Homage to Edward Lear by Simon R Gladdish

Homage to Edward Lear

Two Hundred and Twenty Libellous Limericks

By Simon R. Gladdish

Published by: Simon R. Gladdish
Gladpress
Swansea
SA9 2BS

© Copyright 2006
Simon R. Gladdish

The right of Simon R. Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,
copied or transmitted save with the written permission
or in accordance with the provisions of the
Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
First published in 2006

Dedicated to:

My much-missed mother, Enid
And father, Kenneth (fellow poet);
My brother, Matthew & his family,
My sister Sarah & her family
And last but never least.
My wife Rusty without whom
There would have been nothing.

gladpress@yahoo.com

Foreword

I was introduced to limericks by my poet father when I was about seven and immediately became hooked. When I was eleven, our English class held a limerick competition and our table won. I don’t even remember the teacher’s name but I do remember that she was young and attractive. Our winning limericks went as follows:

There was a young lady called Winnie
Who was always wearing a mini.
One day in a taxi
She changed into a maxi
Which she’d bought at a shop for a guinea.

An American boy (oh so Yankee)
Was often considered quite cranky.
He had a queer brain
Switched off at the main
But never-the-less he was swanky!

I don’t claim for a nano-second that they are great limericks, though they aren’t at all bad for eleven-year-olds, but the astonishing thing is that I can still remember them verbatim thirty-seven years later. Limericks are natural mnemonics.

I attended a bog-standard comprehensive in Reading where blood flowed in the corridors and a significant proportion of the teachers retired early with nervous breakdowns. When I think of those brave men and women who managed to educate us against almost impossible odds, my heart still melts. I have been a teacher myself for the last twenty years but I was never in the same class as those who taught me. At school I learnt to speak Russian and French and even scraped into Oxford. May God bless them all!

I digress. Edward Lear invented the limerick and his are still among the best we have. Compared with his great contemporary Lewis Carroll, Lear is always going to come a close second but there is no denying the man’s genius and ‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat’ remains one of the most beautiful songs ever written.

I freely acknowledge my colossal debt to Edward Lear and whilst I was composing these limericks often felt his kindly shade hovering over me. Writing limericks isn’t quite as easy as it looks and this slim volume represents a couple of years’ work.
The overwhelming majority of these limericks are about real people. They know who they are!

Two Hundred and Twenty Libellous Limericks

There was an old fellow called Kenneth
Whose health was not quite at its zenith.
He finally conceded
An operation was needed
And now he is back playing tennith.

A small balding editor called Michael
Used to travel to work on a tricycle.
He thought his job was to publish
Post-modernist rubbish
Plus anything else he found likeable.

A Welsh Secretary named Ron
Was often espied on the common,
Cruising for sex
Then bouncing his cheques
And not telling the police what had gone on.

An American President called Clinton
Spent his summer vacation in Frinton.
He brought a japonica
Plus a picture of Monica
And prayed every night to saint Onan.

American President Bush
Was not lacking when shove came to push.
His plan of attack
Was to conquer Iraq
And control all the oil that would gush.

Saddam Hussein of Baghdad
Was regarded as evil and mad;
But this brutal dictator,
This sly alligator
Gave George Bush the worst nightmares he’d had.

Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld
Was constantly having his bum felt
By a handsome young aide
Dressed in leather and suede
Who smiled when he asked how his chum felt.

Prime minister Anthony Blair
Developed a lunatic stare.
It wouldn’t have mattered
Except he looked shattered
And was gradually losing his hair.

There was a young fireman called Donny
Who went out on strike for more money.
He denounced Gordon Brown
Till his own house burnt down
Which he didn’t find terribly funny.

A minister known as Buffoon
Started a war on the moon.
When asked to explain
His reasons again
Said ‘We had to invade before June’.

A woman named Sadie Street-Porter
Was rubbing her hands at the slaughter.
When we entered Iraq
She lay flat on her back
Seized by loud uncontrollable laughter.

There was an old lady named ‘Thatch’
Whom no politician could match.
A true-blue self-made woman
Who no one saw comin’
And nobody managed to catch!

There was an old lady called Maggie
Whose face was incredibly craggy.
Her eyes were dull stones
In a skull and cross-bones
And her skin was all scaly and scraggy.

There was a dictator called Putin
For whom murder was casually routine.
This pip-squeak and squirt
Would rip off his shirt
When out huntin’ or fishin’ or shootin’.

There was a politician called Blunkett
Who rolled Kimberley Quinn in a blanket.
In an effort to please her
He fast-tracked a visa
Which suddenly punctured his junket.

The French thought the future looked rosy
When they elected Nicolas Sarkozy
But President Bling
Liked to do his own thing
And with Carla he quickly got cosy.

A friend of Prime minister Tony
Was Italian boss Berlusconi.
With Sylvio paying
And His Tonyness praying,
Blair said ‘You’re more than a mate. You’re a crony!’

We now have Prime minister Gordon
Whom no one could describe as a moron
But his bumbling ways
And his dithering days
Have made him as brittle as boron.

There was a young princess called Di
Whose death left us wondering why.
She was so pretty
That all London City
Would watch her when she wandered by.

There was an old poet called Dylan
Who would screw any wench that was willin’.
Once the acme of passion
He’s now so out of fashion
You can pick up his stuff for a shillin’.

A middle-aged poet named Andy
Found becoming the Laureate handy.
It gave him the chance
To prattle and prance
And quaff the occasional shandy.

