The Queen of Warrington

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

Canto the First

In which our Heroes drink Corona, in a Shed, in Warrington

’Tis fitting that this made-up gimp adventure
.Begins amid the hallowed Advent season,
When pious folk, gripped by a group dementia,
.And blindly flying in the face of reason,
Tell legends handed down for two millennia,
.Which somehow lend their pointless lives cohesion,
And celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ,
Whom my lot killed, for saying, “Let’s be nice”.

In festive mood tonight, then, are our fellas,
.Corona is the fuel of these stout men,
Not Kronenberg, or Lowenbrau, or Stella,
.Or Carling, Carlsberg, Grolsch or Heineken,
Or Staropramen, Hoegaarden, Amstel, or
.Young’s Special Ram Rod, or Old Speckled Hen,
Or Worthington, or Robinsons, or Boddingtons -
Not in that shed-cum-pub, “The Queen of Warrington”.

The boys were making toasts, and breaking bread,
.The night was full of laughter, smiles and song,
When in burst chirpy simpleton Welsh Red,
.And cried “Oi lads! Our fecking pub sign’s gone,
From off the roof of our beloved shed!”
.So, trusting their own eyes above some mong’s,
They piled outside, and, pulling on a Woodbine,
May said, “He’s right – some fucker’s nicked our pub sign.”

I should explain this 'pub sign' thing, for Yanks,
.Who don’t have proper pubs, or beer, or minds:
As birds sing, flowers grow, and Andy wanks,
.So English public houses sport their Signs;
For this, Richard the Second we can thank -
.He made it law that each pub must design
A logo, to help strangers find their mead,
When, like Yanks of today, they couldn’t read.

Yanks. They’re always doing something risible,
.That leads them, and us all, into disaster.
They think their values render them invincible,
.A bit like Byron, my poetic master:
He too dashed off to war, on some daft principle,
.And Death dashed after him, a fair bit faster.
But though, in this respect, yanks are like Byron, he
At least grasped cricket, weight control, and irony.

(Speaking of Byron, when I said before
.That he was ‘not as gay’ as David Beckham,
It seems I wasn’t right to be so sure -
.I tend to plonk facts in before I check ’em;
Turns out he wasn’t fussy: queen or whore,
.Or man, or boy, or sibling, he would feck ’em.
He might, had he been born a little later,
Have been the first to bone VanNistelrater.)

The Sign was wrought of iron, heavy-duty,
.In gilded script the noble name was written:
'The Queen of Warrington'; and yet the beauty
.Whose face adorned it was no Queen of Britain,
But Kerry Jayne Katona, local cutie,
.Celebrity, and ex-Atomic Kitten.
Beneath the standard of this Queen Katona,
Our heroes laughed, and scoffed, and quaffed Corona.

(Yes! By sweet serendipity, it happens
.That this most strange, uncommon name, ‘Katona’,
The maiden name of wench Kerry McFadden,
.Rhymes perfectly with poofy beer ‘Corona’;
And in a new development, to gladden
.My weary heart, it also rhymes with ‘boner’!
Have that, you cnuts, you thought it had me thwarted,
Like feck - I’ve got the bastard fecking sorted.)

..
..The Sign, in happier times

And so the lads took in the awful truth.
.g4orce was crying; Bob said “Cheer up, Simon,
It’s just a sign, you callow, long-haired youth.”
.Mike seethed, “Let’s find someone to pin this crime on,
And burn them like a witch!” Ray warned, “This roof
.Looks like asbestos – that’s a ticking timebomb.”
Some fled, some clenched their fists, or sharpened knives,
Groundside stayed put, and thumbed through Readers’ Wives.

Now Twenty-Sixth Of entered the debate:
.“This gang of ours, this WGC
Is like a ship, borne on the waves of Fate;
.On such a turbulent, capricious sea,
We can but trust our vessel, and our mates,
.And hope we reach our port, where’er it be.
‘But why,’ you ask, ‘This maritime comparison?
It seems half-arsed and crap, like Audley Harrison.’

