32 COMIC POEMS written by jimmy bellamy



12 pints of beer.
15 pints of lager.
9 units of red wine.
25 glasses of shandy.
4 pints of ale.
8 pints of light.
19 units of whiskey.
And aged woman came over
And shouted that I
Was a “Walking off licence”.
A year ago, we married.
Now we own a pub in the Cotswolds
Where we regularly cook and serve
Unfeasibly large Yorkshire puddings
To hordes of alcoholic children.
12 cups of tea.
80 cups of cocoa.
99 cups of Horlicks.
55 cups of water.
100 glasses of orange.
900 tumblers of vimto.
39 cups of cappuccino.
Into the pub recently, a girl,
Who couldn’t have been more than ten,
Came and asked for a baby.
We were both very keen to oblige.
Now she is the proud owner of a doll
That both sleeps and wets its nappy.
Also, the doll regularly reads the Bible.
30 cups of chocolate.
85 cups of ovaltine.
56 cups of gravy.
200 goblets of lemonade.
1000 glasses of cola.
1100 goblets of root beer.
30 billion glasses of cream.
Both my wife and I
Spend weekends in the city.
Both of us use sex aids
And both of us aliases.
We are often incestuous together.
My wife says my mother was a freemason.
I say her father was a potato-peeler salesman.
67 cups of rose water.
77 cups of tango.
889 glasses of carbonated sugar.
54 glasses of lemonade.
9 eighths of a glass of butter.
12 fifths of a cup of fire.
25 ninths of a glass of brandy.
The pub my wife and I own
Is becoming hard to manage.
Only last week, a flock of angels
Gate-crashed their way inside
And devoured all of the ploughman’s platters.
They truly took their time to leave.
In the end, they emptied fruit machines.
86 pints of beer.
99 pints of ale.
1 trillion pints of light.
2 zillion units of whiskey.
900 glasses of shandy.
98 tumblers of vodka and lime.
My wife and I are separating.
We have decided to burn down the house.
We are going to lease the pub
To a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
My wife is joining Gamblers’ Anonymous.
I am joining a figure-skating team.
We are both intensely sure
That our unfeasibly large Yorkshire puddings
Will be missed by alcoholic children everywhere.


Copyright JDB 1997.



Just begin to see the differences between you and me:
you are a wholesome girl, all curls and navy-knickered graces,
while i am simply some boxer-briefed candodler from the
flagging factory floor
whose beer intake is larger than the averagy Viking Father
and whose belly breeds insights into liposuction history.

Don't you recall that night in the topmost world when
all the boys were ingesting Enid Blyton, while I
was eagerly perusing a muddied copy of "Rifle Enthusiast
Weekly? Can't you even try to see that, while you sip a hot
saucerful of silkcut semiskimmed, i get blotto on a flask of
hombrewed scrotum ale, and

Seldom awake in the morning without a fully detachable,
multisurfaced, man-made patent hangover?
Christ, sweet child, it's time to get going, time to
play a Leonard Cohen LP while devouring a dish of Death by
Chocolate. Don't you see that this glass elevator we now stand in
is just about ready to break the revolting rhymes

of Roald Dahl's heart? Hell,
i doubt you'll ever really know just how different
our backgrounds are - even if you work in
the woolmills of medieval Stoke Newington,
you'll never really know

Copyright JDB 1997.
A TRAGIC CHILDHOOD? (after Max Wall?)

I had a terribly tragic childhood- at the tender age of six, I lost
both of my parents, the dog, the cat,
my sister, my brother, all four of my cousins,
my godparents, my grandparents, my pet spider, my bike,
my favourite nursery nurse, my wife,
my earth and all of my favourite stars,
and even the contents of the cookie-jar,
my sun, my moon, my birth, my sky
and even the pupils in both of my eyes. GODDAMN!
what a game of cards that was....

Copyright JDB 1997.


my name is Magnus Microwave.
i came into this world as a test-tube baby.
my star-sign is "Pyrex".
these days, i spend my time suspended under glass.

often, i wish i could
smash my way out of this world,
but the truth is that my life
must remain under glass
for as long as it takes to find my mortal mother.

just the other day, i saw a beggar with a mobile phone.
he told me that he was a test-tube baby also.
when i asked him if he could afford a mobile phone,
he said that his investments in plexiglass
had made him an absolute mint.

and so it is that i wonder why
life is so very strange
and to drinking from a range of perspex cups
and glasses.

surely it is good to be alive, but with a star-sign like "Pyrex",
i just keep burning my fingers
on the very epicentre of my oven-ready soul.