Meanwhile, taking pot-shots from his garrison
Was republican guard Tony Harrison.
Blank verse and rhyme
Unlike lemon and lime,
Do not lend themselves to comparison.

Motion’s predecessor Ted Hughes
Reached a point where he’d little to lose.
His life with Ms Plath
Incurred feminists’ wrath
Forcing him to become a recluse.

The aforementioned Sylvia Plath
Wrote all her best stuff in the bath.
Her life was so sad
’Cause she married a cad
But at least her first name wasn’t Cath.

There was a young woman named Kath
Who followed a feminist path.
She held very firm views
On what should happen to Hughes
Since her favourite poet was Plath.

There was an old fellow from Lewes
Who came close to blowing a fuse.
He couldn’t care less
If Plath’s life was a mess
Since his favourite poet was Hughes.

There was a young lady named Daisy
Who thought that the public were lazy
For not reading verse
Even when it was worse
Than the crud that’s produced by the crazy.

There was a young redhead named Peggy

Who was rather attractive and leggy.

She liked opera and rock

And the poetry of Blok

But her main entertainment was reggae.

A feminist poet named Duffy
Was widely considered a toughie.
For the Laureate tipped,
She was at the post pipped
But her ‘compo’ was more than enuffie.

There was an old poet called Seamus
Who woke up to find himself famous
But I’ve never once met
Anyone yet
Who can quote him without endless disclaimers.

A struggling poet called Gladdish
Was saddish and baddish and maddish.
The career that he chose
Meant his blood pressure rose
Till his face had the hue of a radish.

There was a young fellow called Fry
Whose I.Q. was incredibly high.
As his knowledge expanded
He found himself stranded
Behind the large desk at Q.I.

A literary genius called Orwell
Never worked out how to bore well
Although the slow osmosis
Of his tuberculosis
Gave the lie to his feeling ‘far more well.’

There was an old poet called Lear
Whose verse was remarkably queer.
His limericks scanned
And went largely as planned
But the last line was missing, I fear.

There was an old king with a beard
Who said ‘It is just as I feared!
From my crown to my chin
I’m as ugly as sin
And my eyebrows look seriously weird.’

There was a young lady of Ryde
Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied.
She walked with a limp
Like a crab or a shrimp.
Sadly, after a decade, she died.

There was an old man on a hill
Who seldom, if ever, stood still.
He said with a smile
As he vaulted a stile
‘Pleased to meet you. By the way, my name’s Bill.’

There was a young lady whose bonnet
Came untied when the birds sat upon it.
She cried ‘Bugger off!
I’m so sick of such stuff,’
As she poured out her tenth gin and tonic.

A young alcoholic named Holly
Was locally known for her folly.
A notorious lush,
She was daft as a brush
But at least she knew how to be jolly.

There was an old lady named Nelly
Whose feet were incredibly smelly.
When she took off her socks,
Her neighbours threw rocks,
Rotten fruit, eggs and raspberry jelly.

There was a young lady named Sue
Who never knew quite what to do.
In a terrible hurry
She ingested a curry
And spent the next day on the loo.

There was a young lady named Jane
Who liked to walk out in the rain.
Her husband said ‘Let
Me too get soaking wet
Before it all goes down the drain.’

There was a young lady named Tracey
Whose dress was decidedly lacy.
Men flew into a passion
At the sight of such fashion
And her love-life was terribly racy.

There was a young man called MacArthur
Who married a lady named Martha.
But he left her at last
When he found out her past –
For Martha was formerly Arthur.

There was a young fellow named Trevor
Who was not academically clever.
He failed his exams;
Now he’s butchering lambs
And claims that he’s happier than ever.

A Hammersmith baker named Phil
Dropped dead after making his will.
He left the lot
To his mistress called Dot
Who subsequently moved to Mill Hill.

A candlestick maker named Klein
Was brilliant at making them shine.
He worked in Berlin
With his kith and his kin
And perished aged seventy-nine.

There was an old fellow called Jeff
Who was rather dogmatic and deaf.
He swore white was black
And that forward was back
And that right was invariably left.

There was a young lady named Milly
Whose sartorial sense was quite silly.
She dressed in a sack
Painted scarlet and black
Whilst her knickers were bright green and frilly.

There was a young mum nicknamed ‘Molly’
Who needed a pretty new brolly.
‘How about this?’
Said her son Aramis,
As he sawed off a branch of fresh holly.

There was a young lady named Laura
Who was a phenomenal snorer.
Her husband, called Jack,
Said ‘I’m not coming back
From my next visit to Tora Bora.’

There was a young lady named Kate
Whose heart was contorted by hate.
She hated her mother,
Her sister and brother,
Her uncle, her aunt and her mate.

There was an old fellow called Leakey
Whose purse was so tight it was creaky.
Though no king of spades
He was jack of all trades
Despite his stiff joints being squeaky.

There was a young fellow called Francis
Who enjoyed Young Conservative dances.
He hoped that the girls
(The Jocastas and Pearls)
Would improve his pathetic life-chances.

There was a young fellow called Tristan
Who was quite a handsome young man.
The fact he couldn’t dance
Was confirmed by a glance
But he looked good and sported a tan.

There was a young lady named Kim
Who was rather attractive and slim.
She had only one fault:
She was selfish and spoilt
And quite supernaturally dim.

There was a young man from Kamschatka
Whose moustache resembled wet cat fur.
He sat in his lounge
Seeing what he could scrounge
And his family all called him a fat cur.

There was a young dandy from France
Who invited young ladies to dance.
He was doing all right
Till one memorable night
He tripped over and fell on his lance.

