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Denis Norden
  "It'll Be Alright On The Shite"


There's a saying in show business "Never work with children or animals". Well, there's a similar saying in literature which goes "Never work with poetry or short stories".

If you're one of those people who derives pleasure out of seeing poets making complete idiots of themselves then this collection of hilarious cock-ups is for you.

First, here's the original attempt by Kate to write that classic masterpiece "Arse".

Arse          Click here to see final take

The arse went parp
And turned yellow
And shat raspberries ...
Oh no! I can't believe it!
I meant to say strawberries.

Sometimes, when writing even the most serious poems, even the most professional of poets can get a sudden attack of the giggles. Just watch what happens when Mike attempts to write "When".

When          Click here to see final take

When skies are dark and clouds are grey,
When winds purloin ... pppppffff ... huh huh ...
(stifle) p-p-p-p-ha-ha-ha-haaaaa (gulp)
hee-hee-hee-heee-haw-haw-haaaawwww ...
oh ... har-har-har .. oh my gawd ...

Sometimes a poem can be destroyed by circumstances totally out of the poet's control. What can be more annoying than to be well into a really long poem only to have it interrupted by an ambulance passing at an inappropriate moment. The following poem, which is about the woman who runs the fish stall by Mike's old flat in Islington, was beset by so many of these types of problems that it never got completed.

Fish Monging

Deep in the heart of London town,
Where the sky is black and the streets are brown,
And the air is thick with the fumes of cars,
And the roads are lined with banks and bars,
And the people run 'cos their time is short,
With their mobiles on and their faces taut,
Deep in the heart of London fair,
A fishy smell pervades the air.

Just to one side of Upper Street,
Prepare yourselves for an awesome treat,
A woman whose stall is truly enthralling,
Despite the strong smell which is rather appalling.
A fish stall has she, in the heart of the city,
A stall filled with fish neither useful nor pretty,
She sits with these creatures by night and by day,
Just in case custom might wander her way.

"Buy my fresh fish!" you can hear her call out,
"My haddock is lovely and so is my trout!
Why not try whitebait or maybe some sild?
Oh buy my fresh fish it's been recently killed!"
Her words are drowned out by the sound of the cars,
And the people ignore her as they crawl from the bars,
No-one wants fish in the midst of the city,
They know that they're rancid and putrid and shitty.

The whelks are dishevelled, they've seen better times,
The mussels are brown with a thin layer of slime,
The prawns are as grey as a grey thing can be,
It's been several days since they last saw the sea.
A terrible odour hangs thick in the air,
Who in their right mind would buy stuff from there?
And who is the woman who owns this crap place?
Is she quite mad? Is she quite off her face?

Her name is Mad Gertrude, her story is sad,
She comes from the South coast, and she is quite mad.
Driven insane by a dose of the clap,
That she caught off some sailor she ensnared in her trap.
The clap it grew nasty, untreated and sore,
The puss smelled so bad as it dripped on the floor,
And soon all the locals were up their arms,
Wanting rid of mad Gertrude and her bad VD charms.

Now the seaside resort from where poor Gertrude hails,
Is as stinky as poo and as slimey as snails,
But nothing around there could cover the smell
Of Gertrude's fowl minge with it's odour from Hell.
So the locals met up to discuss Gertrude's fate,
Because her bad smell they had started to hate.
"Let's send her to London, it's a horrible place!
Where she can sell fish...

Ner-Nur Ner-Nur Ner-Nur Nur-Nur ...

Oh (bleep!) Where the (bleep!) did that (bleep!) come from?

Some of the disasters that can happen when writing a poem are just plain bizarre. I shall leave you with this take of "Great Fat Hairy Arseholes" where for no apparent reason a gerbil that was happily scurrying about in its cage across the room from Mike exploded in the middle of the poem.

Great Fat Hairy Arseholes          Click here to see final take

Great fat hairy arseholes looming in my face
They're everywhere I go and I think it's a disgrace.
No longer can I enjoy a nice stroll in the park
As people thrust their big fat arses at me for a lark.
And walking down the high street no longer gives me joy
For perhaps a dozen arses will invariably annoy.
I have to close the curtains now for at my window pane
Will be pressed a row of arses even in the pouring rain.

And every single arsehole that does plague me in this way
Has got to be at least as fat as that of Robin Day,
And each one is as hairy as a vacuum cleaner bag
And wrinkly as a urine-stained octogenarian hag.
It wouldn't be so bad if they were cute and pert and pretty,
But all these arses that I get are fat and gross and shitty,


Jeeesus (bleep!) That (bleep!) gerbil just (bleep!) exploded!
I mean, what the (bleeeeeepppp!!)

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