Copyright JDB 1997



i like wearing pyjamas in public
the nefarious pleasure i get
from swaggering into town
in my baggy night-things
is impossible to truly define.

often, i am picked up
by overconcerned health workers
who choose to proclaim me senile and in need of putting away
for wandering down precincts
in unsuitably outmoded night-attire.

one day, i have decided,
i shall set out for work in a transparent night-gown
maybe then i shall be arrested for being
outrageously sexy before my time
and shall be sentenced to star in a peepshow of my choice.

perhaps it is a tad foolish to wish
for such a risque life - but i forever have to remember
the words my mother said to me-
"Always, son," she said,
"Always incite the public".


Copyright JDB 1997



On the evening of the Knickerless Bipartisan General
Viagra-by-Niagra, Stars-and-Stripes election,
I chose to stand as a body-stockinged candidate
for the Erection-by-Defection Sexismo Party.

That day, i wandered the rain-hosed streets
In fully compartmentalised suspenders and bra
While blowing on a gusset-shaped kazoo
And handing out loused propaganda on Michael Foot.

At the ballot-box, I was struck by a three-line whip,
And many were the members that rallied there,
And once the votes were cast, a finger buffet was held
For every aspiring slack-rod in the potenate community.

And when the results were announced and the
Winning party named, we did a feathered fan-dance
And pranced beneath red rain, and flapped our mason-aprons for
The betterment of Man, and even for the stalags in East Germany.

So it is that I sit in close-cut rubber
And in wind my eager daytimes down in a thong that truly twangs,
and as the nights close in on my game as party darling,
i write these risque words and read Das Kapital
And pay the savage cost of politicised prolonged puberty.


I said to our Emperor
Augustus Dustus Caesar,
"Plug-in the television - it's time for the match."
He informed me, however,
That electricity hadn't been invented yet.

Later, I attended in the night
The throwing of the Christians to the lions.
I said to our Emperor, Augustus Dustus Caesar,
"This scene could make a good ad for Coca-Cola."
The Emperor then told me that Coca-Cola
Had yet to be created.

So it was that I went to catch
A galley ship to England.
I thought as little while, then said
To one of my mates, "It'd be easier
To catch a passing hovercraft -
Then we'd be there in under half the time."

And it was suddenly then
That my mate turned and said to me,
"Don't you know? The hovercraft
won't exist for thought for a little while, then said

To one of my mates, "It'd be easier
To catch a passing hovercraft -
Then we'd be there in under half the time."

And it was suddenly then
That my mate turned and said to me,
"Don't you know? The hovercraft
Won't exist for
Another two thousand years."
And then i shut my mouth.

Copyright jdb 1998.



January 1st: beaten up by quakers
February 2nd: mugged by mahatma gandhi
March 3rd: battered by a horde of buddhists.
April 4th: maimed by jehovah's witnesses.
May 5th: torn apart by tortoises.
June 6th: routed by a lettuce leaf.
and, indeed, the rest of the year was awful.
in retrospect, i suppose i should have declared war
on a whole host of flower arrangers.


Copyright jdb 1998.



He lives in occult city with a yogurt for a wife
and as he does his duty, his weapons pay the price,
and when she needs attention, he sits with thighs apart
and mourns the death of Kennedy
as Lucia breaks apart.

His life is put together
by a nymph from MFI; nor does his eye for pleasure
give up the ghost, as screens, sky-high,
sniff cycle-seats in Oxford
that some boney bint left far behind
when shaving their legs for leisure
in the middle of a cystic grind.

So it is that the vows of giving
bleat blindly at a menstrual wall
and flop in a film of sperm-innings
that shrieks like a pair of balls;
and, as he takes His siesta
from the centre of a school-girl's eye,
he showers like a star in Fiesta
whose wickedness hangs like spies.

And he lives in occult city with a yogurt for a wife,
and tomorrow he's flying to Paris
with a joker named Jesus Christ.


copyright jdb 1998.




..first, a motor roller & then a brother's bower
next, a starry miner digging into flour
next, a mug of milk & then a mother's power
first, a nest of rilks & the oceans in a bower
next, a coca-cola & then a garden tower

first a wall of china but then a nice vagina?



JDB 2005.



