Lois Lane again

Don't mess with Lois.

What the world needs..

impossible songs v lois lane

impossible songs

What the world needs from Superman. By Lois Lane.

The coming of Superman to earth has to be one the greatest moments in the history of the mankind. This son of Krypton, a lone orphan from a dying planet has been gifted with a range of extraordinary powers that he is happy to use for the benefit of all regardless of their position or stature. On a daily basis he patrols our skies preventing man made and natural disasters and fighting crime, whether petty or major. Without the good force that is Superman the world would be a far more miserable and dangerous place in which to live.

It is clear to me however that Superman’s constant “fire fighting” of emerging problems and situations is perhaps not the best use of his talents. He is bombarded with requests for help, minute by minute flying at super speed to avert imminent improbable disasters, stem floods, stop accidents or hold back landslides. It seems that there must never be a time when does not have the cries of the needy, the helpless or the victims of some crime, ringing in his ears. Clearly this cannot go on, his work rate is enormous and his rescues and miraculous acts are beyond calculation. We cannot comprehend the scale of his exploits and the number of lives he has saved. Yet he remains reluctant to publicize the things he does and we will never know all he does, in time and in space. Carrying on at the rate he does cannot be healthy even for a Superman (even with apparently unlimited resources) or for the people of the world, in his constant charge to care for and rescue. His situation must be intolerable and frustrating whilst ours, as his constant parenting problem is one of stilted immaturity and dependence.

So I suggest that Superman, for his good and for the world’s good needs a manager. He needs to be given the latitude to rest from his regular endeavours, saving all manner of accident victims and fighting the endless stream of crime that pollutes this world. He needs to have his strengths focused on major geophysical, scientific, engineering and industrial projects that will allow his skills to be used to improve the quality of life for all mankind. He needs to be set tasks that are both challenging for him and beneficial for man. We need him to resolve planet wide, global problems, we need him to help us protect the environment, balance the ecology and restore the damage done by warming and pollution. He needs to help us irrigate the world’s fields, undo the damage of drought and tackle the huge and virulent outbreaks of disease and sickness that strangle entire populations. He has both the brain and the strength to apply himself quickly and intuitively to these issues, what he does not have is the time and the guidance with which he came prioritise the problems and so break these age long cycles of difficulty that slowly strangle mankind.

So I Lois Lane volunteer and nominate myself for the position of “Superman’s Manager”. I feel that I am eminently qualified for this task, I have the breadth of vision, I have the understanding, I have the passion and I have the trust and respect of Superman. This deep trust and mutual appreciation of the needs of mankind are the key to the success of this world changing venture. So I submit myself to this position for the greater good of mankind and for a better future for the world. I do not ask for salary or any reward for this unique position and its awesome responsibility. All I ask is that every so often Superman presents me with one of those big fat diamonds he squeezes out of carbon and the odd long weekend, alone with him on a white furry rug in his Fortress of Solitude. Anyone got any problems with that?

Forever Young

Islands of spark - throw off the dark
Seek the light and reflection.
Selection.
Here is the gap, crawl across and trap,
The light for all that is undone,
Those of you here, forever young.

impossible songs - forever young

impossible songs

Tir-na-nog

impossible songs

impossible songs

Dreaming of Tir-na-nog

Nations raging as indifference prevails
Night falls and the candles flicker and fail
In the sunset.
Reminders of the explosions in the past
The failures and the final gasps.
The evening draws its funeral watch
The mind claws for its conscious reward
Here are the efforts of the day
All things dreamt and imagined pass away

New to you I come
Tired and silent
To the beating of a hollow drum
Still in a Celtic fog
I lay me down in Tir-na-nog

Celtic beauty, American shade
Turn the world to purple the eyes away
I lay me down in this Western fog
Steal my soul for Tir-na-nog.

Motorway Services.

Young boy with a Ferrari and nowhere to go
Heads for the motorway services for a quick espresso
Scally friends out there, with a Porsche and a Jag
Never mind where the money comes from or who carries the bag.

Make a tidy living down among the duds
Spend the cash on this and that and steal the soapy suds
Have a scheme for getting out but never let it work
Trapped by the immobiliser, wheels spin in the dirt.

Spinning in the dirt.
Spinning through the dirt.
This is all the dirt.

A few days in Wales

impossible songs in wales

impossible songs

A few days in Wales etc.

Monday marked a trip to IKEA, meatballs and furniture and the grandchildren in tow. The cars are loaded with cardboard and polystyrene all the way home.

Tuesday a hot drive down the M6, top down in the blazing sun, then the twisting roads of North Wales, just made for an MX5. Llandudno is our main port of call, a random destination for us but filled with fading grandeur, sunglasses, Victorian hotels, promenades and more old people you’ve ever seen hobbling and zimmering across the streets. An odd but pleasant place to find yourself. Our hotel is enormous, empty and straight out of the Shining. We feel strangely at home in this architectural curiosity, the owner is eccentric but caring – we watch the standards slowly slip as our stay progresses, not an easy trade to be consistent in. The food is first class but the sense of collapsing weirdness prevails and lasts all week. Day trips, seaside, virile young surfers and the geriatric majority. Trams and pubs, walks along cliff top paths, a Bronze Age mine and empty beaches. I buy trousers, Ali buys a bag. The World Cup plays on in the background and we ignore most of what is going on in the wider outside world.

We take the train to the top of Snowdon, in a crowded, rattling condensation filled bathtub of a carriage. The peak is in the clouds and once there we drink coffee and eat sausage rolls in a weatherproof bunker of a café. The sights are however spectacular. Then Pirates of the Caribbean at the late night movies (a nice piece of flimsy fun), then back up via Manchester, the shops and the art gallery for a minor family gathering. A fine little holiday.