Rhyme but no reason

This limerick nonsense is getting out of hand. It seems I have at least half a dozen people leprechauning away at limericks in the comments section of this column, mostly about Billy Brown Tail, an anachronism for err…unstable bowels. At the moment, in the enforced absence of strong drink for medical reasons, I am anything but (butt?), but that is the way of the world. I saw the wind was getting up last evening and I admit to a pang jealousy. It seems that an easterly wind presages a wet weekend, in more ways than one, and normally this would not be welcome but as I am having a day off the temperance wagon on Sunday, it will be wet one way or another.

So having gone through the limericks (the motions?) for much of the day, I sat in the web in the early evening nursing a Virgin Mary, whilst watching a bottle of wine being guzzled thirstily by That Nice Lady Decorator. What is really galling is that glass for glass, pint for pint, pound for pound she drinks far more than me despite being a short arse (she calls it petite), and yet her bloody blood test readings were all normal. How can that be fair? If there was a god I would make a complaint. As there is not then I will have to complain to his self styled representative on earth, the Reverend Jeff.

I am looking forward to seeing the limericks on that one. Whilst we are on the subject, this is the first line of my favourite: “there was a young curate from Birmingham”…. And the last line is “and pumping his Episcopal sperm in them”, but I cannot remember the bit in between. I am sure the Reverend Jeff, one of the most ardent and continually irritating limearacists, will have some ideas. By way of extra raw material, I give you today’s photo of a bronze moulding of a dog with some rather unnecessarily obvious testes rather too much to the fore. Skin me alive if I am wrong.

Limerick fodder, the dogs bollocks

Now, this will be my fourth day in succession without a drink and the hallucinations have started. I had the impression that I had received an enormous bill on my American Express card, run up by Sprog 1 and Sprog 2 during the summer, but obviously I must be mistaken. However the sweat won’t die down, and I don’t know why. Having children nowadays is a very expensive hobby and one that I am hoping to give up very soon. It is time for the scales to turn back in my favour. They have both expressed the wish that they will one day earn enough money to keep us in the manner to which I should like to be accustomed, but as Martin Luther King used to say “I have a dream”.

Today I have been given the job of tree surgeon. It is a sort of anti Swampy thing (for those of you remember that that famous eco warrior for the 80’s and 90’s.). Swampy was the name given to a greasy looking but engaging protester, unhappy about the ancient woodland that had to be cut down to make way for the Newbury bypass. He was a tree hugger who caught the imagination of large swathes of the public after he was interviewed on the news. He is is probably now using that very road to get to and from work. Anyway, I digress, my orders are that several of swampy’s mates need pruning and, without Currencies Direct client Slash And Burn Thornton Allan to hand, I am going to have to upset a few of them myself.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News