“When ancient vessels ploughed the salty main,
.They bore upon their prows a graven figure,
A mermaid, god, or man of mythic fame,
.To symbolise their pride, and lusty vigour;
’Twas called a ‘Figurehead’; and that’s the name
.By which I call our Sign, which I consider
The Mermaid of our figurative Ship -”
But here he paused, to stuff his face with chips.

“If such a statue,” he resumed, “Fell off,
.And plunged beneath the murky, baseless fathoms,
It was perceived a catastrophic loss;
.Likewise with us, this outrage sorely saddens
And wounds us. Yet do not despair, because
.We shall regain our Figurehead, McFadden:
We’ll apprehend the thieving little yobbo,
Let’s start right now – look, here comes PC Robbo.”

The officer, from Cheshire’s famed Constabulary,
.Unfortunately failed to assist;
He had a somewhat limited vocabulary -
.Kept ranting “Vile cumstain!” as if pissed.
By closing time, it was becoming gradually
.Apparent that he’d never get the gist;
“I think it’s Fletcher’s fault…” at length he hazarded,
“If anyone fecked up, most likely Dazza did.”

As fluffy chicks obey the full-grown moorhen,
.We grant such men control of our autonomy.
But Shane had never bowed to law, or lawmen -
.He served only United (and gastronomy).
Yet few know Conflict’s ways so well as doormen,
.So now he spoke, with that same brisk economy,
With which he punches scallies in the face,
Or slices scallions, for a Sauce Bernaise.

The shed grew hushed; the bar was like a pulpit,
.As Shane, his massive head gleaming majestic,
Spoke thus: “Right, if you’ve got a beer, then gulp it -
.We’re off. You see, lads, most crimes are domestic;
In this case, then, assume the guilty culprit,
.To be the husband – he’s all but confessed it:
Yes, chances are that our elusive bad ’un,
Is that outrageous cunt, Bryan McFadden.”

The Greeks explored the concept of “The Best Life”,
.Should it be weighed in bliss, or fame, or riches?
But they, blissfully ignorant of Westlife,
.Reckoned without those shameless sons of bitches;
I’d rather hack my head off with a breadknife
.Than face the Hell that listening to their hits is;
And so it was with moans of “twat, feck, cuntwank”,
That our lads went to seek their fat ex-frontman.

Canto the Second

In which the WGC meet Bryan McFadden, and act like spastics

And so to Wales, land of choral singing,
.And leeks, and sheep, and daffodils and dragons,
And birds who are as easy as they’re minging,
.And noods, who throws good beer away in flagons,
Our band advanced. The hills and vales were ringing
.With war-cries, as they bore down on McFadden’s
Vast mansion, which, by luck, g4orce had seen
The week before, in Okay magazine.

He saw them coming, on closed-circuit camera,
.While playing horrid torch-songs on his Steinbach;
They roared so loud, they could be heard in Bangor -
.The sound made Bryan shit his Calvin Klein slacks;
Mike, in particular, was puce with anger,
.“You limp-haired cunt!” he screamed, “Give us our Sign back!”
They brandished broken bottles of Corona,
(Bandy was also brandishing a boner).

“Let’s barrel through the window,” Shane suggested,
..“Like Heinze would, our mental Argie left-back”;
“That’s not advisable,” LB protested,
..“The shards of glass are a potential death-trap.”
Too late! They’d charged it, smashed it, and transgressed it;
.Then once they’d got their bearings, and their breath back,
Each man took up his allocated station -
It was a slick, efficient operation:

Bob was lookout, Ray was looking busy,
.Twenty-Sixth Of barked commands and strictures;
G4orce had a rest, cos he felt dizzy,
.Groundy wiped the CCTV pictures;
Andy got himself into a tizzy,
.And ran around the room, humping the fixtures;
While Shane, with gestures threatening and scary,
Pinned down McFadden, screaming, “WHERE’S OUR KERRY?”

