2. Whose son do I insist this is?
3. Were I playing a 90s text adventure, what forename might I assign to this fish?
4. Which major reference work is Smudge the Sheep editing here?
5. Who is missing from this line-up?
You open up the door in your hotel
And put your suitcase down, and case the joint.
There's nothing there to which you might well point
As being amiss - in fact you think it's swell.
The bathroom's fine - it's clean, the lights all work -
The bed feels comfy, TV porn comes free
(And better still, you can't get t'BBC),
And on the table coffee sachets lurk.
But then you open up your bedside drawer
And shudder as you read the book which goes:
"The Bible (Gideon's - AKA George O's).
I'll cut and slash you till your arse is sore,
Especially if you're poor, but you, King Croesus,
I'll let you into heaven before Lord Jesus."
The course of justice is a filthy perv:
It watches panda porn and wears tight thongs,
And likes to pleasure dogs with bawdy songs
About the joys of inter-species lurve.
It smears itself in lard, and takes a snap
To show on Facebook, or on Instagram,
Then gets a stiffy watching Fireman Sam,
And spills its seed upon its pervy lap.
Why did the course of justice hum this tune?
What led it up this wicked deviant road?
What caused it, as described, to shoot its load?
I'll tell you: Vicky Pryce and Mr Huhne
Conspired between themselves, with vile intent,
To make the course of justice not unbent.
He has a son who
Once vomited in Fuji.
I didn't like that.
His dad's confused for
Popular Python John Cleese.
You never realised?
His daughter can stand
And utter some words as well.
Humans: bloody hell!
His friend called Jonjo
Is out of Haiku ideas.
So happy birthday.
What are you doing in Jesus Christ? He doesn't like it up him, you know. He's definitely against that sort of thing. I would imagine. He didn't say, but I reckon he's against it. He's got a beard, so is probably a top, if he is gay. Is that how it works? He probably isn't. Though hanging out with all those men is a bit iffy, isn't it?
Anyway, I am sorry to announce that I am resigning as Pope with effect from the end of February. Yes, I know about the notice period but what they'll do is take it out of my annual leave, and I haven't used any up this year so far, so it's fine. Must remember to e-mail HR about my pension.
Although I enjoy the sumptuous wealth with which I am surrounded here in the Vatican, I must say I am very disappointed with one thing: the lack of pussy. I mean really, this place is full of totally gay dress-wearing blokes (I do it because I'm comfortable with my sexuality) and frigid women wearing dowdy clothes. I'm used to dowdy shoes, of course, being a German, but at least in Germany they show a bit of thigh. Ach, ja.
You may think that this decision is designed to bring on the Last Judgement, given that the next Pope, according to Malachi, will be the last. Not at all. I assure you that it's just coincidence that the bookies reckon that a man named Peter will be the next one, and that they also favour Peter as the next Papal name.
Basically, I'm really old and knackered, and just want to sit at home drinking sherry and watching repeats of "Minder" on TV (we've got cable here, you know), so that's it, really. Whatcha gonna do?
Anyway, go in peace, etc. etc. etc.
My plan is to be back up in Leeds between 1st Feb and 10th. Pete's bidet and conference the next weekend. In between, I reckon Fuji trips and an exploratory trip to the Cock Beck. Also the Devon.
In other news, like mid-80s Ethiopians, the greatest gift I got this year was socks. I am wearing them now. Very comfy.
It came upon the midnight clear today,
That glorious song of old, I like to fish,
From angels bending near the earth and gray,
To touch their harps of gold don't often wish,
Peace on the earth, goodwill to men sonnet,
From heaven's all-gracious King, eating John Cleese,
The world in solemn stillness lay, bonnet,
To hear the angels sing i'pod two peas.
Still through the cloven skies they come this pome,
With peaceful wings unfurledy Python, no!
And still their heavenly music floats in foam
O'er all the weary worlding mule, you know.
Above its sad and lowly plains orange,
They bend on hovering wing, near ponds heigh-ho.
Now, Bilbo Baggins is a silly name,
As Bilbo's Basque for Bilbao, which is fine,
But would you call your son that name? Not mine!
And Baggins - well, I'd have to ask my dame.
And Legolas? That's mental, calling forth
Crazed visions of, yes, lego, and of girls,
But also legless women, drunken churls,
And other things quite common in the north.
And Gandalf - nicked from Old Icelandic verse -
Will be Sir I. McKellen's "thing he did",
Like British Telecom, when they "told Sid".
But wait - than this there's something even worse:
Galadriel was played by lovely Cate,
Whom if she took those ears off I would date.