Archive for the ‘A Naïve Poet and Occasional Writer’ Category

The Great Strike at I.C.K.C.I.

Tuesday, July 17th, 2007

At least I can make the excuse this time that I wrote about the great strike in 1980. The world was a lot younger then. I was naïve and not yet eccentric. Or was I? I had better let you decide that. REPORT ON THE STRIKE AT I.C.K.C.I. 

Ladies and gentlemen of the Board. The great strike of chemists at the Industrial Chemical and Kindness Company Incorporated brought great distress to management and staff alike. As you all know, these problems have now been solved and it is my task as your new Company President to sum up the major causes and effects of the strike and reassure you that the lessons have been learned and there is no prospect of the Company facing such a situation again. My Report is as follows. On the 14th of November 2006, the Special Interest Circle of ex-Manchester-University-Student-Radicals in the Chemistry Division at I.C.K.C.I. met to discuss the various Marxist theories of product names. An organic chemist named John Stone presented the paper, which can be summarized as proposing that products be named after the worker or workers who invented or discovered them. After presenting the paper Stone awaited the commencement of the usual vigorous debate by positioning himself in such a way as to be able to duck under the table as quickly as possible. No one spoke. The comrades present at the meeting ranged through the New Marxist spectrum from the palest interested pink to the most committed blood red. They had never, ever, agreed before and they were all a bit put out. It didn’t seem proper. Clive “Pinkie” Pinkum, the SICEMUSR Chairperson became nervous as he felt the tension rising in the room, and, fearing violence, said “I invented a new foot powder last year and the bosses are going to call it I.C.K.C.I. Piggie Powder.” 

Stone replied “That’s just the sort of thing I was talking about. You have an inalienable right to have it called Pinkie’s Toe Powder.” “Hmmm,” replied the Chairperson. 

The rest of the group remained silent. They were still experiencing feelings that a few younger members thought might be alienation. If they had been sociologists instead of chemists they would have realised it was Durkheimian anomie and there would have been far less serious consequences. One of them jumped to his feet and gave testimony that he was experiencing a new and important insight into Marxism as a result of Mr. Stone’s paper and he felt this was a significant moment in the history of the movement. They all knew what that meant and the cheering which erupted made the ensuing events inevitable. Harry “Crimson” Bow put all of their thoughts into words. “This calls for action. I expect we should go on strike.” The new members broke out in cheering again and the older heads joined them so as not to be thought to be revisionists. Clive Pinkum hastened to gain control of the meeting again by moving a motion to strike. It was carried unanimously. Thus the I.C.K.C.I. strike was conceived. 

It did not take long from conception to delivery. The SICEMUSR group had long since placed their members in Shop Steward’s positions in all of the chemical labs because they thought it might come in handy one day and no one else was interested. So it was a simple matter for them to get everybody out. That is where Sir Ruben Itten, (the now dismissed Senior President of the Company) made a tactical error. He refused to negotiate. Without prejudice I say that there are many in this room who might have done the same. After all, it is a traditional tactic and still has some support. However, it needs to be relegated to the nursery and the remainder of this Report will back up my conclusion. 

The strike dragged on for over a year.  Doctors sent urgent letters to Sir Ruben urging him to accede to the strikers’ requests as the country could not do without a constantly advancing pharmacology. Their patients were losing faith in them for they were unable to prescribe new medicines sure to work better than the old ones. Some of the patients gave up doctors in disgust and tried natural therapies. Others simply stopped taking medicines. People were feeling better than they had in years and the medical industry went into a deep slump. Sir Ruben would not budge. The pesticide industry, too, was complaining that in the war against pests new weapons were needed to outflank nature’s defences. Advertising executives conducted opinion polls and market research for a year and reluctantly admitted that changing the name of a product was not enough to convince farmers that they were getting something new and effective because farmers are the sort of people who sniff things and taste them and try them on the cat. They cited the case of Agent Orange, a weedkiller which was used in

Vietnam and was marketed under various names and achieved poor market penetration until someone hit on the idea of starting a rumour that it was the same stuff used in the war. Then farmers bought millions of gallons of it. Sir Ruben merely suggested they start some rumours.

 Hospitals reported a drastic drop in the number of stillbirths and began to pressure the Government for more crib space. By the end of the year the situation was desperate as the percentage of pregnancies reaching full term steadily increased. This was particularly true in the already economically disadvantaged towns boasting an I.C.K.C.I. plant. Contraceptive stocks ran out, as there were no chemists available to supervise production. Finally, the Prime Minister rang Sir Ruben. She said, “This must be stopped,” her words given emphasis by the crying of her baby in the background.  The strike had been in progress for eighteen months when Sir Ruben relented. The economy was in chaos and he tried to take the easy way out by jumping into a vat of euthanasia mix. Fortunately it was out of date and he was retrieved quickly enough to remain fit to stand trial for mismanagement. I was appointed to manage the company on behalf of the receivers and immediately summoned the leaders of the strike to meet with me one by one. I cannot take full credit for the speed with which this process was completed. Many of the former leaders had been arrested for stealing loaves of bread, others had retired to their yachts on the

Mediterranean, and some had been picketing the company employment office and were trampled in the annual rush of new graduates. Their numbers had diminished greatly.