There was a young lady named Mary
Whose baby was ugly and hairy.
She said ‘I don’t mind
That his face is so lined.
It’s just that his eyes are so scary!’

There was a young fellow from Torquay
Who never could find his front-door key.
Fortunately his wife
Had a very sharp knife
So he stabbed her and moved to Milwaukee.

There was an old fellow from Ealing
Who discovered his mistress was dealing.
Up he would not shut
Till she gave him a cut
And smeared most of his blood on the ceiling.

There was a young girl from Carnac
Who spent her life flat on her back.
She said ‘I’m so lazy,
It’s driving me crazy –
I think I’ll get up for a snack.’

There was an old man from Stavanger
Who was given to serious anger.
He’d grow purple and shout
And push people about
When anyone else dropped a clanger.

There was an old woman of Bangor
Who was prone to incontinent anger.
Things got so bad,
She was driven (half mad)
By the family vet to Stavanger.

There was a young girl from Devizes
Who had two hats different sizes.
One was a bonnet
With ribbons upon it;
The other was pink and won prizes.

There was an old person of Dover
Who thought he was living in clover.
He was bonking the maid
And his bills were all paid
Till one day a large bus ran him over.

There was an old roofer called Reg
Who spent most of his life on a ledge.
He said ‘I don’t mind.
I’m the rational kind,
But I’d sooner be earning a wedge.’

There was a young lady named Rusty
Whose hair was dishevelled and dusty;
So she hurried back home
To borrow a comb
Before it went crumbly and crusty.

There was a young artist from Smyrna
Who was an admirer of Turner.
After seeing a Titian,
He sank into depression
And decided to climb Anapurna.

There was an old man of Dundee
Who spent half of his life up a tree.
When asked why this was,
He answered ‘Because
It’s the only place I feel free.’

There was an old man of Coblenz
Who counted pounds, shillings and pence.
This miserable miser
Liked sporting a visor
As the glare from his coins was intense.

There was an old man of the Hague
Whose passing was awfully vague.
Doctors couldn’t answer
Whether it had been cancer
Or the terminal stages of plague.

There was a young lady from Wales
Whose favourite food was boiled snails.
She also liked frogs’ legs,
Locusts and snakes’ eggs
And fishes without fins or scales.

There was an old man of the South
Whose manners were rather uncouth;
Especially crude
Whilst consuming his food,
He would cram it all into his mouth.

There was an old man of the North
Whose favourite food was Scotch broth.
He would often be seen
With a monstrous tureen,
Straining it out through a cloth.

There was an old man of the East
Whose idea of a snack was a feast.
Turkey and tripe
And fresh fruit which was ripe
And bread made without any yeast.

There was an old man of the West
Who with food was completely obsessed.
After dining and lunching
He would carry on munching
Till he couldn’t remove his string vest.

There was a young lady from Hyde
Who couldn’t eat eggs boiled or fried.
‘You know, it’s so strange’ she said,
‘Even free-range’ she said,
‘Make me feel funny inside.’

There was a young general named Joe
Who never knew whether to go
Straight over the top
Or stop off at the shop
In the wind and the rain and the snow.

There was a young captain called Riadh
Who came home with a skunk that he’d speared.
He then cooked a stew
For the rest of the crew
Who agreed that it tasted quite weird.

I know a young lady named Sophie
Who one day will make a good trophy
Wife for some wealthy man
In the States or Japan,
Indeed anywhere other than Jersey.

I know a young lady called Hannah
Who is a meticulous planner.
She just can’t understand
Why some leave lives unplanned -
‘Be Prepared!’ are the words on her banner.

There was an old man of Nepal
Who broke his left leg in a fall.
His wife said ‘Fancy falling!
It’s frankly nepalling.
I warned you to get off that wall.’

There was an old man from Peru
Who constructed an aircraft which flew
Several feet
Till an ear-splitting bleat
Informed him he’d crashed on a ewe.

There was an old man from Cape Horn
Who spent his life feeling forlorn.
His psychiatrist said
‘Would you rather be dead?’
He said ‘No, I’m just sad I was born.’

There was an old poseur called Sean
Who spent his life mowing the lawn.
His wife, known as Debbie,
Had friends in Entebbe
And an uncle and aunt in Cape Horn.

A lanky young lady from Crete
Wore shoes which were shiny and neat.
She resembled a pylon
With stockings of nylon
And surprisingly small dainty feet.

There was an old person of Mold
Whose hands were alarmingly cold.
He said ‘Pass me those kittens,
I’ll use them as mittens;
With a wee bit of force, they should fold.’

There was a young fellow called Peter
Who fed all his coins in the meter.
He said ‘I’ve not chosen
To spend Christmas frozen’
As he kicked the crap out of the heater.

There was an old man of Quebec
In trouble right up to his neck.
He had paid many dollars
For his bow-ties and collars
With a bouncing and fraudulent cheque.

There was a young fellow named Dick
Whose neck was incredibly thick.
Of shirts he had plenty
In collar size twenty -
If he wore a nineteen he felt sick.

There was a young girl of Majorca
Who was an exceptional talker.
She rabbited on
Till the whole day was gone
And the moon hovered over Menorca.

There was an old man from Kilkenny
Whose name, I remember, was Benny.
As close as a clam,
He stuffed stale bread and jam
Which he’d bought at a shop for a penny.

There was a young teacher called Jenny
Who originally hailed from Kilkenny.
She wound up in Poole
Where she started a school
But her pupils were dull and not many.

