Photo by Naparazzi, Jan 2014; (Wikipedia)
Poor Joe Root,
he got a ‘peach’ and now he’s oot.
Someone’s * tweeted he’s not the ticket
and will be the shortest reigned captain in English cricket.
- someone called Adrian Murray ?? on Twitter
Might not be true – he (Joe) may redeem himself yet.
Since there was some discussion as to what the rules of
a clerihew should be, I consulted my friend, Matthew Francis
on the matter- of course, by clerihew:
talking about the clerihew…
must you only have a name in the first line,
or, is having more than that, in your opinion, fine?
I received this reply:
devotees of the clerihew art,
on the principles of E. C. Bentley.
So, feeling a sense of liberation, I give you today’s:
(David Beckham in the Royal Box, 28/6/14
by Brian Minkoff- London Pixels)
David Beckham, aka ‘Becks,’
you seemed a model for your sex,
but your alleged obsession to receive a gong,
may taint your after-shave with a lingering pong.
Inspired by the phrase : ‘A Chat- Up Line’
With apologies to Izaak Walton…
Some Booby Nymphs met two Woolly Buggers,
who threw out some Gold Nugget lures to them,
thinking they were Pale Evening Emergers,
ready for the Down ‘n Dirty Fiery.
Hey, Damsel Wiggle Nymphs! Rise to our bait!
Black Suspender Nymphs-you with the Pearl Butts!
But the Kick Ass damsels merely replied:
You think you are Irresistible Adams;
we are not interested in tackle.
We are not attracted by Double Humpy.
We don’t want to get into Deep Water
and especially not with Green-Arsed Wickhams.
Rat-faced McDougal there could lose Half Stone.
He wouldn’t know a Sofa Pillow from
his Tup’s Indispensible and talks Tosh.
I’d clearly prefer a Green Highlander
to a Flash Charlie with a Zonker.
You haven’t got a Grey Ghost of a Chance.
My boyfriend ain’t no Leckford Professor
but you are a Moose Turd compared to him.
I’m a Redhead Buzzer and my pal here
will confirm that I am called Red Diva,
so there’s no use in saying, Baby Doll,
do you fancy a Whisky then in Bradford?
You are out of your depth- we’re World Class Flies.
But the Spin Doctor, full of Blue Charm, said:
No, I’d have to be on Chartreuse Poppers
to take on a Little Devil like you.
My mate here is a Black Bullet Conehead,
so you’d better shut your Grizzly Hot Lips.
You might be a Beaded Belly temptress,
but, up close, I see you are wearing Spandex.
I will get my Missionary elsewhere
and doubtless before Moonlight Shadows fall.
Good luck, Dirty Egg-Sucking Dogs!
Cast off! We don’t need no Psycho Princes!
Caracas, cascaras, Cedula Id card, cowbell post, De Sousa, disambiguation, Eguie Castrillo, hip-hop, jam blocks, Maiquetia airport, One Direction, Sabian cymbal, Salsa, snare drum, Stars and Stripes, timbales, timpani, Tito Puente, Tower of David, windsurfer
(* get in the car, my friend!)
The secretary at Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil had typed a label
and was sticking it on an envelope. It read:
Hugo de Sousa
19 Chavez Road
As her brother was a keen windsurfer, she had read some
of his magazines and thought she recognised the name.
However, she rationalised that it must be a case for
disambiguation. De Sousa was a fairly common name. There
was a Portuguese footballer so-named and a bandmaster who
had written The Stars and Stripes and so, this must be yet another
of the tribe.
But, Dear Reader, you remember who Hugo is, don’t you?
Yes, he is/was the blood nephew of Great-Aunt Augusta,
whereas Gus was only an adopted nephew.
Snod had supplied the address, glad that Hugo had sent him
new contact details after his eviction from The Tower of David,
some months previously. The squatter had been able to rescue
his timbales, cowbell post and other percussive instruments,
without any of them sustaining damage. He would put the tools
of his trade in storage, as Mr Poskett had written to assure
him that the school had plenty of timpani and snare drums.
