Poetry

I'm rubbish at saying I Love You
I'm not one for a romantic kiss
I'm rubbish at saying I Love You 
I'm better at taking the piss
I'm rubbish at saying I Love You 
I'm sorry if that is remiss
I'm rubbish at saying I Love You 
So I thought that I'd say it like this.

The fall from grace of the little-known Brooks Newmark, holder of the little-known post of Minister for Civil Society, caught sending a todger selfie to an undercover journo.

Oh Brooks, oh Brooks
How bad this looks
For eve-of-conference dramas
What did the job
Was not your knob
But your Paisley print pyjamas

Poetry doesn't have to rhyme
It can be blank verse from time to time
Oops, a self-defeating pair
Of lines - oh fuck it, I don't care.

The Queen's horse, Estimate, was stripped of its second place in the 2014 Gold Cup after testing positive for morphine ...

London Underground cleaners are refusing to use new biometric machines to book on for work, seeing this as a threat to their civil liberties.

For John Leach, probably the nearest I'll get to a love poem:

My partner's pain at last has gone
Long months of torment finished
For weeks in sorrow soldiering on
His suffering undiminished

Good God, I'm glad they're in the past,
Those howls and screams of pain
His wisdom tooth has gone at last
But his wisdom will remain

A rather silly poem about artists in food and drinks establishments. Tip of the hat to Tim Wells for the joke in the final verse:

I saw Picasso in the caff
And offered him a tea
Said he, "I'll drink that through my mouth,
It's next to my left knee"