“But wait -” squealed McFadden, “Fellas, please!
..I’ve only ever seen him on the telly!”
“You what?” said Shane, “Kerry Katona! She’s
..Your bloody ex!” and kicked him in the belly;
“I thought,” croaked Bryan, “You were Japanese,
..And when you said ‘Our Kerry’, meant 'R. Kelly.' "
“Who’s that?” asked Shane. McFadden gave a meagre smile:
“A US R&B artist, and paedophile.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing here?” Shane shouted,
..Impaling Bryan with his X-ray glare,
“Or fecking Japanese, while we’re about it?”
..“Look, gents,” McFadden said, “I don’t know where
Your precious Sign is – can you really doubt it?
..Look round you – I’m a bleedin’ millionaire!
If I desired a pub sign, then I’d buy one,
Or have one made, from peacock-skins and diamonds.”

“He’s right,” said Twenty-Sixth Of, “It’s not here.
.Why would Bryan McFadden steal our Sign?
In retrospect, this whole entire idea
.Was spasticated, flawed, and asinine.
So please accept, erm, Bryan, our sincere
.Apologies - we’re somewhat out of line.”
“No probs,” he said to his erstwhile inquisitors,
“It’s actually quite nice to have some visitors.

“Now, how about I sing you my new song?
..It’s gonna be a smash, top of the playlist -”
“Er, cheers,” said Bob, “But we’d best run along,”
..“How dare you!” screamed the twat, “I’m feckin’ A-list!”
And started crooning, like a soppy mong.
..“Shut up!” they yelled, “You Irish cnut!” (that’s racist).
He wouldn’t stop, though they beseeched and begged it,
So, panicking, they duffed him up, and pegged it.

Now rudderless, adrift in stormy seas,
.Tossed like a toy, amidst the briny foam,
Beleaguered, leagues from where they’re meant to be,
.Yet equally as far from port, and home,
Our bark, the Good Ship WGC,
.Drifts onto Failure’s shores, like Ian Woan.
And what is worse, its long-established unity,
Is threatened now by malcontent, and mutiny.

“Shane, you’re an arse,” snapped Twenty-Sixth Of May,
..“Well you’re a cnut,” Shane growled, “And thick, and fat.”
“Ah, feck you both ,” said Groundside, “And feck Ray”,
..“You’re cocks,” said Ray, “And Wobbly - you’re a twat.”
“Sod off,” said Bob, “And g4orce, you’re a gay” -
..At least the gang could all agree on that -
Big Andy, who’d been listening curiously,
Now caught the mood, and wanked more furiously.

I won’t transcribe the rest of what was said,
.Just put it down to anger, and to grief,
(Though no-one had a pop at K-Standred,
.’Cos they were all quite keen to keep their teeth).
Then Dave, who bleeds a different shade of red,
.And knows theft well, cos he too is a thief,
Cried, “Lads, I’ve got it! Fuck I’ve been a fool:
Something’s been nicked – let’s look in Liverpool!”

Canto the Third

In which the WGC go to Liverpool, fall in Love, and steal Peter Crouch.

O Liverpool! Bright jewel of the Mersey,
.That got knocked off, and pawned for coke and smack,
Where master comics Tarbuck, Sayle and Jerzi
.Dudek reside, and rats, and Cilla Black;
Where Dippers chuck their turds as soon as curtsy,
.And Toffees slag off coffee, ’cos it’s black;
Where are no houses, only burned-out girders,
And constant killings (though, of course, no Murders).

In fairness, mind, I’ve barely had a drink there -
.I get my views from terrace chants, and browses
On forums, message-boards and other gimp-fare;
.At uni, though, I only knew two Scousers,
And both got busted, during their brief stint there,
.With other people’s cash stuffed down their trousers;
So in good faith, I’ll stick to my position,
Like Michael Shields has to (he’s in prison).