Matthew smoked pot.
Mark abused cocaine.
Luke smoked skunk.
John took some heroin.
The Bible was written
In under half-an-hour.
Matthew's words were cool;
The others ' words were shining.
Matthew smoked pot.
Mark snorted cocaine.
Luke smoked skunk.
John took an extasy tablet.
The apostles grooved for hours,
Amid a pool of puke and syringes.
Once the music has stopped,
All four of them dropped some Acid.
Matthew saw the sun.
Mark saw the moon.
Luke saw his mother.
John had a vision of Jesus.
The party went on
Into and beyond the early hours.
A zillion apocryphal bookes were devised.
Nine trillion revelatory stories were conceived.
Matthew became a madman.
Mark became a student.
Luke became a biologist.
John became an osteopath.
The Bible was written
In under half-an-hour.
The Christian religion
Was destroyed in a nanosecond.
Matthew died of cancer.
Mark choked on vomit.
Luke got shot by fascists.
John got run over by a bus.


copyright jdb 1998.



Why do you wear those flares? Is it because your hipster's brain
Is resolutely locked on joinig druid heirs
Whos lentil-leaded tears are fuelled by soulfood beards
Whose ascent to joss-stick veganism's fabled?
Or is it perhaps that you're deceived by New Age dreamers
And their tarot-tongued faith-healing
In suburban, tofu-dentured climates,
Who, as they smoke the loo-brush of a life,
Cause the latest heart to fart like a tie-dyed angel?

Whatever your excuse, you do not fool me -
I can see right through your patchwork hair and your
Open-toed dictation to that bitch in office time
Who does nothing but read "Which" when she is off the line.
For you are one of those women who shall always come
To a crossroads in your life, when you shall grow
Overly fond of Ann Summer's dildo-parties and
All the paraphernalia of eating out
In high-class topless bars and naked restaurants.

Yes, child,
I can assuredly go on, but the chickpea truth is that you and I
Go back a very long way;
Go back to a time when bell-bottomed ravers
Wore satchels and lived beyond the sun.

Copyright JDB 1998.



Why do you work in that curtain mill? Perhaps it is a highly kinked
And carousing desire to marry a pair of venetian blinds, or
Maybe something distinctly more twisted and sad, like
A blind-folding obsession that has metamorphosed into a
Sexual belief that oriental swags are the only thing to care for?

I say that you and your saleswoman's charm
Are inextricably linked to peddlers and pimps, for you and that
Shutter-sundered smile, and your switchback, cul-de-sac'd
Crackerjack of a sales pitch are enough
To make the most noxious beggar puke and the wildest of call-girls

So now, sweet child, I am telling you to listen -
Remember that time when you and I went partying for rubber
Tupperware? The time when we fell into a surbitonic trance,
And never quite managed to peer above the sills
Of our very own two-bedroom flat in Finsbury Square?

Well, I've said my piece now, and it's up to you
To dig down deep for your haberdasher's scruples.
Then perhaps these curtains call heebeejeebees'll end?
Or perhaps not. Perhaps one day I'll meet you selling screws
Behind the counters in B&Q's.

Copyright JDB 1998.



Idly perusing the topmost shelf in my local newspaper store,
I came across an advert for "Chanel No. 5". The advert was
Positioned just above a picture of two double-jointed schoolgirls in a
Lesbotic pose; a pose that was coyly entitled , "Fanny by Gaslight."

Looking once more at the advert for "Chanel No, 5" I began to feud in
my mind over the Karma Sutra and the way in which it obliges young
Men to tie their testicular fibre into knots
For Tantric penetration.

It was then that I saw the light - that simple ad. for "Chanel No. 5"
Was nothing less than another example
Of publicly sullied purity paraded on the walls of gentleman's lava-
Tories or in two-up, two-down bedrooms, or in double-sided, sticky
Back plastic wallets whose openings are multifarious and amazing.

So it is that I am seated in front of a 1960s Pirelli Calendar
With a conveniently positioned jumbo display bottle
Filched from a badly managed Boots in Saffron Walden,
And in this state I ask myself why, in search for a surge of Buddhist
Karma, I am compelled, like Monroe before me,
To prostitute myself to a fraudulent scent sensation.

Copyright JDB 1998.


Shortly after the death of Marilyn Monroe,
a certain Mrs Mansfield set out to build
a "Monroe Soapbox"

This soapbox was constructed from disused barbiturates,
moreover, it was peroxide blonde in colour;
and, in fact, it even had an hourglass figure,
which made it rather hard to stand on.

Oddly enough, the "Monroe Soapbox" took off
and shortly engulfed the dissident world
as if it were only thing to speak from.