There was an old Scotsman named Doug
Who had a strange face like a pug.
Pugnacious was he
To the umpteenth degree
And he slept all day long on a rug.

There was an old warlock of Rhodes
Whose familiars were poisonous toads.
He said ‘Stick a straw
In the animal’s maw
And blow hard till the bastard explodes.’

There was a young woman called Slattery
Who had a small win on the lottery.
She bought a new suit
Then got pissed as a newt
And spent the remainder on pottery.

A young girl named Susan Sinclair
Had beautiful, flowing fair hair.
I never quite knew
What she used for shampoo
But I know passers-by used to stare.

A young priest from old Buenos Aires
Was addicted to saying his prayers
Whilst walking the street,
The parishioners he’d meet
Would reward him with apples and pears.

There was a young fellow from Brest
Who succeeded in his driving test.
He seemed overjoyed
As he swerved to avoid
A brunette with a very large chest.

There was a young lady named Joan
Who took out a very large loan.
She soon lost her job
So she made a few bob
By conversing with men on the phone.

A woman from Trincomalee
Spent most of her life drinking tea.
When asked why ’twas so,
She replied ‘I don’t know
And it doesn’t much matter to me.’

There was a young man from Tanzania
Who suffered from megalomania.
He divorced his wife, Alice
Then built a huge palace
And called himself King of Albania.

There was a young man from Seattle
Who used to breed specialist cattle.
His herds were expensive
And so darned extensive,
He rounded them up with a rattle.

There was a young man from Brindisi
Who one day felt awfully queasy.
He spewed up his guts,
Tripe, diced carrot and nuts
And made it look frightfully easy.

There was an old fellow called Neil
Who wanted to do something real
But his heart began thumping
When he went bungee jumping
And he vomited up his last meal.

A woman from Bexhill-on-Sea
Was itching, one day, for a pee.
To a chorus of chants
She lowered her pants
And started to piss copiously.

There was an old college called Keble

Which admitted anyone who could scribble

Their name or the date

And now it’s too late

To padlock the gate on the rabble.

There was a young fellow from Leeds
Who swallowed a packet of seeds.
He shouted in grief:
‘I’ve sprouted a leaf,
Six shoots, fourteen roots and two weeds!’

There was a young lady called Gertie
Whose clothes were incredibly dirty.
She said ‘I’ll get clean
When my washing machine
Arrives this afternoon at four-thirty.’

There was a young student called Bertie
Who always arose at five-thirty.
He said ‘It’s a drag
That my sleeping-bag
Is so uncomfortable, threadbare and dirty!’

There was a young lady from Spain
Whose face was more ugly than plain.
Her brother said ‘Poor sis
She frightens the horses
And yet she’s incredibly vain.’

This very same lady from Spain
Used to cycle to work in the rain.
But the rain shrank her shirt,
Her sombrero and skirt
So these days she travels by train.

This unfortunate lady from Spain
Did little but moan and complain.
Always griping and groaning
Or indignantly ’phoning,
She became as well-known as John Wayne.

There was an old shrew called Winona
Who was a perpetual moaner.
Throughout her life
She caused so much strife
That she forced her family to disown her.

There is an old Wiccan called Wanda
Who has piebald hair like a panda.
Look, I don’t want to snitch,
Cause trouble or bitch
But the truth is I really can’t stand her.

Some of my best friends are women:
The fat and the thin and the slimmin’
But it’s a sad fact
That I’m often attacked
By one who’s less sweet than a lemon.

There was a young man from Havana
Who had an unfortunate manner;
Always shouting and screaming,
Cursing God and blaspheming
And threatening his dad with a spanner.

There was a young chap from Pembroke
Who was quite an ordinary bloke.
He had a slight lisp
Like a will o’ the wisp,
Ate potatoes and drank diet Coke.

There was an old fellow called Faf
Who dined every day at a caff
On sausage and beans
(Coz he couldn’t stand greens)
And was often mistaken for staff.

There was a young girl called Lorraine
Who found herself trapped on a train.
She tried to get off
At a town near Roscoff
But somehow got transported to Spain.

There was a young fellow named Ben
Who was a mountain amongst men.
When he was six
He was carrying bricks
And at seven his grandfather Ken.

There was a young fellow named Chris
Who liked giving the ladies a kiss.
A prince among men
Like his big brother Ben
He’s engaged to a pretty young miss.

There was a young wastrel named Benny
Who seldom had more than a penny.
From the time he awoke,
He was depressed and broke
And his girlfriends were not very many.

There was a young man from Messina
Who began an affair with the cleaner;
He had to manoeuvre
His way round the hoover
To suggest a more intimate arena.

There was a young man from Hong Kong
Whose tongue was exceedingly long.
He said ‘I don’t care
If the women all stare.
I don’t feel I’ve done anything wrong.’

In India where it’s so hot,
It generally rains not a jot
But every June
Descends the monsoon
Which causes the houses to rot.

There was a young man from Lahore
Whose family were dreadfully poor.
They owned only one cow
And had no idea how
They were going to breed any more.

There was a young man from Madras
Who was warned not to walk on the grass.
He returned an hour later
With his mater and pater
And all three crossed the grass on their ass.

There was a young drunk from Calcutta
Who examined the stars from the gutter.
He slurred ‘Unless someone’s lying,
That cluster’s Orion
And the Milky Way’s churning to butter.’

There was a young lady from China
Who wanted an agent to sign her.
She said ‘I can act.
I’m a model of tact
And learnt conjuring tricks on a liner.’