With no real aim, or plan, or map or route,
.Our heroes wandered round, like clueless schmocks,
When, lo! They came upon a photo-shoot,
. With Bridget Hall, draped out on Mersey Docks,
Dressed only in her sumptuous birthday suit!
.Morale and spirits soared (as too did cocks);
My poor words wither ’neath her beauty’s glare,
But Byron might have said, had he been there,

“She walks in Bootle, like the Night,
. Through countless crimes and scally sties,
And falls the silver lark-song quite
.Mute, at her ass, perched on her thighs.”
The lads were gobsmacked at the sight,
.They peered upon this peerless prize;
The maid spoke first, “Yes, they’re my breasts,
But who are you? And what’s your Quest?”

“Fair maid, we are those heroes legendary,”
.Quoth Wobbly (who, like all the rest, was smitten),
“That Gimp Collective extra-ordinary,
.Which wanders far and wide, the breadth of Britain.
We seek our Queen of Warrington, Our Kerry -
.Katona, that is, ex-Atomic Kitten,
(The Figurehead of our symbolic Ship,
Not some yank nonce, as spoken by a Nip).”

“The WGC? Gosh, well I never!”
.Said Bridget (who was wise as well as pretty),
“Where will you look?” And Bob shrugged: “We’ll endeavour
.To pore through every building in the city.”
Said she, “I’m not convinced that’s very clever -
.You’re clearly fantasists, like Walter Mitty;
Your plan seems somewhat ill-thought-out, and drastic,
And, no offence, completely fucking spastic.

“Now here’s a scheme far easier to arrange:
.Filch something precious, stash it in your shed;
To make the thieves consider an exchange,
.Its loss must fill all Liverpool with dread;
Why not take Crouch, that creature vast and strange?
.All Scousers want him here, dressed in red:
To Dippers he’s their long-awaited Saviour;
To Toffees he’s a hopeless freak of nature.

“You see, for some Yank supermodel, I’m
. Impressive in my knowledge of Scouse fandom;
And yet, my presence in this tale of crime,
.Is more or less completely fecking random:
Cos Plech was forced to use my name, to rhyme,
.‘Original’ and ‘digital’, in tandem;
Henceforth, my role in this great work will hinge
Round crude and sexist gags, about my minge.”

The lads agreed, her plan was the solution,
.But that could wait – ’twas time to hit the town,
To dabble in excess and dissolution;
.They asked her if she’d mind showing them round
The ‘Paris’ of this so-called ‘Rafalution’,
.And she was game, but with a little frown,
Said, “Though I will accept the tour-guide’s role,
Don’t blame me if you end up in some hole!”

So first they toured Mount Pleasant, which is great,
.(Though sometimes it can get a little hairy);
Then down where pleasure-seekers concentrate,
.The Camel Club, and onwards to the Berry
Street hotspot, where she hoped her new-found mates
.Would linger longer than is customary…
Then ample lubrication in a tavern,
Before she let the boys loose in the Cavern.

The postman was the first to try his luck:
.“A Royal Mail pension, luv – that’s wealth!”
“I’ll make you Filet Mignon,” purred Shane Bluck,
.“I’d keep you Safe,” vowed Ray, “and mind your Health”;
Grinned Groundside, “Me, I really like to fuck,
.And have a massive stash of hardcore filth”;
And Andy: “I’ve got twenty-one Coronas,
An old Ronaldo shirt, and non-stop boners!”

“Nope, Bob’s the one,” at length declared fair Bridget,
. “He’s not afraid of Love, as most men are;
Besides, I’ve always had a thing for midgets -
.I’ll pop him on the dashboard of my car,
Or in my bath, a toy to squeeze and fidget,
.Or keep him warm and comfy in my bra;
Plus, he can fit – it’s really quite uncanny -
His whole entire torso up my fanny!”