These days, though, when dissidents have all but gone,
the "Monroe Soapbox" has become a relic
in the corners of sex museums.

It has to be said that few people find it arousing.
How could they? after all, so many people used it
that it's lost all sex appeal.


When I first met you, you were in to collecting toothpaste.
It didn't matter who'd used the stuff, you said,
just as long as you could amass a whole drawer-load of tooth-
enhancing creams.

These days, you choose to collect old underarm deodorants.
I really can't say just how many times I've found
scented curly hairs in the jam.

So now is the time, child, to once more in earnest
to rethink your collecting aims. I suggest you go for something
absolutely simple, like tampons or used condoms,
or even the stoppers from inflatable dolls. But,

if you feel that you wish to strike a chord, well,
my suggestion is that you collect frozen sperm samples -
that way, you'll be a master-mistress of still-life, and,
more, a meadow-maiden in the sphere of virtual sex; and,

indeed, as time dies, your collection'll become
as valuable
as Damien Hirst's pickles.


She said she was happy with her wash.
She said she was happy
because even table-cloths
came out white as bones.

One day, she immersed each and every one
of her relatives in soapy water.
Her grandad came out caucasian; so too did her cousin;
moreover, her long dead mother
came out a shade of happy pantie pink.

Later, she sank her exhusband, he never quite became
accustomed to his new colour,
which was a cross between violent and red
and a psychotic shade of purple.
Often, people on the street would call him nasty names,
like "Nectarine," or "Venereal Mother".

Shortly after that, it came to pass
that the world itself was washed away
and the whole of creation was spin-dried
and hung outside in the rain.


The fact that you wear those scanty panties
doesn't particularly inspire me. No,
the truth is that I find your obsession with
reinforced steel-wool gussets
far more conducive to a fascination.

You see, from the moment we met, I was embroiled
in a cock-eyed fantasy about
those rust-proof camiknickers you wore;
and, sweet child, surely you must know
that rust-proof panties are a reverie to me

Who, as I lie abed of an evening, perpetually stare
at those nicotine stains on the ceiling,
pondering their proximity to menopausal sweats
and all the sanitised dreams
that such things dissolve.

So it is, girl, that the reason I truly love you
is solely because you are plainly a woman;
and, in fact, I am sorry, but if you ever choose
to throw those gussets into the fire,
I'd be obliged to bid goodbye to womanhood forever.


Why be a flasher? Did you maybe have
a knickerless fantasy fancy for a childhood?
Or maybe the fact is
that you were weaned on toad-in-the-hole,
or perhaps even pricked plums and bananas?

I'd say that you and your polished cream-horn
have paid their dues to society -
just see the way that farces are written about you,
with many a seedy courgette
wheedling its way into the centre-scene;

and even now, there goes a downtown vicar
dropping his dog-collared trousers
for the resolute surprise
of saveloy-strumpetting audiences.

Old man, please now begin to see
that flirty Gerty from No. 30
is nowhere to be seen. Can't you understand
that the glam-rock merkin you now wear
is utterly out of touch with virility?

Pah! When it al ravels out and comes to a pause,
you and your bouncing baubles
and your thong-donged didgeridoo
will surely come to an impasse in the mirror,
where, flaccid as a faggot,
you will see your blindworm grow
intom a centrespread in the pages of "Mother & Baby".


The instructions on the world-class football read,
"Moisten needle before inflating."

So it was that Petrov D'piffico,
central centreforward player for
"Five-a-side Profligations PLC"
entirely immersed his genitalia in water
for nine whole and frozen hours.

After this time, unfortunately, he found
that his one-time sizeable phallus
had shrunk to the size of a pea.

"Christ!" he cried, "Now I'll never survive
in the post-match showers."
And, indeed, this was evidently the case,
for, from then on,
Petrov D'Piffico was often seen on street-corners
clad absolutely in a new type of football strip -
a matching bodice and wire-framed bra
sewn together by Acrington Stanley.



When Al Capone died and went to Heaven
he was surprised to find St. Peter
was apparently his biggest fan.

"Al! Al! How's about showing us your weapon!?
shrilled Saint Pete
as he fell down to his knees.

So it was that Mr. Capone blushed purple
and shot the sickly saint through the head,
hoping beyond hope that the body wouldn't be found
as it hung amongst the many fucking clouds.

Unfortunately for Mr. Capone, God was all-seeing.
"That damed body'll block the pearly drains!" God boomed
as nasty Mr. Capone was exiled into cock-limbo.


