humour, ode, poetry, rhyme

Beyond the fringe

Hair

I fear for my life,
I’m being silently stalked, unbeknownst to my wife,
By her beautiful hair, so flowing and fair,
Which is literally fucking everywhere.

At night as I sleep, round my neck it wraps,
One of a multitude of traps,
It sets, to catch me unaware,
Evil, cunning, clever hair.

It sneaks its way on my toast and butter,
I choke and splutter, like some fucking nutter,
All the while the hair watches on,
Knowing that someday soon I’ll be gone.

In the aftermath,
I decide to wind down with a nice hot bath,
In the plughole the silky assassins await,
Plotting and scheming a watery fate.

I start to dose, and the hairball arose,
Like an endless clot from a bloody nose,
Tinged with slime, hell bent on crime,
But I flee from the tub in the nick of time.

Then head downstairs and turn on the light,
Where I sit and await the passing of night,
And curse the day through a rueful sob,
That I ever suggested she get a bob.

THE (split) END

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humour, poetry

The honest estate agent

The truthful estate agent

Offered for sale is this highly undesirable, incredibly cramped one bedroom ex-council flat, located on the 6th floor, which is ideal if you’re planning to regularly visit the 5th and 7th floors.

Comes complete with walls and windows, which cleverly allow light in while keeping the weather and other things out, although not always bricks, which is good to note.

The extreme ugliness and decay of the exterior acts as a deterrent, and means you’re less likely to become a statistic of the rampant crime wave sweeping the estate. It will also put off all buyers looking for a pleasant place to live, reducing the competition.

Inside, the cleverly positioned toilet in the kitchen means you can shit while you eat, saving time and space, which has been freed up for a panic room in the case of intrusion (the previous occupant informs us this is likely).

The damp has conveniently removed all the dull brown paint from the walls, so you don’t have to. And what’s more, the seller is in a complicated onward chain, which gives you the benefit of plenty of time to think about how you will improve the flat while you wait for him to move on.

Original features remain throughout, such as lead piping in the water supply, and while initially purpose built, this property is now unquestionably unfit for purpose, offering real flexibility to use as a dingy, uninhabited storage space if needed.

This is the ideal home for someone who doesn’t want the hassle of entertaining friends and has no interest in ever looking to impress a lover.

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humour, ode, poetry, rhyme

Introducing CRAPP

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(Charitable Royal Association for the Protection of Politicians)

Dear Sir,

I draw your attention to the tragic plight,
Of our fearless leaders, from left and from right,
And I ask that you offer a penny or two,
To help out our team in its desperate fight.

When we first encountered Ed the red,
He was cripplingly stressed and underfed,
Though his hair, deep and shiny, showed good signs of life,
Behind the eyes he was withered and dead.

Dave the blue we met on our late night rounds,
He was red in the face and had piled on the pounds,
His blood contained dangerous amounts of foie gras,
And excess was protruding in unsightly mounds.

We were called by the mother of Nick the yellow,
An unfortunately feeble, defeated young fellow,
Bullied and silenced, ignored and jeered,
His resolve and self-image reduced to jello.

Nigel the purple we found in a bin,
Chuntering nonsense, with lunatic grin,
Though appearing amused, he was clearly confused,
And internally pickled with bitter and gin.

Our nutritionists visited Natalie the Green,
Who we’d often heard of, but rarely seen,
Resolved to eat nothing but organic veg,
The smell she emitted was quite obscene.

I’m delighted to say that with your donation,
We’re able to offer support and salvation,
To poor little mites like Nicky and Nat,
Though with Nigel we opted for instant castration.

Please keep it coming and thanks in advance,
For giving these idiots a second glance,
For with love, luck and laughter, compassion, resolve,
Our wonderful nation might just stand a chance.

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humour, ode, poetry, rhyme

The 12 applications, an ode to planning permission

The 12 applications
To the tune of the 12 days of Christmas.  

On the first application the council said to me,
We’re not going to make this eeeeeasy.

On the second application the council said to me,
It’s a very simple process, but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the third application the council said to me,
This is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process, but we’re not going to make it eeeeeeasy.

On the fourth application the council said to me,
We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process, but we’re not going to make it eeeeeeasy.

On the fifth application the council said to me,
Fiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the sixth application the council said to me,
I’m wearing brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the seventh application the council said to me,
Please re-write it all in black ink, I’m in brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive stupid pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the eighth application the council said to me,
Yes I am a dreadful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, yup that’s right brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the ninth application the council said to me,
Please refrain from swearing, yes I am a dreadful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, I’m in brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeeasy.

