Tricky Davy Davidson

Tricky Davy Davidson
stands upon the podium
flushed with Can-Do vigour
in the hazy final rays of sun

Surveying the crowd
His propeller bow-tie
rotating intermittently
A small electric arc
sparking in his trouser pocket

M’ladies, Lords and Gentlemen…

They said it couldn’t be done!
he shouts above the upturned faces
holding up a severed head
by thick untidy hair

Too complex, they said!
Too difficult!
Too many interdependencies!
Disruptive to the arteries of trade!

Ha!

He swings the head above his own
Its ghastly gaze perusing the crowd
Mouth open, poised mid-argument

Behold!

Nay-sayers! Fear-mongers!
Phase 1, thus achieved!

Too complex? Too risky?

One clean and well-aimed swing
waves goodbye to their complexity!

Farewell interdependencies!

The head is free at last!

Now to Phase 2! 

We’ll restore its verve
through nothing more than hard work
and enterprise!

Restored to its former life!

Free to make its own way!
How many bodies are crying out
to join a head like this?

Blood has been dripping, unnoticed
throughout this motivational address 
running down the front 
of Tricky Davy Davidson’s favourite shirt

Jermyn Street, he notes, but a small price to pay

A brace of assistants
- repurposed brolly-dollies -
arrive smiling with an ice-bucket
painted with the legend: Phase 2

Tricky Davy Davidson
drops the head into the bucket

The propeller bow-tie 
makes a final rotation
before wobbling to a halt
Smoke begins to issue 
from the great man’s trouser pocket

But Tricky Davy Davidson has no feeling

“Pants on fire!”
A cry goes up from the crowd

Tricky Davy Davidson
has heard it all before

More cries

The whole crowd takes up the refrain

Tricky Davy Davidson
stands squarely on the podium
as the crowd begins to cough and wipe 
the thickening smoke from their eyes

He cut his teeth up north
This lot don’t know what a barracking is

The flames of the pocket fire have tracked along 
the dead propeller bow-tie wire
dripping to the podium
to ignite its antique hessian 
and produce a conflagration of some rage

Tricky Davy Davidson
stands his ground

He knows a stunt when he sees one

The bells of the fire-brigade are
clanging through the coughs of the crowd

Alas, too late, they arrive
from their relocated out-of-town fire-station

The fringes of the podium are ravaged
And beneath the platform, in clear view
rows of buckets, all marked Phase 2
exhibit numerous casseroling heads

Tricky Davy Davidson
never one to suffer a setback alone 
blames first the tie and then the crowd
and then the fire brigade

Fifth, sixth and seventh columns
out to sabotage the master plan

Tricky Davy Davidson
blackened, scorched but unabashed
steps from the podium
and walks to his official car

The driver dowses him
with dry-powder prior to opening the door

Pausing only to place his business card
between a bucket-dolly’s buttock and bikini
he slips smoking into the comfy rear seat

Tricky Davy Davidson
is driven discreetly from the scene
noting his successes from the day