There’s no sense getting in the way of lovers;
.They let us know, though largely unawares,
That they’ve no time, or need, or use for others,
.At heart, we know the world is really theirs:
A garden grown for lovers to discover,
. Each leaf a mirror, silvered for their stares;
We turn, and cede the field, hoping someday
They’ll get mown down, while skipping, by a Hyundai.

Away, then, to America, and marriage!
.To Lime Street Station trudged our noble band,
And bade a last farewell; while in the carriage
.Bob nestled snug, ’twixt Bridget’s heaving cans.
And though his choice of bride none could disparage,
.Their feelings wavered, like their waving hands.
Since, for the first time that they could remember,
The WGC had lost a Member.

Yet when a seaman tumbles from the rigging,
.To Davy Jones’ embrace (as in, the sea’s,
Not that young lad’s, who we were always bigging
.Up, who’s now at Derby, quelle surprise),
The ship must sail on. So, gently frigging
.To Bridget’s image in their memories,
Our heroes, with forlorn and weary slouch,
Went off to find, and kidnap, Peter Crouch.

They found him blasting out ‘Rapper’s Delight’,
.While breakdancing, on waste ground near the Kop,
Like some great, broken bird, that’s lost its flight,
.But somehow taught itself to body-pop.
The spaz presented such a tragic sight,
.They hardly had the heart to make him stop;
But, ever-conscious of their own predicament,
At length they hailed the elongated dipper cunt:

“We’ve lost Our Kerry,” Twenty-Sixth announced,
..To Rafa’s seven-million-pound attacker,
“Katona, that is – not how they’d pronounce
..Some kiddy-fiddling crooner, in Osaka –”
“Look, feck this shit,” snapped K-stand, and then pounced,
..And sucker-punched the big man in the knackers.
“There, sorted,” he declared, while poor old Crouch
Keeled over, with a little cry, of “Ouch”.

They put the freakish hitman in a sack,
.And sped to Warrington, without ado;
How did they make the fateful journey back?
.Along the Eastbound-side M62.
(O Caftards, if you ever take that track,
.Past Bradford, Leeds and Wakefield, see that you
Wear headgear, to protect your face and skull –
For that great highway terminates in Hull.)

Canto the Fourth

In which Deco turns up…the cheating Twat…and things come to
a Head, amid great Drama…but then the Poet gets overexcited
about Snow, and goes Off on One, for fecking Ages.

Days came and went, relentless as the tides,
.Which sway the silent bones of sunken mariners;
They hung upon the news from Merseyside,
.Like schoolboys, at the mercy of examiners;
Their jokes were forced, but still they laughed, and tried
.To down Coronas (G4orce downed some Kaliburs);
Until, with still no sign of a reprieve,
The bells rang out for holy Christmas Eve.

And then a stranger peered into the pub.
.He looked like dwarfish gimptard Ronny Corbett,
Or shoeless Saffer nutjob Zola Budd;
.I’m sure you’ve seen him, flying into orbit.
His cocky countenance lets loose a flood
.Of feelings in me, best described as morbid;
He plays for Portugal, and Barcelona,
And when he saw him, Andy got a boner.

“Boa tarde,” said the nauseating link-man,
.(Which means ‘Good evening’, not ‘The snake’s a spastic’);
He’d stopped by for some beers, like Noodle’s bin-man,
.And glancing round him, unenthusiastic,
Addressed the landlord, “Can I get a drink, man?
.A Sol with lime, perhaps…do you take plastic?”
With which the sly, repellent little tard
Then held up an imaginary card.

It was his lucky day, for most improbably,
.None of the punters twigged that it was Deco,
He didn’t suffer murder, rape or robbery,
.Though total silence met the cheating fecko;
Let fall a pin, or peppercorn, or Wobbly,
.And you’d have raised the rafters with the echo:
For seldom do they hear a strange or foreign tongue,
In that good inn (well, shed),‘The Queen of Warrington’.

