THE EPIC TALE OF ONE MAN’S HEAD TRANSPLANT

island gals

An extract from the autobiography of Twattersley Fromage OBE

One could be forgiven the assumption that for an adult male in his prime such as I was back then were to be marooned on a remote South Pacific island in the company of a host scantily clad beguiling dusky gals all chomping at the bit to utilize his manhood for full on sex with alarming regularity would be akin to a heaven on earth. Yet I can assure you it was nothing of the sort.

Best I explain.

You see back in forty four I found myself seconded to undertake a covert quest on behalf of King and country to relieve Japanese Emperor Hirohito of his treasured pet Dalmatian (disrespectfully named ‘Carruthers’ of all things) and at a stroke bring such shame upon the Japanese nation by revealing that their leader of supposed incarnate divinity couldn’t even keep hold of his own mutt then his military hierarchy would all fall upon their own swords and bingo the war in the Far East would end. Tactical brilliance British style its very self – couldn’t fail!

Sadly I never got to undertake said mission for regrettably on the day prior to setting off on the last leg of my journey, and whilst readying myself for the operation in Australia’s sub-tropical Northern Territory I had an altercation with the world’s largest reptile namely Saltwater Crocodile and I was effectively beheaded. For my part I was merely ensconced waterside, skimming through Lady Chatterley’s Lover seeking out the rude bits – a habit I picked up at prep school – when the wretched beast sneaked up on me and with one almighty chomp swallowed my body whole…one gulp! Almost beyond belief.  That it did not return for my bonce I can only put down to the fact that I had scoffed a garlic laden extra strong Ruby the night previous and that that had put it off a skull pudding.

Fortunately for me my loyal batman, a chap called Seymour Hare (he was in his later years to pen that bestseller ‘The Open Kimono’) upon overhearing the kerfuffle was able to rescue that rather crucial brain box of mine and with the aid of a handy goldfish bowl and an ample supply of white vinegar effectively pickle the orb that was all that was left of yours truly!  Good old Seymour also had the foresight to send a homing pigeon back to London with a ‘what the fuck should we do?’ message affixed thereon. Several days later the rather knackered out columbidae arrived back with a directive that all would be well as some nutty professor type in California had recently overcome the attachment of spinal cords issue and was more than prepared to transplant my head upon that of a recently deceased donor body. Better still I would apparently have a choice of any number of bodies to take as my own! Even though the vinegar was stinging my eyes and muffling my hearing what with ‘me’ being immersed thus in the goldfish bowl this good news came as a great relief – indeed I had already begun to think specifications and additional features over and above those I had been originally blessed…you know…muscular biceps…the sort of appendage that could get me a job in a fairground should the need ever arise…stuff like that.  But first we had to get to California and with some haste as the acidity of the vinegar had begun to play havoc with my lug holes.

Next day I handed over – as it were – the piloting of my trusty Lysander to some Aussie chap who looked the worse for drink and we set off. However said Aussie had quite forgotten to refuel my aircraft the idiot.  In the middle of nowhere over the South Pacific the engine spat out its first, ‘running on empty futt’. Luckily from my vantage point within my see through glorified carafe I spotted a small island encased in a triangular barrier reef boasting what were the most incredible lagoons not that far ahead of our current position. Plainly I gurgled this information to silly bollocks the pilot who paid it little heed.

Not long after we belly flopped about half a mile from terra firma.  Setting me in the sea to float on an incoming tide my companion took it upon himself to swim ahead. In an instant the poor chap was at the epicentre of a circle of crazed sharks who did for him there and then. That left me floating alone but at least en route to safety of a sort.

Within the hour I was washed up upon the beach and looking around – a rather easy thing to do in my goldfish bowl pied-à-terre – I must say that at first glance I truly believed I had found a paradise; an aquamarine sea and adjacent to the beach a forest of swaying palm trees. Better still from out of the forest and running toward me at pace, all smiles and giggles came at least two dozen brace of bouncing young breasts. That thereafter this group of gorgeous gals sporting such prized assets and clearly marvelling at my state of being were to carry me with great care inland to their village haven.

Once within the village I was placed upon a throne fashioned of bamboo next to a russet goddess clad in only a short grass skirt thingy, who with a smattering of English she had picked from her days at Ethel Murphy’s Finishing School for Polynesian Tuna Gutters in East London’s Mile End Road told me that she was the Queen of said island.  Furthermore she advised that the island was only inhabited by those of the fairer sex as, long since their menfolk had left en masse for New Zealand to make up the numbers for the national rugger team! Always did have those Kiwi’s down as cheating bastards and now I’d got it from the mare’s mouth so to speak!

