Post by Barry Hodges on Sept 21, 2010 10:08:23 GMT
MEMORIES OF MOTHERWELL (#25 in my tragic travel series)
People think that Motherwell is a fine old Scottish burgh
Tucked carefully in the beautiful disused coalfields near Glasgow,
An historic town with a proud tradition of urban hospitality,
Fine cuisine (the deep-fried Mars bar was invented in Wishaw),
And of course the famed exquisitely muted verbal violence
Of the local football club's more psychopathic supporters.
Furthermore, who can forget the wondrously scenic Carfin Grotto,
A magnet to hordes of Polish and Lithuanian emigrants
(many of whom are unnaturally keen ornithologists
reflecting the myriad variety of avian worldlife on the Baltic coast);
Which leads me to the tragic events I must now describe,
Even though the memory brings a bitter tear to my ancient eye.
I was visiting bonnie Motherwell (the dear Queen of the Valley)
About ten years ago with my eye candy "bird-of-the-moment",
Plump young Bessie McDougal, a striking peroxide blonde hunchback,
When we heard a demented shriek from a crowd of Catholic pilgrims
On their way back from prayer and fervent fasting at the grotto,
Wending their way through the drunk-strewn streets at closing time.
Merciful Heavens, they had spotted porky Bessie and (most tragically)
Had myopically mistaken her for a rare species of semi-extinct giant puffin
Because of the stylish semi-punk British Homes Stores clothes she favoured.
They grabbed her and dragged her off to the derelict car park
Behind the old Co-Op superstore, and I watched in helpless horror
As they erected a barbecue and (whilst it warmed to optimum temperature)
Trussed her up and spit-roasted her repeatedly in blatant contravention
Of a myriad of byelaws laid down by the vigilant North Lanarkshire Council.
And after the tremendous event (a Baltic bacchanale of bestiality)
Came to its grisly close, namely the feasting on her charred body,
I slunk away to the staggering luxury of the three-star ex-Hilton on the bypass
Where I was irritated to find my mini-bar had been burglarised yet again.
Dear God, the Clyde Valley will never see me ever again, no way.
Author notes
This is quite an early item in my earth-shattering "Memories" series of touristic tragedies which have so decimated my family and friends. I hope you have read all the others; many are nearly as good as this one.
People think that Motherwell is a fine old Scottish burgh
Tucked carefully in the beautiful disused coalfields near Glasgow,
An historic town with a proud tradition of urban hospitality,
Fine cuisine (the deep-fried Mars bar was invented in Wishaw),
And of course the famed exquisitely muted verbal violence
Of the local football club's more psychopathic supporters.
Furthermore, who can forget the wondrously scenic Carfin Grotto,
A magnet to hordes of Polish and Lithuanian emigrants
(many of whom are unnaturally keen ornithologists
reflecting the myriad variety of avian worldlife on the Baltic coast);
Which leads me to the tragic events I must now describe,
Even though the memory brings a bitter tear to my ancient eye.
I was visiting bonnie Motherwell (the dear Queen of the Valley)
About ten years ago with my eye candy "bird-of-the-moment",
Plump young Bessie McDougal, a striking peroxide blonde hunchback,
When we heard a demented shriek from a crowd of Catholic pilgrims
On their way back from prayer and fervent fasting at the grotto,
Wending their way through the drunk-strewn streets at closing time.
Merciful Heavens, they had spotted porky Bessie and (most tragically)
Had myopically mistaken her for a rare species of semi-extinct giant puffin
Because of the stylish semi-punk British Homes Stores clothes she favoured.
They grabbed her and dragged her off to the derelict car park
Behind the old Co-Op superstore, and I watched in helpless horror
As they erected a barbecue and (whilst it warmed to optimum temperature)
Trussed her up and spit-roasted her repeatedly in blatant contravention
Of a myriad of byelaws laid down by the vigilant North Lanarkshire Council.
And after the tremendous event (a Baltic bacchanale of bestiality)
Came to its grisly close, namely the feasting on her charred body,
I slunk away to the staggering luxury of the three-star ex-Hilton on the bypass
Where I was irritated to find my mini-bar had been burglarised yet again.
Dear God, the Clyde Valley will never see me ever again, no way.
Author notes
This is quite an early item in my earth-shattering "Memories" series of touristic tragedies which have so decimated my family and friends. I hope you have read all the others; many are nearly as good as this one.
