Post by Barry Hodges on Oct 20, 2010 12:25:59 GMT
This is #56 in my mind-boggling "Memories" sequence. I hope you like it in its revised format.
Many people say, "What the make love roughly?" when they hear Derby mentioned;
Or they think of the horse race named after the Earl of Derby not the town,
(the aforementioned equine event is I should add
run on the delightful green turf of Epsom in bourgeois Surrey).
I can fully sympathise with this lamentable lack of geographical awareness,
Bearing in mind few other British cities are so worthy of avoidance;
But now I shall illuminate your ignorance, dearest reader and ardent fan
Of me, Barry Hodges, the faux-immortal Bard of Gosforth;
So pin back your fucking earflaps and learn summat reet gradely.
Derby, the county town of dear Derbyshire is a short fart from the High Peak,
A delectable area of dales and attractive old centres of habitation;
In particular I would commend the lovely spa town of Buxton to you,
With its charming graffito-endowed decaying neo-classical crescents
And its charming Opera House (sadly bereft of an opera company but where,
with a bit of bad luck, you might suffer an amateur G&S production
which would bore you to tears with its talent-free naffness);
And of course, Chatsworth House's landscaped gardens are well worth a visit
(may I add I snogged a girl young enough to be my grand-daughter there
and I also caressed her protruding piles to our mutual joy?).
I digress - anything to delay mention of the horror which befell me in Derby.
Perhaps I exaggerate, Derby is not all ugliness with sixties improvements;
Indeed the city possesses the second tallest parish church tower in England
Which is one of its fabulous claims to international architectural renown;
And the newish bus station is a landmark to the cognoscenti I have heard;
There is also a most charming black and white public house in Queen Street
Whose toilets I nipped into to puke up a load of half-digested Pakistani grub,
In between shopping in the chic boutiques which make the city
A veritable Mecca for those seeking a lovely piece of handmade jewellery
With which to bribe another local girl to surrender her unclean body
For a bit of the old "Il va bien, ton papa?" (tr. "How's your father?").
But what was I doing in downtown Derby if it is so grim a metropolis?
Well, confidentially, many moons ago (when I was young and unscrupulous)
I was propositioned by a very ugly but wealthy lady of an uncertain age
Who offered me a huge amount of folding lolly for a weekend of free access
To my (then) handsome lithe honed and toned torso and mighty genitalia
And Derby was the only place where I knew no one would recognise me
As only blind tourists or masochistic mental defectives would ever go there.
And thus it came to pass that Sandra Ramsbottom-Snotworth and I ended up
In the hideously decorated bridal suite of a self-rated four star hotel
Whose name I will not mention for fear of causing a ruinous libel suit.
Oh how I suffered during our lovemaking, even with my eyes screwed shut
And the lights out, I could still visualise the horror I was copulating with:
You did not win the "Ugliest Woman Over 50" contest in Northumberland
In the early sixties without having something special in the physiognomy dept
And Sandra had wiped the floor with her rivals three years in a fucking row.
But, none too soon, our sweaty contortions were ended albeit momentarily
And we went downstairs to the Wild-West "Steak 'n' Burger" bar for a snack
And it was then that tragedy befell poor old Sandra, my companionette in lust.
A group of Transylvanian vampirists were holding their congress in the hotel
(it was probably the only establishment in Britain who would accept them
mainly because of their unearthly bad breath and disgusting body odour);
And when they saw Sandra's ghastly dial, they got really quite excited
As they knew that her head, stuck on a spike, would scare the living faeces (or poo-poos)
Out of even the fiercest and most evil members of the Transylvanian undead.
So those wicked zomboid brutes grabbed poor ugly San and carted her off
(luckily I managed to grab hold of her handbag before she got dragged away)
And I heard their happy shrieks as her head was safely detached from her bod.
I decided I would skip the rest of my meal and invest in a taxi to the station:
(at that tender age I knew which side my proverbial bread was buttered on).
Dear God, I shall never return to that dreary drab city on the Derwent
And I seriously recommend you to do bleeding likewise, toute de suite,
If you sodding well know what's sodding good for you.