Also I got to learn from Queenie that as she was now the one who cracked the whip (that phrase still stirs my very loins even to this day) she had determined that the next adult male to be stranded upon her fair shores would be called upon to do a spot of repopulation and that had I not had a major deficiency  – what with me being effectively being just a ‘head’ – I would most certainly have been the chap the gals had been looking forward to having slip them one…their own Robinson Crusoe with benefits!

“I say Your Madge I am off to California asap to be reconnected to a body so if you and your gals can hold on a cock longer I’ll make damn sure I return and service the lot of you…I assure you it will be no trouble at all,” I said in a vinegary splutter.

“Really Twattersley, really are you sure you don’t mind…I mean I feel ever so awful putting you to such inconvenience…I mean I don’t want you to think you’re just being used or taken advantage of or anything…gals tell Twattersley just how grateful you’ll all be to have him impregnate you all.” With that a circlet of ambrosial and ‘in the altogether’ beauties sniggered their accord.

“Of course I don’t mind…obviously I have to force myself but in your tragic circumstances I’m only too pleased to offer assistance in this time of need.”

“Anyway you were saying earlier that without transport you were a little bolloxed as to how to get to California.”

“How very true Your Madge.”

“Well I’ve had a spiffing idea in that regard. We can simply put you in the sea when the tide’s going out and the Trade Winds will no doubt float you all the to America.”

“What a blindingly sound plan…I must make haste.”

And so it was that 8 months later I was washed ashore on Laguna Beach, California. Fortunately I had had the foresight to have Queenie scratch a note into the glass of my goldfish bowl regarding the now pressing transplant business so that when a somewhat taken aback local surfer type Yank did stumble upon me I knew all would be well. That the surgeon even allowed me to fashion a new body from a selection of the recently deceased was even better and I felt sure my Polynesian stunners would be…how shall I put it…suitably impressed!

As soon as I was whole again I was off quicker than a bride’s panties back to the island paradise in a Curtiss SC Seahawk seaplane (courtesy of the US air force no less) for a bit of prolonged procreation…hard work I know but needs must when the devil drives.

Imagine my dismay then only to arrive and find each and every gal wandering about the place heavily pregnant and, worse still my batman Seymour Hare supine in a hammock hung twixt two palms smoking a cigar, a smug look upon his face and clearly as happy as a puppy with two pricks.

“You bastard, this was my gig and now you’ve ruined it…I was so looking forward to rising to this occasion…so to speak…you utter, utter bastard.”

“Sorry Sir…I honestly thought you were a goner. After the wreckage of your plane was washed up I tracked your movements across the ocean and started a search island by island. Arriving here the Queen…what an adorable girl and she is a bit of a go’er to boot…”

“I don’t even want to know that bit!”

“Well anyway she told me she’d set you to sea on the outgoing tide and all that and I concluded you’d never make the journey alive or if you did you’d not return in one piece…I mean it has been nearly 9 months hasn’t it. Whatever, it was then that the gals begged me to stay and as you can see I’ve put myself about a bit…did get a bit tiring toward the end I must say…I was boss-eyed and had developed a tic for a few days after clubbing the last of the bevvy yet sometimes in life one has to go that extra mile doesn’t one?  You don’t fancy doing bit of midwifery over the next few weeks do you only I could do with a hand?”

“Piss off…I’m heading back to Blighty”

It was thus that I hitched a ride home atop a giant turtle a broken man.

A CHECKMATE DISPOSITION

THINKER

Lost in a foetus dream first remembered then forfeited

as a still born into the abyss of erased forget me nots

As is his want he ambles toward his hideaway of volition
cursing his checkmate disposition, yet unable to configure ‘How so?’