Hugo was to receive the largest portion from Great Aunt Augusta’s
will. Gus had paved the way for him to come over to St Birinus’ in order
to take up a temporary teaching post. The school would sponsor him,
but Gus would stand guarantor. Virginia, from the School Office, had
spent quite a bit of time researching work visas, restrictive foreign
exchange currency controls and Cedula ID cards. She was becoming
familiar with the girl on the end of the phone at The British Embassy,
Caracas. She received advice to the effect that Hugo should not take
more than 10,000 dollars out of the country, unless he declared it to
customs officials. He would need to remain calm as his flights may be
cancelled at short notice, or the price might increase rapidly. He should
pay for his flights in pounds sterling- the school would help with this-
and he should be discreet lest someone find out that he was going to
inherit some money. Kidnapping was a serious hazard. An armoured
car was the recommended transportation to Maiquetia Airport.
Until 1983, a child born to a British mother and a foreign father outside
the UK, had no claim to British citizenship. But, if Hugo registered and
paid £540, things might be arranged, eventually. Actually, the
extortionate admin. fee had been abolished, as of 2010, Virginia was
told subsequently. She now understood it to be £80.
The Willoughby twins, Castor and Pollux, were becoming excited. They
had been listening to Eguie Castrillo and Tito Puente, when most of the
rest of the class had been listening to One Direction. A new percussion
teacher was good news. They were keen to learn some Salsa, whereas
the other boys thought that was something to pour over salad. They
unwrapped their hickory timbale sticks, took out their mambo bells,
Sabian cymbals and cascaras and plagued their parents for jam blocks
and mounted tambourines.
Hugo and hip-hop were going to receive a wonderful welcome.
Banjo Paterson, billabong, Bluntschli, bogan, Djokovic, hoon, Kim Sears, Mcdonalds, Melbourne Park, Norman Brookes, NSW, Orange, Paul Hogan, poms, Pretty Beach NSW, quokka soccer, Rod Laver, roo, rutting stags, Sergius, swagman, terpsichorean, The Briars Homestead, Thomas the Tank Engine, Tony Wilding, Woy Woy
Woy Woy- not an exophoric reference to a Chinese conceptual artist, but
a heartfelt expression of anguish as to the reason you not been reading my
posts, possums. A girl just has to swan off to Pretty Beach etc and suddenly
all her readers droine away.
Well, I have been amassing verbal deloights for your delectation. I am now
attuned to the twangs of the Aussie lingo. A two year old approached me in
a play park in Orange, in a perfectly innocent, trusting way, not noted in
British kids since the Sixties, and proffered his Thomas the Tank Engine
toi, before revoking his intention and pronouncing very definitely, That’s
I was then privy to an eavesdropping from a sheila who was
discussing her boyfriend as she walked down the street in Mornington, Victoria:
It’s not that koind of relationship.
Everyone is moaning about the unusually bad summer here, with all the roine.
They should read the weather reported for the UK in The Doily Moil. Even the
commentary from Melbourne Park was punctuated with strangulated
phonological approval when players hit it on a doime.
As well as the accentual points, the idiomatic phrases are ripper too. Goodness
knows what That was right in the honey hole for him! means literally, though
the sentiment is not lost in translation. It would sit well in Kim Sears’ ‘potty’
Even Mcdonalds has an advertising slogan here which doesn’t sound remotely
American: More bang for your buck. It sounds like something Banjo Paterson’s
terpsichorean swagman could have uttered by a billabong, or an ejaculation
by Paul Hogan, who might brandish a roo in a bap and pronounce emphatically:
Now that’s a burger!
No, Candia didn’t enter the hallowed grounds in Melbourne, but watched
Andy’s defeat on television, like the rest of you poms, whingeing or otherwise.
And, by the sound of the current meteorological reports, you have plenty to
He and Djokovic went at it like rutting stags, but the control of language by
the Serb reflected his greater mental restraint and focus.
(Now who does this remind me of?)
On this occasion, Sergius conquered Bluntschli.
How interesting was it for Candia today to stand on ground which reputedly
was once the tennis courts on which the first non-Briton to win Wimbledon
practised. Norman Brookes even won The Davis Cup in the USA, with Tony
Wilding and yet he warmed up on what was once a cattle station on this
Today the sacred spot is struggling lawn in front of The Briars Homestead,
whose grounds are now a Nature Conservancy Centre. I expect the expletive
was unheard of in this gracious residence, once upon a colonial toime. I doubt
Sir Norman was a cashed up bogan in pocket, or personal behaviour. Some of
the latter day sporting, or unsporting, hoons need to cease vocalising in the
parlance of those who indulge in activities such as quokka soccer. Return to
the days of Rod Laver and his self-disciplined behaviour and all will be foine.