Barbwire

Accosted by email early today by my Heathrow correspondent, an avian subject which I shall I address when I return from the Dark Side. He was alerting me to a splendid reggae version of 'The Mighty Quin'

He did not beat me to my conversation with the larks: I had already cycled ten miles by the time I saw the email ping through. Although I respect his ability to get into the office before the sun gets too hot.

So me telephone me Jamaican correspondent. She-gone. But she come back. And gives me the headline song tonight. I have since been distracted by Lee Scratch Perry, but that can wait...

...our conversation this evening concerns a woman who has managed to have six children and is complaining that she has to live in a one-bedroom flat. No comments about Dacre and me from the Swedish correspondent, please.

The woman blames repeated failures with the pill, condoms, arm implants and a contraceptive injection. She also claims her depression prevents her from working, forcing her husband to stay in their cramped home to look after her and their offspring. 

What! You managed to screw up six times and you think the State is at fault? My father was correct: sterilise all crisps and burgers now. What on Earth are we doing in our society?

'I met a boy the other day - he got barbwire in his underpants,' Well he should bloody keep it there because I am fed up paying for these cretins. Not that I do, but that is beside the point.

Hopeton Lewis and the Gaylettes for the 'Mighty Quin', Bet they love that name now.

Nora Dean for the ''Barbwire'. And if you know you Jamaican you know what that shit all about.

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