By and by over an expresso too many and nicotine too little
a garish tabloid headline triggers the homecoming of rationale

‘You hate America’s brash materialism
The bumptious pomposity of the British
And your perceived view of loose morals
Within those realms counted as Western
You fashion words, enact the foulest deeds
Ride on the back of a God you name as the
Same one your brothers and sisters in their
Droves know not at all; have never known

As wayward loose iron filings to a magnet
Your pubescent numbers inexplicably swell
Your target innocents suffer rape, mutilation
Abominable death you justify as token punishment
Thus furthering a cause beyond all perspicacity
Granting as your own the blessing of echoing your God
You make sons and daughters suffer so for the
Crimes you determine their ancestors committed
The idiocy of playing both judge and jury lost on you
The feral ones tangled in the faraway maze of blind faith ’

With meagre thoughts thought it is only then this thankful misanthrope
is able to think how fortunate he is that no God claims him and that he
will never lie down upon the piss stained mattress of the compassionless

THAT FATEFUL LAST GOODBYE

ella

The egotistical politician

On the payroll of the condemned

Chews the fat with war heroes

And life’s victims on the mend

 

Imprisoned yet not in prison

The proletariat they sit and wait

For flawed Karl’s reincarnation

Which will seal the bourgeoisies’ fate

 

Hapless victims in the desert

So tortuously displayed

By a generation moulded of shame

On a crusade to degrade

 

Punk’s Godfather plays the riff of pain

Composed when sleeping rough

Scroll forward forty years or more

He’d still not had enough

 

To tear him from the shackles

Of the needle and the line

He never traded his art for fare

When up there on cloud nine

 

The bitter downfall of the Shepherd

Best keep secret, best left untold

The mythical trumps the actual

For now put the truth on hold

 

Little Sparrow she would chirp to me

On the Boulevard Voltaire

She sang a song of affirmation

As a message not a prayer

 

Life had always fazed her

She took nothing in her stride

She claimed to have no regrets

Yet from front page news she’d hide

 

And every time First Lady Ella sang

That fateful last goodbye

I guessed she must be in the know

That love’s bond does not untie

 

Yet nothing else ever mattered

The Mighty Het proclaimed

To anyone who’d listen

With an open mind unrestrained

 

Little concerns the Ladies Man

Not going home nor aberrations

For in the blackness of the void

They take arrivals, not embarkations

 

HER MAJESTY’S ALL-COMERS NORTH POLE DANCING CHALICE

pole dancer

An extract from the autobiography of Twattersley Fromage MBE

When precariously perched within a bivouac upon a lake of melting ice as I was I really should not have let my mind dwell upon the authenticity (or otherwise) of the Queen of Sheba’s alleged cloven foot. Yet when one has been marooned thus over the long, dark and ever so bitter winter months with food stocks perilously low and skeletal wolves circling outside along with starving polar bears in abundance as far as the eye could see, a certain delirium takes hold.

It first dawned upon me that spring may have at last sprung when, upon waking just the day previous my arse was soaking wet as was the trusty old sleeping back that had seen me through many an adventure over the years. Initially I took the view my bladder must have given up the ghost whilst I was in the land of nod yet it was only as I stood to gather my senses and a quizzical grey seal’s head popped up from nowhere to have a look about the place that the enormity of my plight struck home. Suddenly it was clear as day that I had parked up upon what I had supposed a mere Artic plain yet in reality was no such thing in part or at all! Finding I had made camp on a fucking lake was all I needed; moreover I realized then and there I was down to my last tin of lentils and devoid of even a sheet of medicated Izal high gloss lavatory paper.

With all the mental and physical strength I could muster I told myself that I really must fashion an escape – after all I had a loving family back in Blighty depending upon my safe return with an epic tale to knock out into a best seller that should, as it had always done post previous expeditions, replenish our dwindling fortunes. Then there was my mistress to consider. Should I return a failure, a mere jibber who couldn’t even lay claim to being the inaugural claimant of the Her Majesty’s All-comers North Pole Dancing Chalice then the lovely, sweet and ever so sexy Svetlana likely would have nothing further to do with me.

I determined that should I head back south then all was lost; that it was better to meet my maker than face derision back in London – even worse I couldn’t countenance the ignominy of getting black balled out of the club.

As any Englishman would know there was only one thing for it and that thing was, as ‘Fanny’ Kemble, an actress whose company I had once enjoyed the pleasure of had penned, ‘Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, but onward, upward, till the goal ye win.’ Hopefully Svetlana didn’t count as a ‘sin’!

In short there was nothing else for it but to emulate Sister Ethel, an apprentice nun I also once had the ‘pleasure’ of in my teenage years who when The Thames at Henley froze over would for the sake of it always take the precaution of cartwheeling over the frozen river rather than risk her body weight cracking the ice and putting her very being at risk.  Thankfully having learned the technique from Sister Ethel (who always seemed to relish it so very much when I caught up with her) served me well as I was lakeside in an instant easily outpacing bears and wolves alike. A quick jog and I was as good as at the pole itself, yet in the near distance I was at odds to note a silhouette in what looked to be near naked female form swivelling about on a rod of sorts. Surely not…it couldn’t be…it was….bollocks, yes it was none other than my Svetlana pole dancing away like a good’un!

