Preface

In which the Poet introduces his Theme, after banging
on about feck all for a bit


Uncork the wine - in fact, roll out the barrel:
.’Tis once again the season of festivity,
When we get smashed, and wear absurd apparel,
.And I vent all my pent-up creativity;
Last year I penned a Caf-based Christmas Carol,
.Two years before, my much-admired Nativity;
Now once more I bestow my gift sublime,
And best of all, this Christmas, it’s in Rhyme.

For those that care, the rhyme-scheme that I’m using
.Is nicked off Don Juan, by great Lord Byron;
Considered, in its time, wildly amusing,
.In fact it’s vast, and dense, and fecking tiresome.
Yet, in an age that’s given to confusing
.Mere fame with genius, we should admire one
Who was the David Beckham of his day,
But miles cleverer, and not as gay.

So much for form, but what about the rest?
.A tale without a plot is deemed defective;
My heroes must go forth upon a Quest -
.Face trials, in pursuit of their objective;
Who are these heroes then? No doubt you’ve guessed:
.That stalwart crew, the Warrington Gimp Collective,
(To make that scan’s a struggle, as you see -
Henceforth, then, it’s 'the WGC').

"The WGC? But they don’t post,
.They’ve largely buggered off, by choice or ban."
Yet who says that my heroes are supposed
.To constitute my public, to a man?
Was Byron’s readership wholly composed
.Of womanising, errant Don Juans?
(My argument falls down with Terry Pratchett,
Whose readers are retarded dwarves, with hatchets.)

Big Andy is the legend of the crew,
. Some bird concussed him once, with her stiletto;
While “What the fuck?” sang all East Tier Two,
.When he screeched out “Handball!” in full falsetto;
He once said “nig-nogs”, breaking Caf taboo,
.(A word last used by Botha, in Sowetto);
And we’ve all seen his image on the Caf,
Creamed by his mates, while rimming a giraffe.

One such mate, a reprobate named Groundside
.Loves hardcore shots of sluts from glossy spreads;
He isn’t bothered if they’re on the round side,
.Or eighty-three, or amputees, or dead.
Illicit pleasures, though, do have their downside:
.Someday, while watching lezzers giving head,
He’ll accidentally click a dodgy link,
And end up being Glitter’s bitch, in clink.

And then there’s Twenty-Sixth Of, he’s a postie,
.Like all at Royal Mail, he does his bit
To feck up simple tasks; but unlike most, he
.Gets on with dogs (who like to eat his shit).
He’s had a few too many bacon toasties,
.But when his mouth’s not full, he’s quite a wit -
Top class at telling jokes, and making quips,
(Though better still at scoffing plates of chips).

And nor, when wit’s required, will Wobbly fail us,
.The joker knows a million words for “cunt,”
And so, when traffic’s slow, he will regale us
.With ‘gaping axe wound,’ ‘growler’, ‘gash’, and ‘grunt’;
But though he uses language fit for sailors,
.The Navy turned him down, cos he’s a runt:
The superstitious claim that he’s a leprechaun,
While chefs sometimes mistake him for a peppercorn.

Speaking of chefs, that brings me to Shane Bluck -
.To rhyme that with obscenities I’m itching,
But I’ll resist, in case I’m ever stuck
.Alone with him, and end up needing stitching.
It’s rare for hard-nut, hoolie types to cook -
.But Shane spends each spare minute in the kitchen;
He says he’s roasting chives, and lancing capons,
But mostly, he’s just prancing round in aprons.

It seems that K-standred’s offline behaviour
.Is not as affable as you’d have thought;
Someday, they’ll interview his next-door neighbour,
.Who’ll say, “He always seemed a quiet sort...”
So lads, when you request some lady’s favours,
.Be sure it’s not his missus that you court:
He’ll sniff you out, like some psychotic aardvark,
And wait, to smash your teeth out, in a car-park.

Then there’s the entourage. I’ll only give it
.One stanza - their personas in my head
Aren’t quite so clearly realised, or vivid:
.There’s Scouse Dave, Mickeyredlad, May, Welshred,
And Andy’s mate Mad Mike, who’s always livid,
.And some less frequent guests up at the shed,
Like Looking Busy (Health and Safety Ray),
And G4orce, who is genuinely gay.

So sit back, gimps, of real lives bereft,
.You ghoulish denizens of spaces digital,
Prepare for tales of strife, and lust, and theft,
.With fit birds, such as supermodel Bridget Hall;
Narrated with a touch that’s light and deft,
.A cadence that’s both classic and original;
Alright, that last bit’s not entirely true -
I do this shit for free though, so fuck you.

.
.Artist’s impression of Byron, had he
been a present-day gimptard