On the tenth application the council said to me,
Oh, you’ve come down to the office, will you please refrain from swearing, yes I am a dreadful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, I’m in brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is gonna cost you, it’s a very simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the eleventh application the council said to me,
We don’t respond to violence, but you’ve come down to the office, please please please refrain from swearing, I’m a sweaty woeful jobsworth, just re-write it all in black ink, mind my poo brown corduroy trousers, and then fiiiiive stupid pointless things. We don’t work on Friday, this is really gonna cost you, it’s such a simple simple process but we’re not going to make it eeeeasy.

On the twelfth application the council said to me,
Application approved.

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poetry, rhyme

Success, a rare treat

Steak

If you’re feeling glum, bake a cake,
Or give up the ghost and jump in a lake.

If your world’s in decline, drink wine,
And two bottles in you’ll be fine fine fine.

When you’re down on your luck eat some cheese,
It’ll blunt the pain of being brought to your knees.

But when you’re riding high dine on steak,
And gorge and devour ‘til your arteries ache.

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poetry, rhyme

Post match post-mortem

Post match post mortem 4

Our lads played with courage, with passion and pride,
Was the kind of performance that warms you inside,
We controlled the possession, dictated the play,
The fact they scored seven? Just a bad day.

No they weren’t quicker, just we were too slow,
And as everyone knows, it’s a tough place to go,
The ball boys are naughty, the ref’s on their side,
We prefer it to rain, but it’s lovely outside.

Now we’re stuck at the bottom and fighting the drop,
But if points were for effort we’d be right up the top,
We beat ourselves, they didn’t beat us,
They smashed in seven, then parked the bus.

On a pitch smooth and silky, of course they played better,
But bring ‘em to ours where it’s rocky and wetter,
Away teams are lucky to get out alive,
And our fans don’t wear clothes ‘less it’s minus five.

No we weren’t lacking desire and bravery,
And for 10 grand a day? Well, it’s practically slavery,
We’re a bold, dashing side, with invention and flair,
Tanned glossy thighs, and long golden hair.

I simply can’t question the boys’ heart and soul,
They just need to score more in the OTHER team’s goal,
We’re working on passing and shooting and movement,
Was 8-0 last week, so a marked improvement.

On their lad’s broken leg, yes, that’s always a shame,
And he’ll probably never be quite the same,
But perhaps it’s a measure of where the game’s gone,
‘cause back in my day, he’d get up and play on.

Now I’m sure you’ll all busy, so time to wrap up,
We’ve a big midweek game in the who cares cup,
I predict in the future we might actually win,
But for now, I could sure use an extra-large gin.

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Uncategorized

Beauty and the chicken

beauty and the chicken

For my little sister Lara and her husband (Chicken) on their wedding day. 

I first met the chicken alone on the stair,
A scruffy young posh boy with fluffy blond hair,
Thick chunky legs poking out from his shorts,
He was bad with girls, but good at sports.

First impressions of the new boy in school,
Were less Casanova, more village fool,
On the palm of his hand a colossal red blister,
He was the kind of guy you could trust with your sister.

But let’s not forget that way back then,
Our heroine was probably not yet ten,
There was plenty of time for this handsome young prince,
To trim his nails and have a good rinse.

The years went by and chicken became,
A bit of a legend, renowned throughout Thame,
But his time was spent out chasing balls in the dirt,
When perhaps he should have been chasing some skirt.

Meanwhile, Larisa Poppy Moore was growing up!

She cast off the tantrums and childish tears,
And on reaching the age of 18 years,
The local economy started roaring,
As sales of Lambrini and Breezers went soaring.

Her and her wonderfully happy band,
Would have nightly adventures, get right out of hand,
As the nights grew longer, the skirts got shorter,
She was very much her mother’s daughter.

But for all of the parties and drunk fun and laughter,
A partner in crime was all she was after,
A strapping young sportsman to hang around,
But apparently those are thin on the ground.

So, we have one sporting hero, afraid of girls,
And a local young damsel with pretty brown curls,
Hoping to catch a ‘rugby sort’,
The former just hoping he might get caught.

The only thing that could stand in between,
The greatest love story the world had even seen,
Was a raging brother with a grip like a vice,
But I actually thought it was all rather nice.

I first put two and two together,
On an August afternoon, with temperate weather,
‘Twas Lara’s birthday in old London town,
And chicken just happened to be around.

The situation got steadily scarier,
As chicken was increasingly ‘just in the area’,
One thing naturally led to another,
And I was on track for another brother.

Time to conclude.

They’re a partnership of quite some note,
And on each other they count and devote,
When together they’re never glum,
Adversity and sadness they overcome.

They’re peas in a pod, a perfect match,
And, in their own special way, an excellent catch,
So from a proud big brother and a lifelong friend,
I wish you both the world ‘til the very end.

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