An avant-garde artist from Cairo
Begged to borrow his brother’s blue biro.
He kept it a week
Till it started to leak
After copying some abstracts by Miro.

There was a young man from Tibet
Who caught a mad dog in a net.
The authorities argued:
‘This beast is embargoed
And not suitable as a pet.’

A young Chinese man in Kentucky
Was feeling incredibly lucky.
So he put his last buck
On a horse named ‘Dick Duck’
And when it came last, shouted ‘Dlat!’

There was a young lady of Perth
Prone to low self-esteem and self worth.
She said to her shrink,
‘I’m fat, ugly and stink,’
Whilst her mother exploded with mirth.

There was an old man from Bridgewater
Who had an extraordinary daughter.
On farmland or fen,
She seduced most local men
And led them like lambs to the slaughter.

There was a young lady from Bude
Who liked to sunbathe in the nude.
But the sight of a cloud
Or a gathering crowd
Made her language unspeakably crude.

In the old town of Kingston on Hull
Where the weather is cloudy and dull,
There lived a tight sailor
Who felt quite a failure
As he followed the flight of a gull.

There was an old lady from Cowes
Who planted her seeds in neat rows.
But the very next day
They had vanished away,
Carried off by the ravens and crows.

There was a young man from Dolgellau
Who had a voluminous belly.
He said ‘I’m not fat.
I’m big-boned and that’s that.
Get the beers in! I’m watching the telly.’

There was an old person of Dorset
Who waddled around in a corset.
When asked why was this,
He replied ‘Im obese
But now I can neither stand nor sit.’

A struggling singer named Marilyn
Had a kid sister called Carolyn
Who though clumsy and small
And not at all musical
Would accompany her on the mandolin.

There was a young chap from Penzance
Who always had ants in his pants.
He couldn’t sit still
For a minute until
He came first at the rugby club dance.

There was a young lady called Bridget
Who was an incorrigible fidget.
Her friends cried ‘Keep still!’
Which she managed until
She again began drumming her digit.

There was an old soldier from Chester
Who allowed a slight flesh wound to fester.
‘If you don’t keep it clean,
You’ll develop gangrene,’
Warned his wife. He replied ‘Please don’t pester.’

An overweight woman from Reading
Wanted a memorable wedding.
Her imagination ran riot
So she went on a diet
And bragged of the weight she was shedding.

This much slimmer woman from Reading
Made plans for her perfect white wedding.
She sent invitations
To her friends and relations
And advised them to bring their own bedding.

This unfortunate woman from Reading
Had to cancel her wonderful wedding.
Her suntanned fiancé
Confessed he was gay
And for San Francisco was heading.

There was a young man from Manila
Whose favourite taste was vanilla.
A recurring dream
Was to gorge on ice-cream
Whilst reciting the poems of Schiller.

There was a young lady named Eda
Who was a phenomenal reader
Of poetry and prose
(Whatever she chose!)
And among all her friends was a leader.

There was an old hippy on Sark
Who liked to get up with the lark.
He would spend all day long
Just enjoying its song
As he aimlessly strolled round the park.

There was a young girl from Bordeaux
Who usually went with the flow.
Disliking confessions,
Her favourite expressions
Were ‘Peut-etre. Je ne sais pas. I don’t know.’

There is a French temptress named Eglantine
Who’s the prettiest girl that I’ve ever seen.
Je n’ai pas de fric
Mais je regarde le ‘Chic’ -
I’ll stop now before this becomes obscene!

An elderly woman from Rhyl
Trapped her arthritic hands in a till.
The till drawer was levered
But her fingers were severed
Leaving her feeling mortally ill.

There was a young lady from A
Who married her cousin called J.
They had a lovely daughter
Whom they baptised with water
After naming their pride and joy K.

There was an old fellow from D
Who married a woman named E.
They did what they could
But they weren’t very good
So they both ended up all at C.

There was a professor called Flew
Who knew that 4 equals twice 2.
He said with a sigh
‘Though if X equals Y
Then what the L happens to U?’

There is a verse form called the limerick
Which forces the poet five rhymes to pick.
Don’t think I’m complaining
(They’re quite entertaining)
But after a while you get sick of it.

A reclusive poet named Ed
Took Roget’s Thesaurus to bed.
Lewis Carroll inclined
To unburden his mind
By standing for hours on his head.

There was an old poet called Ed
Who’s now over a hundred years dead.
His verse was enduring,
Relaxed, reassuring,
Which is probably why he’s still read.

There was a young man from Swansea
Who would only eat Welsh cakes for tea.
I know this because
His girlfriend (called Ros)
Revealed it on prime-time TV.

There was a young man from Cardiff
Whose poodle jumped over a cliff.
She bounced like a ball
Till some rocks broke her fall
And then lay immobile and stiff.

There was a young songbird called Carys
Whose name was as Welsh as wild cherries
But one rainy day
She decamped to L.A.
Where the weather was better for tennis.

There was a young slapper from Skewen
Whose favourite activity was screwin’
But when I said ‘Hey!
Are you headin’ my way?’
She turned round and spat ‘Nothin’ doin’!’

There was an Archbishop called Rowan
Who said that the gap was still growing
Between the rich and the poor,
The ceiling and floor
And he hated the way things were going.

There was an old actor called Hopkins
Whose habit of stealing the napkins
He carried too far,
When this world-famous star
Presented them to Eileen Atkins.

There was an old actor called Cleese
Who enjoyed getting down on his knees
In summer or winter
(Despite the odd splinter)
To pray for ‘more money, Lord, please!’