Then Welsh Red spoke: “The foreigner’s the thief!
..They stole the Stone of Scone, and Elgin Marbles -”
“No, we stole those,” said Ray, “You fecking chief,”
..“Who gives a fuck?” roared Mike, “Now let’s play hardball!”
“He’s innocent!” “He’s lying through his teeth!”
..The room filled up with shouts, and voices garbled;
Then Twenty-Sixth Of pushed aside his chips,
And these words passed his ketchup-rubied lips:

“Now, now, lads, that’s no way to treat a guest!
.He didn’t steal our likeness of Katona;
He’s tired and thirsty – let’s show him our best,
.So set him up a stool, and a Corona;
Relax, Mad Mike - don’t glare, give it a rest,
.And Andy, put away that bloody boner;
Prove it’s a classy place, where he’s arrived -
I’m sure he’s not the type who’d like a dive.”

‘And then a stranger peered into the pub’

“So how’d you find this place?” inquired Ray,
..To break the ice, and shoot the winter breeze.
“That picture on the roof showed me the way,”
..Replied the cheat, “It led me here with ease.
You see, like men of old, and Yanks today,
..I cannot read – not even Portuguese.”
“But our Sign’s been purloined…” said g4orce gingerly -
“Like feck,” Deco replied, and faked an injury.

They rushed outside. Behold, the sight they saw:
.It seems the winter chill had grown more placid,
Until at length, the feeble sun could thaw
.The snow, which had lain deep, and thickly matted;
The crew gazed up, their faces white with awe,
.And Twenty-Sixth Of croaked, “Well I’ll be twatted…”
For on the roof, just where it ought to be,
Was perched the pub-sign, swinging jauntily.

They trooped back in, lamenting, “Just our luck,
.The Sign’s been on the roof the whole time! Shit!
Damn it, bloody hell, this sodding sucks,
.Cocking wanking frigging twatting tit;
Cunting arses, bollocks, bugger, fuck,
.Pissing bastard quimflaps, cockbiscuit…”
Thus did the gang express their sad regrets,
Like MacEnroe, in traffic, with Tourettes.

They might have set Crouch free, had not the fear
.Of legal repercussions held them back;
But Shane had yet another bright idea:
.“Let’s ram a load of fireworks up his crack,
And blast him at Iran, or North Korea,
.Afghanistan, or Bradford, or Iraq…
That way, at least our disappointing error
Might go some way to help the War on Terror.”

So off they sent young Mickey, into town,
.To buy some fireworks (deaf to Ray’s objections);
They had their Sign back, yet their heads hung down
.In attitudes of sorrow and dejection.
Even Andy’s grin became a frown,
.Half-hearted and demure was his erection -
So hard upon their spirits was the blow
That they’d been dealt, by cold, deceitful Snow.

O whitest Snow, how black you are at heart!
. (That’s racist); for you make the dreary world
A blank new canvass, primed for vibrant art,
.A virgin future, flawlessly unfurled;
A second chance at childhood! A fresh start!
.But then you thaw, and back our thoughts are hurled
To jobs and duties, borrowings and spendings,
And council-tax, and shopping-lists, and endings.

One time I saved a snowball from the winter,
.Till August, in the freezer, just to lob
At my sunbathing, unsuspecting sister,
.(I nicked the scheme from off Calvin and Hobbes);
If life were like the comic, I’d’ve missed her,
.But no, I caught her, plum, right in the gob;
The ‘snow’ was ice, the throw was far from gentle,
It made her bleed, and she went fecking mental.

You know that Anna Livvia, my mate,
.Of Shit Sandwich/Made-up Elevens fame -
The one who told me “Liam Miller’s great”?
.Well, his wife, a few years back, used to claim
That Snow, in works of literature, equates
.With Death; and now I think I feel the same -
Though at the time, we’d tell her it was bollocks,
And then get thrashed all day, like alcoholics.

“The Eskimos have fifty words for snow!”
.Except they don’t, they have no more than two.
Nor do they force their elderly to go
.Outside to die (though, between me and you,
That seems a pretty good idea); And so,
.If they don’t do all that, what do they do?
Oh right, they use the ice to make an igloo,
Big deal – in Chad, they make their huts from pig-poo.

