(2015)

Author’s Remarks:
As those of you who routinely read my work, and especially my poems, will know I write about things that I feel passionately about or which in some way or other has inspired me to comment on them; and this poem is no exception. The genesis of it came about when on a bus journey across West Sussex to the seaside resort town of Worthing just recently, and one that I frequently make when I’m in the UK, I overheard a conversation that prompted this poem. I wasn’t eavesdropping; that isn’t, never was or will it ever be a forte of mine as I have a life of my own and far more important things to do with it than to consciously tune in to the often idiotic conversations of most Brits nowadays. But sitting on this particular bus and at the very front of it I couldn’t, although I tried my level bus to shut it out, help but overhear this conversation coming from two young women who were quite literally, in marked contrast to where I was ensconced at the very front of the bus and directly behind the driver – you can’t get more forward as a passenger on a transport bus than that unless you chose, I say sarcastically, to sit on the lap of the driver.

Anyway, the prattle from these two women, who I know as long term but not speaking to acquaintances as they neither of them apparently feel that they have any obligation to work and regularly take trips on this same bus to Worthing to occupy their time, was most intrusive – can’t Brits of all kinds, and I say this pleadingly talk quietly, and why the hell do they think that everyone is either interested in or wants to hear their invariably banal conversations? Any road these two were no exception to this intrusive and particularly annoying practice that seemingly is nationwide across Britain nowadays. So I had no choice but to grin and bear their infernal chatter, even forced to dispense with my usual scribbling of stories and poems that I generally do when I’m on this one hour and 45 minutes duration drive to Worthing.

The essence of this loud conversation that I noticed others on the bus were equally pissed off with is contained in the poem I’ve written; but quite incredibly by these two females what this utterly praiseworthy man did in summarily and permanently dumping this trollop when he realized what she was up to is something to be vilified; and is clearly at fault for having the temerity and audacity to do so while narcissistically this slut evidently feels she is and ought to be justly regarded as the aggrieved one. But why am I not surprised by this when from the very top of British society to the lowest level of it it’s always somebody else’s fault and never that of the true perpetrator? Ruminate on that one philosophically and morally if the lot of you out there can! And that includes you David Cameron, Theresa May and Co.

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