Canto the Fifth

In which all sorts of mental shit goes down


“I’ve been outside,” cried Mick, “and the thing is,
.There’s no snow anywhere, that I discerned,
Except the roof of these here premises;
.So up I climbed, and this is what I’ve learned:
That white stuff up there, it’s not snow – it’s jizz.”
.Now on Big Andy all eyes swiftly turned;
Said Twenty-Sixth Of, “Andrew, tell the truth -
Have you been up there, jizzing on the roof?”

“The roof? Erm, I’m not sure,” Big Andy stammered,
.“I jizz in lots of places, that’s not news.
I’m three Coronas down, and pretty hammered,
.My memory might be a bit confused;
I must admit, though, that I am enamoured
.Of wanking in high places, with good views:
I’ve done it in a plane, and a balloon,
My dream’s one day to do it on the moon.

“I’ve climbed New York’s great towers, every one -
.The Empire State, and Twin, and Trump, and Getty;
Scaled Everest, which stretches for the sun,
.From which I shot my load onto a Yeti;
Creamed David Seaman, as a kind of pun,
.From off the upper tier of the Stretty;
When proud youth shrivels, and Viagra calls,
I’ll join the spray o’er high Niagara Falls.

“And so, it seems as though responsibility
.For this blanched, sullied roof is mine indeed;
And yes, the fateful organ of virility
.Was mine - and mine as well the guilty seed.
And yet, there is another possibility,
.One other man could still have done the deed:
Yes, gentlemen, I mean, as no doubt you know,
My asymmetrical conjoined twin, Bruno.”

“Fuck you,” said Bruno, snapping to attention,
.“Why’s it always me who gets the blame?
We’re near the end, and this is my first mention,
.Plech never even introduced my name;
My suffering’s beyond your comprehension -
.You don’t live in a half-world, wracked by shame;
So don’t invoke me now, for aims strategic:
You’re not the one who’s fecking paraplegic.”

“Fuck me?” cried Andy, “Brother, can’t you see,
.You’re fortunate so sparingly to feature?
Look what the big-nosed bastard’s done to me -
.He’s made me this bizarre, priapic creature!
I’m a respected person, actually -
.I’m your provider, confidante and teacher;
On weekdays, I’m a highly-paid surveyor -
Not some strange, jizz-obsessed, retarded gayer.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggg!!!” Bruno shrieked,
.A keening sob of anguish and alarm;
Big Andy turned away, but Bruno freaked
.And beat his brother with a withered arm;
“Now cut that out!” yelled Andy, also piqued,
.And slapped him back, quite hard, to make him calm;
Bruno subsided into mournful wailing,
Combined, now and again, with scornful flailing.

The spectacle of mongs, yoked at the waist,
.Both bickering, with many a rash shout,
Of “Double-dealing!” “Bi-polar!” “Two-faced!”
.’Till, fused in futile fury, they lash out,
Recalls that time of forums, formed in haste,
.Of bent elections, ‘Murderers’, ‘Gashout’:
Twin minds entwined, but striving to be monads,
Forgetting they share arse, and cock, and gonads.

But now big Crouchy started acting tough,
.He made to rise, announcing, “Lads, you know what?
It’s time to let me go - I’ve had enough.
.So you’ve got problems in your shed? Well, so what?
I want to play my game, and do my stuff,
.I want to live, and love, and do the Robot;
Now let me go my way, like all you free men;
Your Sign’s not lost - it’s just submerged in semen.”

“Don’t let him stand!” screamed Ray, somewhat irately,
.“He far exceeds the Max. Permitted Headroom!”
But Crouch shot back, “To Hell with Health and Safety,
.I want to go to bed, in my own bedroom!”
Ray bristled, “It’s not just about you, matey,
.There’s bound to be a mishap in this shed soon.”
Replied the landlord, “I don’t give a feck,”
Snapped Allger back, “Tell that to the Exec.”

As Crouch rose, with accelerating pace,
.And Bruno wailed, and Ray went apoplectic,
Deco, feeling lost and out of place,
.Did what he does whenever things get hectic,
And launched himself three metres into space;
.Time seemed to crawl - the silence was electric,
As, recognised at last by his beholders,
He landed square on Peter Crouch’s shoulders.

They say that when you harpoon a blue whale,
.It takes ten seconds for this information
To travel from its brain down to its tail,
.So it can swim away, the daft cetacean;
Now likewise, Crouch’s brain, to no avail,
.Sent word down of the Deco situation:
“Stop, legs! We’ve taken on a cheating fucktard!”
Oblivious, the legs propelled him upward.

I hope, as Deco shot up like a rocket,
.He thought of how he got Phil Neville carded,
(Who ‘always had Vieira in his pocket’ –
.Or so you think, if you are a retarded
Red-tinted-spectacled Redcafe cockwit);
.Whatever, his composure had departed,
And as he rose, he felt that sinking feeling,
Then - CRUNCH! - his head went crashing through the ceiling.

They piled outside, and when the dust had cleared,
.(As well as wood, and bloody, spunky spillage),
Strange vision! Deco’s lifeless head appeared
.Before the Sign, obscuring Kerry’s visage;
What’s more, his coiffured hair, with juices smeared,
.Impinged upon the text, not just the image:
It masked the downstroke of the royal “n” -
The Sign now read, “The Queer of Warrington”.

Deceitful Deco, devious dago devil!
.You were a cold, conniving, diving cheat,
Your life took whoring to another level,
.Your death’s a warning: “Cnuts, stay on your feet.
Don’t wave fake cards, or feck with Philip Neville”;
.And yet, somehow, you make the shed complete:
Now when folk pass, they’re thankful they’re alive,
And, awestruck, whisper, “What a fecking dive.”