When I was just a tiny boy, my mum
.Once took me up a hill, upon a sledge;
So far, so good. She then did something dumb,
.And left me free, to slide over the edge;
I slammed into a tree, and broke my thumb -
.I’m fortunate I wasn’t left a veg;
Why did she leave me? So that she could natter
To some daft bint, re shit that doesn’t matter.

“Enough of fecking Snow!” I hear you cry,
.(Like last year, when I banged on about bees,
And hardly anyone could work out why,
.Save sleepy circle-jerker French Henry…)
Alright - now Mickeyredlad, wild of eye,
.Burst in upon the WGC,
And soon their world was rocked to its foundations
By his bizarre and shocking revelations:

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.”

In which the Prophecy of Advent is fulfilled, and the Poet ends his Tale,
before wittering on a bit more, and then, at long last, mercifully shutting the fuck up.

This tale has one more twist in store for us.
.As prophets had foretold, the Advent’s eve
Brought an arrival, small but glorious,
.A Second Coming they could scarce believe;
Even Mike looked less than furious,
.Big Andy banged one out, from pure relief -
This tiny, wizened form, this gift from God,
Was their elusive comrade – it was Bob!

“What happened, man?” they asked, with muted deference,
.“Was Bridget lost, or killed?” they quizzed their pal.
“No, nowt like that,” said Bob, “More just a preference –”
.I shouldn’t comment further - but I shall:
Suffice to say, the Chunnel got a reference,
.And dinghies, on the Panama Canal;
“To sum up,” Wobbly mused, “The woman's hole’s
As tight as Arse’s rear, without big Sol.”

And so began a night of celebrations,
.Unwitnessed since that balmy night in May
Full seven years ago; such great occasions
.As neither Time nor Sorrow wipes away.
g4orce hugged Wobbly; Groundy dropped Fat Asians,
.And hugged them both; “I’m all choked up,” sniffed Ray,
“No human drama’s overwhelmed me so,
Since that maths retard, played by Russell Crowe.”

Quoth Twenty-Sixth, “There is a lesson here:
.That which we seek lies close at hand, within.
We sail the seas, and lose the fleeting years,
.But find our Self. Yet we must sail again:
The very Quest, with all its toils and tears,
.Transforms that Self, and makes us better men.”
But no-one listened to his thoughtful homily -
Their minds were all on beer, and darts, and sodomy.

If you’re still reading, then you’ve reached the end,
.And you’re a fecking gimp, and that’s official;
I hope my verse amuses - and offends,
.For only work that’s bland and superficial,
Will make no enemies, but only friends,
.With ‘truths’ that soothe, and ‘art’ that’s artificial.
I’d rather truer friends than fewer foes;
AIDS, Zakora, Plovdiv, Su’agoaws.

Now some claim saying “gimps” is hypocritical,
.Since I’ve just wasted hours of my time,
On this vast, illustrated and satirical
.Romance, about and for my friends online;
And yet, this lifts me up to such a pinnacle
.Of Gimpery, I’ve nowhere left to climb:
The Gimp Hand turns, and turns, and passes twelve,
Until I’m cool again, unlike yourselves.

And so another year fades to oblivion,
.And none of us is getting any younger,
Will Bob come back? Will Richter ever give him one?
.Will decent posters stay, or lose their hunger?
Who knows? At least for now, the Caf’s still living on,
.And so, as this work proves, is Plechazunga;
So give me props, respeck me gangsta stylee,
By putting up a small green laughing smilie.

The real Saviour, though, of this my third
.Caf-based creation for the festive season,
Is Rhyme; which Davo, king of verse absurd
.(On his advice, this year I put no bees in),
Defined once as “the Art of making words
.Sound similar, on a forum, for no reason”;
A fitting thought, to round off my bombastics,
About a pub sign, Deco, Crouch, and spastics.