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 Ihni binni dimi diniwiny anitaime’s,
They piled outside, and, pulling on a Woodbine,
May said, “He’s right – some fecker’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 cnut, 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.