Upon spotting my arrival she simply carried on with her gyrations yet did deign to acknowledge me with the nod of one a tad puffed.

“Svetlana my dear just what do you think you’re playing at? Talk about stealing a chaps thunder!”

“Oh Twattersley you fool…you’ve been on the missing list for what seems like an age. Indeed I understand your own family have had you certified deceased and put your estate through probate, sold up and moved to the Antipodes. For my part I thought if you didn’t or couldn’t claim the Chalice as your own I might just as well claim it for my homeland of Romania – besides I can pole dance better than you, as Prince Vlad has pointed out already.”  

“Prince Vlad! Who is this Prince Vlad when he’s at home?”

“A very wealthy prince as it happens Twattersley…indeed you can meet him shortly as his helicopter should arrive any minute thus corroborating my claim to the prize and the fame and fortune that accompanies it…tell you what we’ll give you a lift out of here in the copter…it’s the very least I can do now that I have a new lover.”

“What you and this prince chappie are an item?”

“We certainly are Twattersley.”

Double bollocks! I got a lift home from the North Pole a broke and broken man.

SCAPEGOATS AND SAINTLY ONES

knife

fervent executioners assuming

a divine power of attorney

the beguiling promise of host of

‘Ready and up for it’ celestial virgins

sufficient enough consideration for

both scapegoats and saintly ones to

sign on the dotted line and unleash

havoc upon this widower planet deemed

to be the bull-headed focal point of

equivocal provenance reigning over the

erectile dysfunction of a wide blue yonder

yet all the time discounting that within this

ruminating species we belong to compassion

is cardinal and taking it upon themselves in lieu

of getting their leg across bounteous apparitions

an absolute supremacy that was never a codicil

cast in legendary revered stone tablet now or then

is pitiable to the extent that that our time here is

by our own scandalous gluttony running out is

perversely the most glorious thing

THE LLAMA OF ABANDONED MEMORIES

mikesteeden:

As ever this has missed a number of readers – I’ve checked a few and once again it is not there! Are WP trying rid themselves I wonder?

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

lama girl 12042015

In his later years he would tell whosoever cared to listen that the reason he came to settle upon this scabrous wrecking cape, the one that prods the North Atlantic to little avail was to seek his fortune out of kaolin and tin.  That that, long since, had not been the whole truth was lost to him in the befuddlement of old age.

These timeworn days of equivocal reminders pinned upon life’s groaning egress for safe keeping determined this one time logician now muddled desires with possibilities, fictions with exploits, pretty uniformed girls as something more than just his attentive carers.

That was until the day his new young maidservant took the view that the taking in of fresh sea air would do the old boy a power of good, after all he had barely left the confines of his study for an age and following weeks on end of…

View original 1,173 more words

THE LLAMA OF ABANDONED MEMORIES

lama girl 12042015

In his later years he would tell whosoever cared to listen that the reason he came to settle upon this scabrous wrecking cape, the one that prods the North Atlantic to little avail was to seek his fortune out of kaolin and tin.  That that, long since, had not been the whole truth was lost to him in the befuddlement of old age.

These timeworn days of equivocal reminders pinned upon life’s groaning egress for safe keeping determined this one time logician now muddled desires with possibilities, fictions with exploits, pretty uniformed girls as something more than just his attentive carers.

That was until the day his new young maidservant took the view that the taking in of fresh sea air would do the old boy a power of good, after all he had barely left the confines of his study for an age and following weeks on end of it raining cats and dogs the condescending sun had at last deigned to show its face. She decided and he offered no resistance that a ride in his wheelchair and a picnic atop the cliffs would be the order of the day.

Under the midday sun and several crustless cucumber sandwiches and a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc later he fell into the deepest sleep and dreamed his exclusive truth – the one that had been on the missing list all these decades gone.   

‘Philosophers rarely contradict themselves’ he used to espouse in his heyday always adding thereafter that, ‘Such is not the case with lovers for they can craft an Arcadia to share out of contradictions’. In short the true reason he had left London came flooding back to him.

That her pet named Jim was an almost domesticated llama never did deter her from taking him for his afternoon constitutional about the streets of Lambeth.  That young Arlecchina was as deaf as a post concerned her not, indeed gave her more time to think uninterrupted along the way. True she got funny looks from passers-by and likely a comment or two she could have picked up upon were she minded to lip read, yet Jim proved ever so useful when it came to carrying home any shopping. Furthermore she wove his wool also into the warmest of warm jumpers for winter and even the leash she walked him on was of twine rope made from Jim’s own coat. In point of fact Arlecchina adored the beast with just the one reservation namely that he had the propensity to spit at people who irritated him…a lot of people irritated Jim!