There was an old actor named Palin
Whose favourite activity was sailin’.
With his mainsail unfurled
He discovered the world
Whilst throwing up over a railin’.

There was an old man from Edinburgh
Who turned a peculiar colour.
His friend said it was
Basically because
He’d been drinking faster than he could swallow.

There was a loan shark from Glasgow
Who thought it worth starting a row
About a slight debt
Run up with regret
Almost a lifetime ago.

The Chancellor enjoyed a good brunch
Of haggis, peas and credit crunch.
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch!’

There was an explorer called Sara
Who looked nothing like Scarlett O’Hara.
Her love of sand camels
Plus other strand mammals
Meant she spent her life in the Sahara.

There was a young lady named Enid
Who was so timid she usually hid
But she had a soul
That was pure, sweet and whole -
I know this because I’m her kid!

There was a young lady named Sarah;
A figure, than whom, few were fairer.
A benevolent sort,
She helped to support
Her brother – a penniless carer.

There was a young lady named Lydia
Whose favourite trick was to kid ya
She was your friend
But you knew in the end
She’d smirk ‘You didn’t believe me now, did ya?’

There was a young woman called Carla
Who began a new life in Australia.
She took an interesting route
(From religieuse to pute)
And all to the soundtrack of Mahler!

There was a young lady named Chris
(A voluptuous vision of bliss!)
A practical joker,
She was brilliant at poker
And generally taking the piss.

There was a young lady named Julie
Whose pubic hair was long and woolly.
The best she could do
Was hide it in her shoe
And use it to power her own pulley.

A middle-aged dancer called Beverley
Was choreographed rather cleverly.
As sharp as a pin
But alas, not as thin –
She sloped off to the can, panting heavily.

There was a young lady named Hilary
Whose favourite food was sliced celery.
Just like her mum Valerie
She counted each calorie
She permitted in every capillary.

There was a speed-skater named Begg
Who would only drink bitter on keg.
When asked why this was
She answered ‘Because
It gives me great strength in the leg.’

There was a young lady named Lucy
Whose jugs were incredibly juicy.
Although she got teased
Her husband was pleased
Saying ‘This is a sight far too few see!’

There was a young lady named Carol
Who liked her beer straight from the barrel.
In snug or saloon
She would sup a galloon
And then slowly remove her apparel.

There was an old widow called Mandy
Who often felt frightfully randy:-
‘A little while later
I’ll dig out my vibrator
But for now I’ll just have a hand shandy.’

There was a young lady named Vicki
Whose hands were incredibly sticky
So she’d wrap them in bandages
Whilst making her sandwiches
As doing the housework was tricky.

There was a young lady called Marty
Who was widely considered a smartie.
Atractive and dashin’
In the latest fashion,
She was always the first at a party.

There was a young rock star called Amy
Whose demeanour suggested ‘Please lay me!’
One of life’s mugs,
She got stuck on hard drugs
And now she just sounds rather samey.

There was a footballer called Wayne
Who was starting to suffer the strain
Of getting down on all fours
To service old whores
And being forced to employ his dull brain.

There was a footballer called Ian
Who made love to a siren named Rhian.
Said Rhian ‘That was great
But why did you wait
Till you thought you were getting a free ‘un?’

There was a young singer named Charlotte
Who led the louche life of a starlet.
Not frowning but waving
With her husband Gavin,
She could never be labelled a harlot.

There was a young chanteuse named Posh
Who used to enjoy getting sloshed
And then she would rave
With her husband called Dave
Who was superb at earning the dosh!

There was an old diva called Cher
Whose favourite fabric was fur
But more important than fashion
Was her attachment to passion
And the number of hearts she could stir.

There was an old slapper called Madge
Who’d acquired every T-shirt and badge
But her shrieks and her wails
Did not dent the sales
Of her albums or shots of her vag.

There was a young singer called Britney
(The Caucasian successor to Whitney.)
She caused a few snickers
By forgetting her knickers
And other events of that kidney.

There was a young airhead named Hilton
(Whom I suspect had never read Milton.)
An heiress was she
To the umpteenth degree
So pass the champagne and the Stilton!

A Hollywood starlet named Lindsay
Would have been of interest to Kinsey
Because one sunny day
She declared herself gay
Although some put it down to pure whimsy.

There was a young actress named Carmen
Who was pretty and sexy and charmin’
But it leaked out one day
She was probably gay
Which a few of her fans found alarmin’.

There was an old rocker called Jett
Who said to her friend Carmen ‘Let
Us bump and grind
Until we go blind
And your agent is starting to fret!’

There was a young model called Jordan
Whose detractors accused her of whoredom.
She’d paid a fortune to pump
Up her breasts and her rump
And didn’t do dullness or boredom.

There was a young lady named Jade
Who liked calling a shovel a spade.
As she stood on the jetty
Alongside Shilpa Shetty
She cried ‘Shelpa, my nerves are so frayed!’

There was an actress called Angelina
Whose body grew leaner and leaner.
She said ‘I feel sad.
Please make love to me, Brad,
And let’s christen the child Indo-China.’

There was an old rocker called Keith
Who fell out of a tree on his teeth
But thanks to the Virgin
And the skill of the surgeon
He won’t yet be needing a wreath!

There was an old rocker named Mick
Whose lips were so large he could lick
His whole body clean
From his arse to his spleen
But after he’d feel a bit sick.

There was an old rocker called Ronnie
Whose major concern was the money.
As thin as a rake,
He looked just like a snake
That had swallowed an innocent bunny.