Sir, just a little letter to let you know
that the position as "Automated Wash-Closet Cleaner"
has been well and truly filled.

Perhaps it was the extraordinary perks involved
that made this job so popular.
After all, who in their right mind would turn down
suck elementary tools-of-the-trade?
As you know, we even threw in a bionic loo-brush
and, indeed, a robotic "Toilet-suck".

Yes, Sir, this position was positively brimming
with wondrous special-effects -
something surely had noticed when applying.

We are, of course, sorry to let you down.
But, just for you, we are currently creating
a new vacancy in the penile conveyor-belt department.

If you'd like to attend to an interview for this position
please wear suitable space-aged clothes
and, of course, have all metallic fillings
removed before arrival.



travelling on the bakerloo (catching trains in the rain),
sidling onwards two by two, (it's madness underground).
there flows one man with a beard, here a girl in beaded gear.
(in dirtied sweaters they appear). undergraduates underground.

smoking whacky substances, (choking in urinal pits),
with burnt on hair, they pit their wits
with the city sounds.
subjugated, peasy brains, interpity student veins, (haversacks
of cheaprape pain). undergraduates underground.

there goes one with bags of time, (scooting-up, he's refined).
here's another oozing slime, (a parlatan defamed).
men with books and broken spines, (wafer thin, easy minds).
mobile menaces in rhyme. undergraduates underground.

late at night they come from pubs, (fluking-up, praised by god).
from the buildings on the hills, (learning places, always ill).
they exude their student will,
kissed as farts, bold as nails, (drowning in a glass of ale),
roundabouted, going stale. undergraduates underground.

they confess to one night stands, (beaten up, condoms bang).
and they writhe in broken cars, (eaten up, axles jar).
though they be our futures now, (pageless kids, Golden Boughs),
they begin the trends of power. undergraduates underground.

coughing up tubercular sums, (Camden markit bass and drum).
eating lentils off a bed, (carried off before they're wed).
standing with credential frowns,
poisily in paper crowns, (rawcous giggles in a mound),
they roll idly out of bounds. undergraduates underground.

plenty more where these came from!!


In 1977, when Elvis Presley died,
a dog called 'Old Shep' set up the 'Presley

This mad-cap movement called for bathrooms all over
to be fitted with "Presley wash-closets -
wash-closets emblazoned with portraits of the "King"
and, furthermore, with blue-sude coverings.

But Old Shep's movement never really took off.
In fact, all it achieved was a prototypical WC
which, years later, was so unique
that it appeared on the "Antiques Roadshow".


When, at the age of seventy-seven
Grandad John Glenn went into space,
He swiftly forgot to fasten his dentures
And watched them travel past his face,
And saw his walking-stick in rapture
As it flew up into the air
As if propelled by nuclear motors -
Indeed, Grandad Glennc was there
When, as he stepped from his shuttle,
His aches and pains blew quite away
And, entangling with space-metal,
Made his heartstrings young as day.
So it was, as stars crumbled,
Grandad Glenn flew round and smiled,
For he had cast his colostemy troubles
Into the depths of a spatial mile,
And, as NASA phoned him daily,
Grandad Glenn felt once again
As free as boys who sidle gaily
And wear music in their veins;
And when Grandad Glenn was clangered
On to the lunar surface crust,
The world could hear him clamour:
'That's one giant leap
For zimmers in the dust."


When you and I met, you were working in ice-cream,
I shall never forgot
those sherbert melbas, those strawberry cornets,
nor ever those cherry ices.

These days, you work in a fish-factory in Ipswich;
a factory that surely does no end of bad
to your reputation as a perfumed child.

Don't you see, when you ring talk-radio
and request a phone-in on mackerel-trawlers,
you imperil this old love affair of ours?

So it is that I must try to salvage
at least a little something from these fruitless times.
When we met, you were one with sensual sensations -
these days, I implore you at least a million times
to change your pantyhose, or I'm out of here.


Last week, I purchased a pair of thermal Y-fronts.
The wife said she'd always fancied men
Whose private bits were burnt before arousal.
When I'd put them on, those thermal smalls
Burned so bad as to knock me unconscious.

This week, the wife phones up "Damart"
And orders a pair of electrically heated long-johns.
Once they had arrived, I refused to wear them.
I told her that I was not at all happy
With the prospect of setting fire to our asbestos duvet.


On our first date, you and your ideal man
Would be an ironmonger. Somehow I couldn't imagine
Just how you would manage among the many hammers and nails
And molten pools of steel, nor
How you would ever accept the excess testosterone
That would doubtless flotsam around you.