Whatever on this early spring morning albeit a chilly one what with the sharp easterly wind blowing, the delightful blue heavens cast sharp shadows and snuggly wrapped up all seemed well in her world. That thus far Jim had refrained from gobbing at any of the fine burghers of the borough was an unexpected bonus. As was her want her route took her from her Kennington home, mere courtyard garden and all, north toward leafy Gipsy Hill.

There are times when being lost in thought is not a good thing. There she was pondering the issue at hand, namely if sheep actually knew insomniacs count them in order to try to get some kip and what if they did? Would they take to mischievously scampering about their field of almost dreams to confuse when, not that she heard him of course; merely felt his presence, then spotted his shadow a fine figure of a suited and booted young gentleman bounded aside her matching her step for step from seemingly nowhere. “Penny for your thoughts,” his opening gambit.

Studiously ignored and now with his perplexed face in hers, “Why do you ignore me so?”

Apathetically she pointed to her lapel badge. Notwithstanding that the print thereon is tiny he reads, ‘I AM DEAF AND CANNOT HEAR A WORD YOU SAY. ALSO LIP READING BORES ME’.

With that and plainly unannounced he leaped his own height, summersaulted mid-air then crashed upon the pavement before her landing as if dead on impact. Jim the llama did not take kindly to this frisky young fellow’s cavorts and spat a baker’s dozen of spits upon his now prone body.  Arlecchina gave Jim a firm tap on the hooter by way of chastisement the net result of which was that Jim hung his head in shame although whether he meant it or not she could never really determine.

That the young man was the consummate trickster blessed with physical agility was lost on Arlecchina, yet looking at his still body she thought ‘what a handsome chap’.

For his part and from his feigned unconsciousness, his trademark devilment on hold for the moment he considered Arlecchina, albeit dressed a little scruffily was quite the most beautiful creature he had ever chanced upon and further, having always had an eye for a comely lass he now implemented that plan he had conjured on the hoof to gain her affections.

Arlecchina however was in a quandary. She quite properly considered she really ought to call for assistance for he had a deceased look about him yet concluded it may be best to check his breathing first. Tethering Jim to a lamppost she knelt with little grace down besides the possibly likeable, perhaps mort rogue although unbeknownst to her that he was holding his breath and placed a palm to his mouth. Nothing!

‘Crumbs’ she thought, then instinctively tried ‘The Kiss of Life’ as taught to by the nuns who had brought her up. Head tilted to one side reflectively she found herself first staring at the seemingly late jester then, snapping out of trance, consumed with guilt at the potential crucial moments lost was about to place her lips upon his whereupon Jim the llama broke loose from the ties that bind, butted Arlecchina aside and placed his own mouth to that of the young man whose face was instantly covered in slobber and spittle the shock of which raised him from his ostensibly comatose state of being.

Winking his right eye he said, “Sweet Jesus what on earth did you let him do that for…Lord knows what disease I might have caught from your rabid beast.”

Relieved that his state of being was now proven beyond doubt counterfeit Arlecchina once more pointed to her lapel badge and shook her head as she ushered rambunctious Jim away.

He could do nothing but see the subjectively funny side of the situation and laughed aloud which in turn and for reasons she could never quite put her finger on caused her to laugh also. Eye contact was made twixt the pair and in an instant both knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

He, as if in slow motion silently mouthed his own name “A…R…L…E…C…C…H…I…N…O… Arlecchino” and Arlecchina responded likewise.

The trio – you see the lama was to become part of the family – became inseparable. Yet life plays its random own tricks. The miracle that is childbirth is not without risk and it was during the sublime act that both mother and child died leaving Arlecchino crushed in heart, unable to ever again face the places, the backdrop, the lanes, the cafes even the musty smell of city and the flashbacks they triggered.

The maid was sat upon the grass when he awoke and never had a chance to wipe away the single tear that dribbled down Arlecchino cheek. Before opening his mouth to speak he cast his roving eye of yesteryear over the lovely girl, was struck by more than one innocent yet lustful ruminative craved to be new again. When he did speak he requested she buy him a lama when she was next in Truro.

That she never fulfilled this request was only because by the next day he had completely forgotten asking her to undertake the errand -completely forgotten his Arlecchina also.

