It’s funny peculiar and funny haha but Kevin Maher is back in “Times 2” today 27 July. His subject is SWIFT, not the late Dean of St Patrick’s, but TAYLOR SWIFT an American female singer who has sold 50 million albums, but meant nothing to him  until she put on a Val Doonican cardigan. 

I know the phenomenon, for I stopped listening to pop music when Elvis joined the US Army, and in a nostalgic mood went to see Fats Domino, with people of my own vintage (25 at the time).

A backing act took a long time vacating the stage though some of the Fats fans were crying “Get off, you bums!”. The group was called “THE BEEGEES”. Anyone know what happened to them?

I may be wrong but I thought Val Doonican favoured pullovers, not cardigans, borrowed or bought from Perry Como.

Anyhow, in my middle age, Kevin Maher’s teenage years, Maher had a cardigan sporting badges and slogans. He was a particular admirer of a miserable Manchester group called THE SMITHS and its misanthropic front moaner “MORRISSEY” and had a button on his cardigan with the group’s phoney assertion – “MEAT IS MURDER” . You couldn’t trump that for bullshit but you might match it with “YOU CAN’T BEAT BRITISH MEAT”.  

What Jonathan Swift would have thought of “MORRISSEY” and Kevin Maher may be inferred from a reading of “A MODEST PROPOSAL” 

I doubt very much that Swift would have thought abortion as a subject for a romance or a comedy.

I mentioned Spike Milligan yesterday. He described the Lancashire George Formby’s comic capers as about as funny as an infant being crushed by something or other. And Milligan wrote a poem about abortion which was not comic and seems to have escaped inclusion in popular and academic anthologies.

 There is a lot in the public domain which is pro-abortion.

 In the interests of fair play, which one might describe as “Cricket” or as our ancestors did, as COTHROM NA FEINNE – I will give it here-

      Unto Us

       by Spike Milligan

 Somewhere at some time

They committed themselves to  me

And so, I was!

Small, but I was!                                

Tiny, in shape

Lusting to live  

I hung in my pulsing cave.

Soon they know of me

My mother – my father

I had no say in my being    

I lived on trust and love   

Though I couldn’t think

Each part of me was saying   

A silent “Wait for me  

I will bring you love!”    

I was taken, blind, naked and defenceless

By the hand of one

 Whose good name

Was graven on a plate

 In Wimpole Street    

and dropped on the sterile floor

of a foot-operated plastic waste bucket.

There was no Queen’s Counsel

to take my brief,

The cot I might have warmed

 Stood in Harrod’s shop window,

 When my passing was told

My father smiled.

No grief filled my empty space,

My death was celebrated,

With tickets to see Danny La Rue

Who was pretending to be a woman

Like my mother was.

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