Address to the inmates at the weekly gathering at The Poet Pub, in London. (Observed by some visitors from Canada who were mortified at the amount of smoke)

Picture this: Me, boozy poet, with bad posture.

Saying: Employment... I`m scared of losing my job.... I get too excited. It's the gout.. What you want me to work for you? I can`t even shake your hand...

Okay, I know what you`re thinking. What next? Well, they say Canadians are boring. It`s true I miss my homeland. You ever seen a beaver swimming? Buck toothed and beautiful.
Here at least the telly is good.

In England you have the Great figures of History: Henry the Eighth. You know the story - when the grumpy ol humpty dumpy gets in a fight with his wife he doesn`t go and make her a cappucino. He cuts her head off. Again and again. In Italy, they call him Enrico. I like that. Respectful. Sexy. Macho. Enrico don`t sound like a fat, man with a high pitched voice, wearing a tent, does it?

So Canadians... how can we be nice when we have the same climate as the Russians?
Russians.
Lenin`s tomb, that poor bald bastard entombed. In Canada we have out own entombment. Maggie`s son man. Michel Trudeau. That poor bastard is buried under an avalanche of snow in a mountian in B.C.
B.C? Where`s that?

Canada you squids.

That is Switzerland for you Britz. Just minus the Germans.......