A DOUBLE DOSE AND A RUNNY NOSE

mikesteeden:

Seems to have appeared on some ‘readers’ yet not others – something afoot at WP?

Originally posted on mikesteeden:

dining car

Whistles, au revoir doors slamming, ‘All aboard’ and clackety-clack

Budding swains musing upon the delights of whores and debutants

Feigning enchantment when introduced to gentry’s suitor seeking daughter

Nodding more than just approval at the factory owners buxom lass

Either way just mere hors d’oeuvres for the idle young treasures

Halcyon day’s arid couplings of the little else to do

A Grand Tour’s Gare de l’Est embarkation Milan bound

Acid tongues, wet wit, surreptitious glimpses and crocodile tears

Oysters, chocolate pudding, pink champagne and gravy stains in the restaurant coach

Sleeper cars, bunk hopping farces and found out flushed faces

The days when a misplaced carpet bag was the end of her world

Just what is a chap to do?

How soon a summer ends

Sergeant majors, whizz bangs, mustard gas, and sodden trenches

Artillery bombardments, a double dose and a runny nose

Muck and bullets very own immodest sepulchre…

View original 32 more words

A DOUBLE DOSE AND A RUNNY NOSE

dining car

Whistles, au revoir doors slamming, ‘All aboard’ and clackety-clack

Budding swains musing upon the delights of whores and debutants

Feigning enchantment when introduced to gentry’s suitor seeking daughter

Nodding more than just approval at the factory owners buxom lass

Either way just mere hors d’oeuvres for the idle young treasures

 

Halcyon day’s arid couplings of the little else to do

A Grand Tour’s Gare de l’Est embarkation Milan bound

Acid tongues, wet wit, surreptitious glimpses and crocodile tears

Oysters, chocolate pudding, pink champagne and gravy stains in the restaurant coach

Sleeper cars, bunk hopping farces and found out flushed faces

The days when a misplaced carpet bag was the end of her world

Just what is a chap to do?

 

How soon a summer ends

Sergeant majors, whizz bangs, mustard gas, and sodden trenches

Artillery bombardments, a double dose and a runny nose

Muck and bullets very own immodest sepulchre for torn pieces of mankind

‘Over the top’ upon a stagnant yet calamitous Western Front

In the not so safe hands of a God who forgot to look after his own sons

 

 

PEARL’S ABSOLUTELY SPIFFING PLAN!

PEARL

“Do you think you’ll ever marry?”

I asked of my precious Pearl

“I think you really ought you know

For you are a diamond of a girl”

 

“I’m not sure I’m ready for

A commitment marital

Not now, nor in the future

The prospect doesn’t interest me at all”

 

And there was me a thinking

An honest woman of her I would make

Yet alas her mind was made up

Capturing Pearl would be no piece of cake

 

It was thus I played my trump card

One I felt might be the clincher

And should it come to pass it worked

From any other suitors I would pinch her

 

“Oh Pearl, oh Pearl my dearest

For you are my one true love

Should you let me walk you down the aisle

Then I’ll place you above

 

All of the gals I’ve ever known

For none compare to you

And the way you fill your pretty frock

Quite leaves me in a stew

 

Besides I’ve inherited great riches

From my now deceased Mama

Plus an estate in the English Shires you know

As well as a Rolls Royce car”

 

At this my Pearl did contemplate

She took time out to think

Then looked me sweetly in the face

And with her good eye she threw me a wink

 

“Yes indeed I’ll marry you

Now your fortunes are on the up

Yet do not think for one tiny moment

You’ll get to sip from my loving cup

 

Certainly not in the boudoir

The lounge, nor in the shower

For there is no way on God’s earth

That of me you will deflower

 

Our relationship will remain platonic

And should you agree that’ll be your fate

Yes, you’ll have my hand in marriage

Until I divorce you for one half of your estate”

 

I found the terms that Pearl did offer

Both unfair and somewhat askew

So changing tack completely I said

“May I at least get but one jolly good screw?”

 

Pearl had herself another grand think

Then she did answer to me thus

“Give me 10 grand in crisp new notes

And you’ll get your shag without the fuss

 

Of engagement, stag nights, weddings

Honeymoons and such

For in reality I know your type

And it is merely my body you desire to clutch”

 

“Have you been reading my mail?”

Was my swift riposte

Yet in hindsight Pearl’s plan was a spiffing one

And I would get the very thing I wanted most!

 

£10k is rather a lot mind!