Category Archives: humour




I like

chocolate buns;

chocolate pudding; chocolate mousse;

chocolate cup cakes; chocolate fudge cake; chocolate cheesecake;

strong hot chocolate with full fat milk, a spoonful of coffee, another of cocoa, extra sugar to take the bitterness away, a few squares of chocolate melted into it, topped off with swirls of cream and finished with a generous helping of grated chocolate;

anything that contains the words, “chocolate” and “double”;

or better still, the words, “chocolate” and “triple”;

or simply the one word, “chocolate;

and chocolate, chocolate,



A guitar-playing, rainbow-winged, triple-tailed red kitten
flies around my kitchen, whispering:

“Fat is an illusion”,
in sing-song rhythm to the strumming of his strings,

but much as I would like to trust him,
I know the truth;

The cat is an illusion.

The fish-tailed, pixie nosed, six-legged, twin-horned pink unicorn
that swims in my sink
told me so,

he wanted me to know
that chocolate is slimming.

pixie nosed, six-legged,
twin-horned pink unicorns
generally tell the truth,

so I believe him.


The Daily Post #Illusion

©Jane Paterson Basil

Anagram slam

Toad Ode –

An anagramatic tongue-twister – go on, see how fast you can say it without swallowing your tonsils…


A ten ton, one toed toad,
toted a donated date,
notated a neat ode,
noted date…

ate note, not date;
no ado,
no ante-dote…

dot… dot… dot…


Toad –
note tenet;
don’t eat note,
eat date.



Funny how constraints can make or break a poem. Were they too tight? I’ll let you decide.

The Daily Post – #Detonate – a day late, but achieved without pressing the red button marked D, or single a mention of the Trumpeting Dicktator… oops – I’ve blotted my copybook.

©Jane Paterson Basil

A Poor Example


Six foot three,
gleaming, even teeth,
walks with confidence,
clean, impeccably dressed
rippling with reassuring muscle,
manicured, shaven and trim:
Magnificent him.


His eyes hint at an intimate secret
hidden within a mystery
five fathoms beneath a turgid sea,
where he and I, alone,
may swim… must swim… have swum…
in an alternative reality.
His lips pulse a promise of depths to plumb…..
sensual pleasures to come.


His voice
is a blatant embrace;
in a purring masculine bass:
.“You have the face of an angel,” he says.

I’m fevered and flustered, bashfully blushing,
I’m stumbling and flushing. I don’t know what to do.
I want to drink champagne out of his shoe,
to sweep inhibitions out of the way
and make crippling love for the rest of the day.


His velvet voice becomes husky, like rough hessian:
“Have you had surgery? It’s essential to make the best of yourself.
Look at my perfection;
I’ve had hair implants, a tummy tuck, liposuction, silicon, botox shots,
a nose job, throat job, butt-cheek job, a penis extension –
all the better for a blow j……”


……As I leave
he is yelling that on closer inspection,
his first impression had been a tad sketchy,
and I’m not the woman he’d thought me to be.
My legs are too hairy,
my attitude lairy;
to bed me he’d need a large fee.


As far as I can see, the flat of my hand
has left a strong impression on his plasticised face;
as for my impression of him…
he’s a pretty poor example of the human race.


The Daily Post #Impression

©Jane Paterson Basil

Street Theatre


Sex dope,
going at it like resuscitation,
doggedly pumping,
slip-sliding, butt bucking,
humping to the fast-tracked beat of “Staying Alive”,
displaying a peachy, arse-crack smile,
engrossed in groaning grunts
which drift through gaping, window
toward waiting silence.

Gaining pace, heart racing,
you feel the tantalising itch rise…
so close, so close…
the climax rocks your body.
You buck, then stop, sopping up
the thrill, the rhyme behind the tickle;
those fresh, yet familiar
silken ribbons of inner ripples…

Sated, you flop.

