Maharaja Blues

Without Regrets our Masterchef Basks In the morning light As a new dawn takes flight In its glory, the egret basks And why it does bask Should anyone ask Well yet again He created culinary heaven For behold Goa’s own Auguste Escoffier, The white robed wonder of the wetlands’ buffet, Whose beak, precise as a paring knife, Carves symphonies of flavour from a simple life. He, the bearer of the Michelin Feathers Three! A title whispered with awe from creek to sea, The sovereign of sautéed sunlight, The emperor of elegantly plated twilight, The maestro who seasons the breeze With hints of river herbs and estuary teas. Frogs applaud from lily pad pews, Crabs scuttle forth to spread the news, Even the herons, forever proud, aloof Bow their heads in humble proof For none surpass the egret’s art, His marsh born magic, his culinary heart. He stirs the dawn with a flourish grand, Whips up clouds with a flick of his hand, And garnishes the rising sun With zest of joy for everyone. So when he basks...

How could there ever be any regrets When the chefs were advised by egrets? With wisdom and manners nice, They judged every morsel, every spice, And approved each dish with finesse. By Miku the bear bard Maharaja Rich's reply. The only regret   the egret ever met   was the day it tried   a soggy baguette.   It poked at the loaf,   got its beak firmly set,   and wobbled around   Full of baguette regret. Now it dreams of a cheesy raclette. Full story index blog-story-category-index

 🦩 Chronicler Pink’s Officially Unofficial, Flamingo‑Feathered Review of The Celtic Darbar 🦩 The moment Miku the narrator opened his beak—yes, beak—I knew he was Miku the Bear Bard materialised in your dimension. The same wandering ursine troubadour who once wrote a ballad so moving it caused three nearby constellations to weep. The resemblance was too uncanny and using a time machine in the show exposed his identity. Oh that lilting cadence, the faint smell of honeyed prophecy, the ability to make an audience feel like they’ve accidentally stepped into a myth they weren’t warned about. Then came the Sayed brothers, flitting about the edges of the performance like a pair of magpies who’ve just discovered a jewellery box and absolutely will not behave. Every time the lights dimmed, one of them appeared somewhere unexpected—perched on a speaker, dangling from a curtain, or whispering suspiciously shiny secrets. Troublesome? Absolutely. Essential? Completely. And then—Rangila. Rangi...

(In my finest fake Scottish and dedicated to Anoushka who was celebrating the New Year in Edinburgh in true Hogmanay verve)  By Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard Och, up the Monroes o’ Caledonia, Where the mist rolls thick and grey, There wandered a weary Frenchman lad Wi’ an easel tae light his way. He’d painted lilies till kingdom come, Till them petals drove him mad, So he donned the tartan o’ ancient Picts And declared, “I’ve had it, lads.” Through heather wild and bracken brown He stomped wi’ a painter’s roar, Cryin’, “No more ponds! No more blooms! Bring forth the noble boar!” And lo, in the fog o’ New Year’s morn, A snorting beast appeared A wild wee hog wi’ a muddy grin And a backside Monet revered. He painted it thrice in swirling strokes, In colours fierce and free, Till the Highlands echoed far and wide: “Behold! Hog Monet’s spree!” So raise a dram tae the misty hills Where legends love tae stray For somewhere still, a Pictish Frenchman Paints boars at break o’ day. © 2025 Mik...