Many people say, "What the make love roughly?" when they hear Derby mentioned;
Or they think of the horse race named after the Earl of Derby not the town,
(the aforementioned equine event is I should add
run on the delightful green turf of Epsom in bourgeois Surrey).
I can fully sympathise with this lamentable lack of geographical awareness,
Bearing in mind few other British cities are so worthy of avoidance;
But now I shall illuminate your ignorance, dearest reader and ardent fan
Of me, Barry Hodges, the faux-immortal Bard of Gosforth;
So pin back your fucking earflaps and learn summat reet gradely.
Derby, the county town of dear Derbyshire is a short fart from the High Peak,
A delectable area of dales and attractive old centres of habitation;
In particular I would commend the lovely spa town of Buxton to you,
With its charming graffito-endowed decaying neo-classical crescents
And its charming Opera House (sadly bereft of an opera company but where,
with a bit of bad luck, you might suffer an amateur G&S production
which would bore you to tears with its talent-free naffness);
And of course, Chatsworth House's landscaped gardens are well worth a visit
(may I add I snogged a girl young enough to be my grand-daughter there
and I also caressed her protruding piles to our mutual joy?).
I digress - anything to delay mention of the horror which befell me in Derby.
Perhaps I exaggerate, Derby is not all ugliness with sixties improvements;
Indeed the city possesses the second tallest parish church tower in England
Which is one of its fabulous claims to international architectural renown;
And the newish bus station is a landmark to the cognoscenti I have heard;
There is also a most charming black and white public house in Queen Street
Whose toilets I nipped into to puke up a load of half-digested Pakistani grub,
In between shopping in the chic boutiques which make the city
A veritable Mecca for those seeking a lovely piece of handmade jewellery
With which to bribe another local girl to surrender her unclean body
For a bit of the old "Il va bien, ton papa?" (tr. "How's your father?").
But what was I doing in downtown Derby if it is so grim a metropolis?
Well, confidentially, many moons ago (when I was young and unscrupulous)
I was propositioned by a very ugly but wealthy lady of an uncertain age
Who offered me a huge amount of folding lolly for a weekend of free access
To my (then) handsome lithe honed and toned torso and mighty genitalia
And Derby was the only place where I knew no one would recognise me
As only blind tourists or masochistic mental defectives would ever go there.
And thus it came to pass that Sandra Ramsbottom-Snotworth and I ended up
In the hideously decorated bridal suite of a self-rated four star hotel
Whose name I will not mention for fear of causing a ruinous libel suit.
Oh how I suffered during our lovemaking, even with my eyes screwed shut
And the lights out, I could still visualise the horror I was copulating with:
You did not win the "Ugliest Woman Over 50" contest in Northumberland
In the early sixties without having something special in the physiognomy dept
And Sandra had wiped the floor with her rivals three years in a fucking row.
But, none too soon, our sweaty contortions were ended albeit momentarily
And we went downstairs to the Wild-West "Steak 'n' Burger" bar for a snack
And it was then that tragedy befell poor old Sandra, my companionette in lust.
A group of Transylvanian vampirists were holding their congress in the hotel
(it was probably the only establishment in Britain who would accept them
mainly because of their unearthly bad breath and disgusting body odour);
And when they saw Sandra's ghastly dial, they got really quite excited
As they knew that her head, stuck on a spike, would scare the living faeces (or poo-poos)
Out of even the fiercest and most evil members of the Transylvanian undead.
So those wicked zomboid brutes grabbed poor ugly San and carted her off
(luckily I managed to grab hold of her handbag before she got dragged away)
And I heard their happy shrieks as her head was safely detached from her bod.
I decided I would skip the rest of my meal and invest in a taxi to the station:
(at that tender age I knew which side my proverbial bread was buttered on).
Dear God, I shall never return to that dreary drab city on the Derwent
And I seriously recommend you to do bleeding likewise, toute de suite,
If you sodding well know what's sodding good for you.