So it is that I am asking you to reconsider your ideal man -
Perhaps a gender-bending cabby'd be
More pertinent? Or maybe a well-oiled Sparticus impersonator
Whose musculature is altogther
Suspiciously female?

Whatever, these days are days to conceive
Of a really sexless way to live. Just how
Baroness (Handbag) Thatcher shot to power
Is surely a cast-iron clue to the
Mystery of Major's manhood, and, indeed,

Just how Mister (Toothy) Blair
has taken over this dumb country
Must make you and I see that gendered sex
Is in neutral now. Today, it's politic to do it the Third Way
Don't you know?


She said she had "Scratchofannia." She said she had to scratch her
private parts both day and night for the rest of her life
until her nymphomania ended.
I soon got tired of her scratching. Shortly, I was psychotic with
weariness. One month, I spiked her nail-varnish
with a concoction of arsenic and acid. It wasn't long before her
genitalia died.
Bit by bit, her "Scratchofannia" subsided, and so it was that we never
made blue love again. I was ecstatic. Impotent as I was, the relief
was altogether impossible to explain.
Now I am a self-made eunuch in China Town. More often than not, I
serve chicken chou mien to a horde of middle-class pornographers.
Sometimes, I think of my past, but the thought of "Scratchofannia"
just cannot help but get in the way.
If I could start it over, I would not follow convention. This means that I
would not play with myself; neither would i read topshelf
publications. Secondly, I would not yearn to understand how
womankind often equates with nymphomania. Indeed, if I could
start it over, I would invest in antiquarian harems
whose rate of sex-interest fluctuated always, and never come to
Tany kind of clinch except in admittance fees for Red Indians
and police patrols on tricycles.
Next year, I am going around porn-Europe to order to penetrate the
red light areas. I am very sure I shall find compliance, and come home a
much better man. My ex-wife passed away last Tuesday. They say
she was poisoned by her puberty.


The fact that we name hurricanes after people
is beginning to make me nervous.

Maybe we'll spy "Hurricane Harry" joyriding on the M25 -
perhaps he'll take no hostages, perhaps he'll
end up with a multiply dislocated spine
in some cottage hospital in Tyne and Wear?

Or maybe one day we'll eyeball "Whirlwind Maria"
down the pub, sipping on a swift half of Malibu
while playing footsie with some juvenile delinquent
and piercing his pubic ego in every way?

Anyhow, all I'm saying is
that natural disasters do not deserve any kind of human name -
rather, they deserve some sort of death-camp decoration,
like a tattoo of a naked dead woman
involving herself in some noxious bestial game,
or some brand-mark depiction of the crucifixion
consoling itself with a sadomasochistic lucky charm.

Whatever, the next time a hurricane comes
and blasts your toupee into twelve trees,
just remember that "Tornado Tim"
had a troubled and difficult childhood -
a childhood he really had to leave behind
by becoming an act of God.


That remote controlled car you bought for the baby
has got me ruminating.

I have decided that I should like a remote controlled missus -
someone who'll move as if compelled by radiowaves
as she cooks and cleans, packs on her make-up
and sprawls across the four-poster of an evening.

With that in mind, I have opted to buy
a heat-controlled satellite dish -
that way, I'll always have the right to use
the all-too-female warmth of your body
as a catalyst for latterday sex technology.




If Ainsley Harriott weren't on television,
what would he be doing right now?
Probably battering old women on meringue street
or even frying the eyes of a passing infant - O!
I could go on, but the solemn truth is
that, as Ainsley sings a clueless song
and cooks up an array of canned carrot laughter,
he is just a step away
from roaming the streets while utterly flambed,
with a peeler in his pocket and an
electric moulinex wedged up his sleeve.
Christ! Surely it is so easy to see that 'Can't Cook, Won't Cook' is a
decoy for
a selection of starving rapists
whose only desire is to pulp up the public
while gestating wildly with a spatula
and soufleing the brains of champing senior citizens
whose taste-buds swell at the
first signs of Andrew's Liver Salts.
God damn! I could go on, but the Truth is that Mister Ainsley Harriott
and the whole gamut of his sous-chef pals
epitomise a conspiracy against clear thinking:
a conspiracy that starts with a boiled egg
and ends with a fully fledged doner kebab takeaway.
Man, I've said my piece now - how's about passing the salt cellar
somehow in this apoplectic direction?




Paid Copyright James Edward David Bellamy.



 plenty more where these came from.



posted 02/05/2022.