From the seething street;
raucous jeers,
course roars,
tumultuous applause.

too late you know
you should have kept your curtains closed.

🙂 🙂 🙂

Sex dope is an anagram of #Exposed

Note to porn site spammers – I’m not interested. Gimme a break, so I don’t have to go to the trouble of deleting your weird comments 😉

©Jane Paterson Basil

Run, damp dolt

There’s something baffling me. It’s been on my mind ever since the US Presidential election.  It’s about a bloke called Donald Trump. I don’t remember when I first read about him, but I do remember that what I read wasn’t positive. It was along the lines of, “He hasn’t got a chance of becoming President. He’s awful and nobody likes him.”

The second thing I read was similar… and the third… and the fourth, in fact, in the run-up to the election, I only read one post which suggested he was the man for the job, though I read quite a few reports which suggested he was gaining popularity in certain States. Meanwhile, reams of good people on the blogosphere (and the online writers’ group to which I belong) were seething with righteous indignation about his policies and his character flaws.

Election day came and went, and the world learnt the shocking news; the bloke that nobody liked was to be the new President.

So who voted for him? Where are they all?

Now to the point of this post. “Donald Trump” can be made into loads of fun anagrams. I’ve used one of them as title for this post. Here are just a few more:

  • Dad plum torn
  • Damp old runt
  • Damp old turn
  • Darn Lord Punt
  • Darn mud plot
  • Do lad Mr Punt
  • Drat Don Lump
  • Dump land rot
  • Lamp Don Turd
  • Lamp odd runt
  • Lam pond turd
  • Lop damn turd,
  • Mud trod plan
  • Nut damp Lord
  • Pant lord Mud
  • Plod mad runt
  • Tan Lord Dump
  • Mop land turd
  • And old trump

The last anagram can be tagged on to several of the previous ones, to make a great sentence, for example:

  • Tan Lord Dump, and old Trump
  • Lop damn turd, and old Trump
  • Mop land turd, and old Trump.

Now for a couple of wonderful anagrams of “President Donald Trump”, found on

  • It portends mad plunder (by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons)
  • Impudent plodders rant (by Curtis Claar using Anagram Genius)


(I was going to head this post with a mugshot, but I didn’t want to ruin the look of my blog.)


©Jane Paterson Basil



An egg with no yoke
….is an unfunny joke
……..for one who doesn’t like white,
…………while a double-yoked sample
…………….may be quite ample
………………..for the aforementioned type,
……………………but if you’ve no taste
……………………….for yolk, it’s a waste,
………………………….while an egg that’s all white
……………………………. is alright.


©Jane Paterson Basil


abstract tree_cave


The tunnel shimmers with a tempting threat;
….its marbled darkness beckons and repels.
……..Her instinct is to flee this place, and yet
…………some hunger in her quickening soul rebels.

She stoops to taste the water at her feet,
….and gasps at fruity flavours rich and rare,
……..Bending low she sups the nectar sweet,
…………then steps into the cave without a care.

Reflections from the water light the walls,
… with twisting shadows of the tree,
……..Behind her, warning silence weakly calls,
…………But she’s enchanted by the leaping filigree.

The air grows dank, and scratches reach her ears.
….She hears an evil grunt, and rasping breath,
……..a distant, deadly scream awakes her fears,
…………then silence reigns, as if a breath is held for death.

The grunts resume, and splashing sounds ensue
….like clumsy footsteps searching out their prey.
……..Her horror deepens; she cannot construe
…………from whence they come; they echo everyway.

The light retreats and deepest darkness falls
….within the depths of that unhallowed hollow,
……..while lumbering evil bounces off the walls;
…………she knows not which dread trail to follow.

All at once she sees the apperition,
….the gnashing teeth and angry threads of drool.
……..She screams in fearful recognition…
…………the teacher drags the truant back to school.


Gotcha… (inspired by an image I put together in an idle moment)

©Jane Paterson Basil