 The negotiations which I conducted were on a strictly individual and confidential basis and, as a result, achieved a unanimous vote to return to work within days. Pinkum’s Toe Powder was on the market in a month, and Pinkie became Mr. Pinkum, a comfortably off gent who lived somewhere in the South of France. Brighton Gaudi, the head of the Paint Division, pointed out the potential for trouble in every section of the company. “Hypothetically speaking,” he said, “if Sir Ruben had invented a furniture polish the company could have put his name on the product and prospered. If, however, Hugh Effingbee invented the polish and insisted on us using his name or risk the polish division striking, we would be in a serious position. Going through the staff directory is quite frightening. Jack Ripper is employed in the shaving cream research laboratory; Byron Stigh is in domestic cleansers; John Stone is in tranquillizers. The list goes on.” 

To avert the danger of further strikes the Company publicly proclaimed a policy which stated that “The worker most directly responsible for the introduction of a new product is entitled to claim the right to have a portion of his name included in the product title.” The company, however, added a fine print clause affirming its right to negotiate a financial settlement with the said employee if it appeared to the head of marketing that the name chosen by the employee was inimical to the marketing of the product.  The Personnel Division was instructed to rewrite its entire hiring and firing and staff allocation Policy, and where possible, staff with inappropriate names were moved onto new projects. Some temporary upward mobility was inevitable. A recent move has been to reconceptualize the Vice-Presidency of the Head of Personnel as an Assistant Vice-Presidency under the Vice-President in charge of Marketing, Gudrun Sellars. She is a shining example of the new flavour of the Company and it was she who proposed that we open a Deed Poll Advice and Incentive Office and was herself the first to use its services (Utta Bougaroff was hardly an appropriate name for someone in her position). Research being as it is, subject at times to the intervention of chance, an occasional situation might arise which is unpredictable. John Stone, who started the whole problem, was transferred from tranquillizers to Agricultural Research and accidentally discovered that an artificial sponge could be manufactured at minimal cost from manure. He was honoured by being offered a Vice-Presidency, which he accepted and soon retired on full pay to fish the Scottish Highlands. Given that the Company has three thousand, six hundred and twenty-eight Vice-Presidents in the

United Kingdom that is a proportionately small outlay for a rich financial gain.

 Summing up: The Company has been through a difficult time where not only the economy of the Company but the economy of this great country was under threat. The threat took place as a result of the fuzzy logic of a few misguided chemists but was made serious by the irresponsible conservatism of the Company’s former President. Upon being appointed President of the Company I immediately took steps to settle the dispute and restructure the Company so as to prevent any possible recurrence of the problem and minimize the impact of any “flash-fire” name conflicts. Last but by no means least, I am able to announce that the Company has not only recovered its former financial position but has increased its profits by fourteen point five percent on its previous record.  The shining example of Industrial Relations set by this Company is now being emulated throughout the industrialized world. Even our Government has seen fit to enshrine our Personnel Management innovations in its own Rules and Regulations. Your encouragement and the example which you as Board Members have set to the staff is unparalleled. No other Board in the country has such appropriate names. I thank you all, and remain your humble servant,  I.M. God.

World Trade Center 2001

Friday, July 13th, 2007

World  Trade Center 2001

Innocent thousands

Sad by the gates

Wait for more

Revelation!

Sunday, July 1st, 2007

REVELATION

Forsooth! What manner of message is this?
Could it be you take the piss?
But nay, tarry a while.
As in art, it mayn’t be piss but bile,
And who is to know.  As the bubbles rise
In piss the seer oft espies,
If his mind is open and immersed
And in the ancient arts well versed,
The sacred number, forty-two
(He even sees it in doggy-doo,
Reading messages in the shape,
Texture and bits of last night’s cake).
Forgive me, though, and hold again -
Perhaps this experience is common to men.
(Women too, though less inclined
To adventures of the inebriate kind.)
Of ignorant, uneducated folk I’ve heard,
Who would never have read of divining by turd,
And would certainly have no certification
In the ancient art of divination
Who, upon returning from the Pub
Then throwing up into the tub,
Contemplating all that chunder
Suddenly exclaim in wonder
The awesome, pre-cognitive cry -
“Hell, I’m really going to die!”

So of course GooRoo, in view of all that, I’m prepared to believe that you really did discover a sacred manuscript on a dunny wall in Charters Towers.  Have you considered publishing it. It could make it big in the New Age book market?   It’s only drawback is that it’s prognosis appears to me to be short-term. Perhaps I’m not reading enough into it.  I  suppose if it’s genuine it could well be an archetype and applicable to all situations everywhere like most scriptures even where they apparently contradict.  Perhaps if I could see the actual dunny wall myself I would apprehend it rather than comprehend it and truly understand.  Thanks for sharing it with me.  I really, really appreciate it.  It’s amazing.  Fantastic.  Out of this world.  I’ll have to do the same for you one day.  Have you read Khalil Gibran yet?  Or the Alcoholics Anonymous manual?  Your devoted disciple,Hugh.

