Post by Barry Hodges, Bard of Gosforth on Oct 19, 2011 15:22:48 GMT
Oh what a gorgeous place is lovely Hull on Humber's banks,
Proud home to over a hundred fish and chip shops,
Some of which on the famed Orchard Park Estate
Have reinforced chainmail shutters to deter eager clients
From dashing in unannounced in the early hours
To assuage their impromptu between-meal hunger pangs.
I recall a romantic weekend in this mighty metropolis
(England's capital of teenage pregnancy and caravan manufacture)
With my then girlfriend, a very tasty piece of female flesh,
Whose joy it was to make available to handsome moi
On a 'twenty-four seven' (as the phrase goes) basis
Her delightful personage at very reasonable rates indeed,
But whose name has slipped my mind momentarily.
However, blackest tragedy was to mar this idyll of love
As I shall shortly relate - and, those of you with
A weak stomach or of a nervous disposition
Might wish to terminate your reading here forthwith.
Having just participated in a glorious meal of tinned ham,
Beef sausages, black pudding, triple fried eggs, mushy peas
And that ubiquitous Yorkie delicacy, lard-fried chips,
All covered in delicious home-made Bisto gravy,
In the über-trendy bistro of our chic bijou hotel,
We waddled out to take a much-needed pre-kip stroll
Along the gaily decorated and fashionable boulevards
Of downtown Bransholme, the city's most vibrant district.
We were admiring the unusually explicit nature of some graffiti
On the sturdy walls of a fine late Victorian church,
And smiling patronisingly at the spelling errors
In a notice advertising Adult Education and Literacy Classes
For the less fortunate dwellers in this paradise on Earth,
When out of the virtual blue a gang of pre-teen drug addicts
Appeared from behind a newly burnt-out police patrol car,
And had the temerity to demand the contents of my wallet
Or else they would be obliged to harm my bird seriously
With the whips and chains they were conveniently carrying.
Now, I am not the sort of chap to give way to such cheap threats
Of mindless juvenile violence and in any case I had at least
Twenty-five quid in crisp new notes in my possession
Which I was damned if I would hand over to the little bastards;
Thus I bravely told the proletarian urchins to do their worst.
To my distaste, the obese brats took me at my manly word,
Set upon my dear one and reduced her to a quivering splodge
Of mangled remains on the blood-spattered broken pavement,
Such was the primeval force of their primitive Hullian heritage.
So talk not to me of playful sado-masochistic games, oh no!
When one has witnessed the full horror of what can occur
To law-abiding citizens on a peaceful East Yorkshire soirée,
One knows full well the darkest side of human degradation.
And (need I add, dearest reader and avid Bazza aficionados?)
Historic Kingston-upon-Hull is forever struck off my geography map
For any future amatory excursions with obliging lady friends of all shapes,
Unless a suit of armour and a saw-off shotgun are to hand,
The better to safeguard my financial reserves and credit cards.
Proud home to over a hundred fish and chip shops,
Some of which on the famed Orchard Park Estate
Have reinforced chainmail shutters to deter eager clients
From dashing in unannounced in the early hours
To assuage their impromptu between-meal hunger pangs.
I recall a romantic weekend in this mighty metropolis
(England's capital of teenage pregnancy and caravan manufacture)
With my then girlfriend, a very tasty piece of female flesh,
Whose joy it was to make available to handsome moi
On a 'twenty-four seven' (as the phrase goes) basis
Her delightful personage at very reasonable rates indeed,
But whose name has slipped my mind momentarily.
However, blackest tragedy was to mar this idyll of love
As I shall shortly relate - and, those of you with
A weak stomach or of a nervous disposition
Might wish to terminate your reading here forthwith.
Having just participated in a glorious meal of tinned ham,
Beef sausages, black pudding, triple fried eggs, mushy peas
And that ubiquitous Yorkie delicacy, lard-fried chips,
All covered in delicious home-made Bisto gravy,
In the über-trendy bistro of our chic bijou hotel,
We waddled out to take a much-needed pre-kip stroll
Along the gaily decorated and fashionable boulevards
Of downtown Bransholme, the city's most vibrant district.
We were admiring the unusually explicit nature of some graffiti
On the sturdy walls of a fine late Victorian church,
And smiling patronisingly at the spelling errors
In a notice advertising Adult Education and Literacy Classes
For the less fortunate dwellers in this paradise on Earth,
When out of the virtual blue a gang of pre-teen drug addicts
Appeared from behind a newly burnt-out police patrol car,
And had the temerity to demand the contents of my wallet
Or else they would be obliged to harm my bird seriously
With the whips and chains they were conveniently carrying.
Now, I am not the sort of chap to give way to such cheap threats
Of mindless juvenile violence and in any case I had at least
Twenty-five quid in crisp new notes in my possession
Which I was damned if I would hand over to the little bastards;
Thus I bravely told the proletarian urchins to do their worst.
To my distaste, the obese brats took me at my manly word,
Set upon my dear one and reduced her to a quivering splodge
Of mangled remains on the blood-spattered broken pavement,
Such was the primeval force of their primitive Hullian heritage.
So talk not to me of playful sado-masochistic games, oh no!
When one has witnessed the full horror of what can occur
To law-abiding citizens on a peaceful East Yorkshire soirée,
One knows full well the darkest side of human degradation.
And (need I add, dearest reader and avid Bazza aficionados?)
Historic Kingston-upon-Hull is forever struck off my geography map
For any future amatory excursions with obliging lady friends of all shapes,
Unless a suit of armour and a saw-off shotgun are to hand,
The better to safeguard my financial reserves and credit cards.