There was an old drummer named Charlie
Whose favourite food was dried barley.
He sat on his bum
Double-bashing his drum
And looked a bit like Charlie Farley.

There was a young poet called Simon
Who was pretty clever at rhymin’.
He could rhyme lozenges
With objects like oranges
And hymen with names like Bill Wyman.

There was a young lady named Heather
Who didn’t depend on the weather
For doing her charity
And saving humanity
Whilst singing out loud ‘Come together!’

There was an old rocker called Macca
Whose attractive new wife was a cracker.
She could not sing or dance
But she spotted her chance
To relieve him of many a smacker.

There was an old drummer called Ringo
Who had the good looks of a dingo.
A man of few words,
He didn’t bother with birds
And spent his free time playing bingo.

There was an old beatle named John
Whose memory just goes on and on.
I remember the day
He was taken away
But his records still sell by the ton.

There was an old beatle called George
Who liked to spend time at the forge.
Though not too prolific,
His songs were terrific
And caused quite a lump in one’s gorge.

There was an old bluesman called Eric
Who enjoyed playing dominoes with Derek.
A drug-taking loony,
He chased Carla Bruni
And looked like an overpaid cleric.

An inveterate rocker named Rod
Believed himself a gift from God
To the fair sex
Though his withered old pecs
Resembled the fins on a cod.

There was an old rocker named Elton
Who performed with his braces and belt on
But he could still rock
Right round the croc -
I believe his next gig is in Melton.

There was a glam-rocker called Bowie
Who christened his baby son ‘Zowie’
But the lad changed his name
To something more tame
And was neither flamboyant nor showy.

There was a glam-rocker called Glitter
Whose name now occasions a titter.
Taking kids for a ride
Cost him three years inside
Which made him all twisted and bitter.

There was an old crooner called Cliff
Whose manhood just wouldn’t grow stiff.
He cried like Niagara
Till he tried some Viagra -
Now he’s under the doctor for syph!

There was an old crooner called Sting
Who insisted on doing ‘his thing’.
He tore off his keks
To perform tantric sex
And kept his ding-a-ling in a sling.

There was a newsreader named Alice
Who knew neither envy nor malice.
She made so much money
You won’t find it funny
That she lived in a mansion in Paris.

A sexy reporter named Romilly
Was prone to pronounce the odd homily
About the royal family
Whilst men (watching clammily)
Would shout ‘Hip hooray for the monarchy!’

There was a broadcaster called Kirsty
Who said she felt terribly thirsty
So she drank a wee dram
Plus a tequila slam
And found that she felt even worstie!

I’ve noticed that Daniel Day-Lewis
Would rather be greenish than blueish.
Although he might wish
He’d been born Oirish,
The simple fact is that he’s Jewish.

A man many dismissed as a yob
Was later revered as Saint Bob.
‘Look, Oi don’t foind it funny,
Just give us yer money!’
Was the mantra that shot from his gob.

There was a young rock star called Bono
Who was trying to save the world solo
But his self-righteous face
With his Ray Bans in place
Caused a collective cry of ‘Oh no!’

There was an evangelist named Todd
(A true emissary of God)
The stadium went quiet
Then erupted in riot
When he proclaimed the word of the Lord!

There was an old preacher called Joyce
Who had a stentorian voice.
It was so loud
That when she worked a crowd
She’d shout ‘Listen or leave. It’s your choice!’

There was a cross-dresser called Greville
Who had a young nephew named Neville.
‘Greville, Greville, you’ve torn your dress.
Greville, Greville, your face is a mess.’
Said Greville ‘Young Neville, you devil!’

There was a young editor named Matt

For whom Victorian Verse was old hat.

He preferred Avant-Garde,

Obscurantist and Hard

And held court in a Pimlico flat.

There was an eccentric called Mike
Who travelled the world on his trike.
He would only cease pedalling
To scream ‘Please stop meddling!’
At the demons controlling his psyche.

Afterword

About editors I’d like to speak
Who rub salt in the wounds of the weak.
Their evasions are agile,
Their egos are fragile
And their friends well-connected and sleek.

I’ve lost count of the manuscripts sent
To the Poetry Establishment
But because I’m unknown
To these ‘kings on their throne’
They bounce back like boomerangs, bashed and bent.

You petition these kings on their throne
But they won’t even throw you a bone.
Although you have kneeled,
They’re hermetically sealed
Inside, and you’re outside alone.

You pray for a wave of their wand
But a negligent shove of their hand
Makes you fight back the tears
As you count up the years
Since your dreams disappeared into sand.

They think that they’re doing so well
Though the poets they pick seldom sell.
If it wasn’t for us
Paying tax without fuss,
They’d all be on the highway to hell.

APHORISMS AFTER OSCAR: ORIGINAL APHORISMS BY SIMON R. GLADDISH

(‘The proper basis of marriage is a mutual misunderstanding’. Oscar Wilde)

Many mention Oscar’s wit but few praise his courage.

Oscar Wilde was far too clever for his own good.

Homosexuality adds to the gaiety of nations.

You can’t have your cake and eat it. That’s why it’s better to buy biscuits.

We live in an age where the court jester has become more important than the monarch.

Necessity is the smother of intention.

Brevity is the sole of wit but levity is the whole of it.

Alliteration is the lowest form of lit with assonance the higher half of it.

Every man has his vice.

Fortune favours the fortunate.

Familiarity breeds contentment.

Least read, soonest lended.

Only begin winnable wars and try not to fight on too many fronts simultaneously.

We know our neighbours well. We’ve got the scars to prove it.