Missing Lunchboxes

Tuesday, June 26th, 2007

LUNCHBOXES!

Piccolo’s mum was a very good mum
Who always took good care of his tum
By giving him breakfast, snacks and tea
And a school lunch loaded carefully,
In a perfectly packed lunchbox.

Now Piccolo was an exceptional boy
Who was always careful to tidy his toys
And was nice to his sister, mum and dad,
Rarely ever making them mad;
Except over a lunchbox.

Piccolo carefully ate up his lunch
Of sandwiches, cheese, lettuce to crunch,
Muesli bars, cakes, and scones and jam,
Boiled eggs, celery or smoked ham;
And then he lost his lunchbox.

Searching the school from end to end
Piccolo almost went round the bend
And, in fact, though tough, he sat and cried
For there was nowhere it could hide;
His lost and missing lunchbox.

A worried young man was Piccolo
Thinking how angry his mum would grow.
He was surprised when his mother
Said “Oh dear!” and bought another
Lovely plastic lunchbox.

The very next day he took it to school
(Fluoro colours – really cool)
And ate his lunch, feeling proud,
In front of an admiring crowd.
Then he lost his lunchbox.

Piccolo’s mother’s eye was baleful
As she told him to be careful.
She almost went right over the top
Before she calmed and went to the shop
To buy another lunchbox.

Wednesday’s lunch was purple plums
And other stuff for growing tums.
He ate and then went to gym
But when he returned a chill struck him.
He’d lost another lunchbox!

Mother was ready to hear the tale
But said “Now Piccolo you must not fail
To bring the three missing lunchboxes back
Or else I’ll have to give you a smack;
To help you look after your lunchbox.”

Alas! That didn’t do the trick.
Although he recruited his friend Nick,
And Freckles, Pricklehead, Boof and Lurch
To help him in his careful search
He couldn’t find one lunchbox.

After looking and hunting all round
The buildings and the sporting grounds
That disappointing Thursday
Became an even worse day -
He lost another lunchbox.

Of the search, his very best friend Boof
Came and offered verbal proof
To Piccolo’s vexed and perplexed Mum
And saved him from spanking on the bottom
For more than one lost lunchbox.

The boarder was really very annoying
And looked as if he was enjoying
The joke when he said he’d heard telling
That Piccolo wasn’t losing but selling,
For a dollar a time, his lunchbox.

Mum didn’t think that it was funny
That all these lunchboxes cost her money
So she threw a very gay and arty,
Quickly arranged, Tupperware Party
So Piccolo could have a lunchbox.

Mum was brilliant in her very best dress
And the Tupperware show was a roaring success.
Being cautious in the midst of the fun
She took her prize in lunchboxes, twenty-one,
Lest her boy should lose his lunchbox.

She said to her friends “You never know.
These days, school lunchboxes tend to go.
It’s wise, nowadays to prepare
So thieves don’t catch one unaware,
And deprive one’s child of his lunchbox.”

You know, it was only four weeks and a day
Till those lunchboxes were spirited away.
Mother said to the Principal “This must stop.
It’s time you called the Adopt-a-Cop
To find my boy’s lunchboxes.”

The detectives questioned Piccolo
To find out anything he might know.
They even asked him “Did you sell? -
Tell us now, before the bell -
Your missing lunchboxes.

Piccolo really did not know,
Until he went to a Gardening Show,
And noticed a familiar colour
At the base of an exotic flower -
A clue to his missing lunchboxes.

The Police went into action, fast,
And caught the guilty crook at last
In his lair in a neighbouring suburb
Where they found under the Rhubarb
A stash of stolen lunchboxes.

The thief was a teacher at the school
Who owned up, and said “I’m a fool.
Piccolo’s lunchboxes were so cool
The colours made me break the rule
And steal every lunchbox.

The flowers I grow are really bright.
The lunchbox colours were just right,
And just the right sizes.
They helped me win prizes.
It was me that took your lunchboxes.

Sorry.”
And he paid for all the lunchboxes.

Goodbye, a Poem of Loss

Tuesday, June 26th, 2007

Sometimes someone who says they love us is really storing malice that slips out word by word over the years until one day it all blurts out and we see it all.

GOODBYE

There they were
Together at last
All the little words and phrases
That slipped out one by one
Over the years
Forming a phantasm
Suddenly solidified

I told you
That my son
Wondered
Why
You did not send gifts

You told me
You decided to live in shame and envy
Sending guilt-bombs instead of love
(they never explode – remember the “arrogance”)

I wondered if my messages got through
You built a shelter against them years ago
Moved in without notice and waited for war

If that’s what you want
You’ll have to have it without me

Goodbye