back to the beat.
Their words in a muddle, their stance unclear,
With CPS pressured, we’re left with fear.

Two-tier policing, the cries ring loud,
But hold up a sign, and they’ll quiet the crowd.
Send in the clowns, for there’s much to amend,
The circus has started, and where will it end?

Posted on

A Sonnet on the Folly of Russia’s $20 Decillion Demand

How bold a sum that Moscow seeks to claim,
A sum beyond the worth of all the earth—
$20 decillion, no reason or aim,
A figure mocking reason’s humble birth.

Not all the wealth that nations might amass,
Nor treasures stored within the deepest sea,
Could satisfy this sum of zeros vast,
A dream, a whim, a daft hyperbole.

Though Google’s power spans the digital age,
Its market worth a modest trillion two,
This claim, this charge, this legal, frantic rage,
Soars higher than the courts could e’er construe.

For logic bends, and Moscow’s aims grow strange,
In chasing shadows, numbers out of range.

Posted on

A Simple Plan for UK Budgeting: Spend Less Than You Earn

The debt here in Blighty’s a towering mass,
One hundred percent of our income—alas!
Yet rumour has it, a budget’s in store,
To raise fifty billion, or maybe some more.

They’ve vowed not to squeeze worker pay anymore,
But where from, then, will they unlock the door?
Raise employer tax? Now that’s rather risky,
The exodus is making our outlook more misty.

For scaring off business is hardly the way,
When we need foreign capital to come here and stay.
Up National Insurance? Oh, what a mess—
The staff, the rewards, will all shrink for less.

Then they eye the investors, but here’s the hitch:
Cash slips overseas with nary a glitch.
How they’ll seize that loot’s yet to be known—
A game of chicken, for their geese have flown.

“Pensioners have savings,” they cunningly say,
“Though taxed once before, let’s raid them anyway.”
And capital gains? That’s ripe for the pick,
Yet killing off growth quite a looney trick.

They redefine ‘worker’ with mind-bending spins,
Counting only the folks who do tasks with their chins.
So ministers playing their money-up games—
Aren’t they the ‘non-workers’ of fanciful claims?

Well, I’ve a suggestion, a wise, simple plan—
It’s one I’ve imparted to daughter and man:
Spend less than you earn, let prudence remain,
And see if the government try the same!

Posted on

Diplomacy vs. Warfare: A Nation’s Dilemma

I’m the leader of a grand, ancient nation,
With wisdom carved deep in civilisation.
We’ve pondered life’s purpose, the stars, and our fate,
But my government’s got a new urge they can’t sate.

They’re keen on a squabble with foes far away,
With tech so advanced they don’t need to delay.
This small distant land, with weapons refined,
Could zap us all out at the drop of a line.

For they’ve got missiles with magical flair,
That find me wherever, yes, anywhere.
It’s futile to duck or dive or scoot,
This missile’s locked onto my very boot.

So here I sit, all anxious and grey,
As my government taunts them day by day.
I plead and I beg, “Can’t we call this a truce?”
But they’re grinning like cats let loose on the goose.

Then word arrives with a rumbling roar,
My adversary’s launched their debating war!
A missile en route, aimed straight at my head,
With a blast range wide enough to leave us all dead.

Now here’s my grand choice, with little reprieve:
Run to the desert or just never leave.
I could flee alone, let my legacy burn,
Or march to the palace, and take them in turn.

So I’m off to the halls where policies brew,
To sit with the lot who’ve landed me through—
If I’m going down, then down we’ll all go,
In the ultimate lesson: “I told you so.”