Having good or bad neighbours is the difference between heaven and hell.

Sworn enemies meet in narrow streets.

The only useful advice my father ever gave me was  ‘Present a moving target and keep the buggers guessing.’

Don’t let the bastards wind you up!

A cyber spider is someone who spends their life on the world wide web.

Genius is relatively common. My gardener is one.

Geniuses often live in poverty and die in squalor. Their only recompense is immortality.

Baudelaire’s mother wished that he had been a nice well-adjusted boy who had never become a poet. Being the parent of a genius is seldom easy.

‘What’s it like living with a genius?’  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

People who always tell the truth usually lack imagination.

People who always lie usually lack moral fibre.

Some of my best friends are Americans.

Since the advent of colour, Hollywood films have become more black and white than ever.

In America the system is brutal but the people are kind. In Britain it’s the opposite.

To a certain extent we are hard-wired to be xenophobic. Historically strangers rarely represented good news.

Colonialism gets a bad rap these days but East Africa (to name only one region) was far better governed by the British than it has been since.

Gandhi said that self-government was more important than good government. He was wrong.

I hesitate to criticize Gandhi but unlike the pope, he was not infallible.

Perfectionists are admirable but impossible to live with.

She played the computer keyboard exquisitely.

She taught me Schubert, the trout.

I don’t really believe in organ transplantation. We tend to need most of the organs we’ve been given.

Everybody knocks marriage but where would we be without it?  Life without women would be unendurable.

Many so-called spouses are actually life-support systems.

Marriage is like learning the same lesson over and over again.

Men who can’t cook or keep house tend to get married.

Women who can’t cook or keep house tend to stay single.

Why keep a frog and croak yourself? (Zen haiku)

Working-class childhoods are often happier than middle-class ones.

I used to be religious but I’ve grown out of it, thank God.

Thank God also for Bertrand Russell and Richard Dawkins who have shown me the way, the truth and the light.

Life is a bowl of cherries. Stone me!

Heaven is a happy childhood.

The colours of heaven are burgundy, gold and green.

The colours of paradise are pink, white and blue.

Hell is inside ourselves.

The colours of hell are black, brown and crimson.

Time could be an illusion. It’s too early to say.

The turtle of time hurtles towards extinction.

The index finger of time points at nothing.

The adder of time slithers towards oblivion.

The javelin of time flies nowhere.

The arrow of time sits in the quiver of eternity.

Heaven exists – if only in Norway.

Hell exists – if only in Zimbabwe.

Angels exist – if only in Los Angeles.

Fairies exist – if only in San Francisco.

The devil exists – if only in Las Vegas.

Unicorns do not exist – except when one is really drunk.

UFO’s and extra-terrestrials exist. Successive US governments have expended considerable money and energy trying to conceal this fact.

Human beings were probably genetically engineered by aliens. The fossil record does not support a theory of evolution.

Humans know next to nothing. Socrates admitted that he knew nothing and we know far less than he did.

His ignorance was encyclopedic.

It is possible to be intelligent without being clever and vice versa.

We are, essentially, our brains. Everything else is secondary.

The human brain is the ultimate black box. We understand stars better than our own brains. Even simpletons have complex brains.

Pascal’s wager is still valid. If we believe in God and are wrong, we have lost nothing but if we don’t believe in God and are wrong, we are in deep trouble.

Golf is basically outdoor billiards on a grander scale.

Cricket is not a spectator sport.

Football: Hull stumbled but Newcastle fell.

When people love hunting, shooting, fishing and Formula One, you just know that they vote Conservative.

Labour MP’s fiddle their expenses for wide-screen TV’s; Tories for moats, swimming pools, tennis courts and helipads.

When a minority has so much and the majority have so little, you would need to be a moral cripple to believe that the status quo was remotely acceptable.

I prefer to live in a society where the strong help the weak rather than one in which they help to destroy them.

Those who believe in inequality are invariably on the right side of the equation.

One way to reduce global warming would be to ban Formula One plus all other petrol processions.

There is no activity so pointless that someone somewhere isn’t doing it.

I have found both Chinese and Western astrology to be true.

Reality is an illusion caused by corporations.

In Britain we are individually clever but collectively stupid which is why our grands projets usually fail and why London is so much uglier than Paris.

France is the most civilized nation on earth. Where else would you get a mandatory two-hour lunch-break?

When they enter a bar or a restaurant, the French generally say ‘Bonjour’ to everyone which immediately breaks the social ice.

The French are heavily into exhibitionism. Even their urinals are on public display.

It is amazing how many right-wing Britons have settled happily in France conveniently forgetting that it is, at heart, a socialist state.

It is astonishing how many famous writers have died in heir forties.  From Poe, Baudelaire and Maupassant to Bruce Chatwin and Douglas Adams, the list is endless.

A fascinating book could be written (preferably not by me) on the number of French writers who have succumbed to syphilis.

Fortunately condoms have now increased the average life-expectancy of French writers – at least those who ignore the advice of the pope.

The three countries that have contributed most to world literature are Britain, France and Russia.

Does War and Peace lose anything in translation?  Yes, incomprehensibility.

Britain is broke and broken whereas France is solvent and civilized. Yet in many ways Britain is still the more important country.

The archetypal city of the nineteenth century is Paris, of the twentieth, New York and of the twenty-first, Dubai.

Very few people are stupid where their own personal interests are concerned.

Consistency can be the hallmark of a narrow mind.

Inconsistency can be the hallmark of senility.

An original mind is a dangerous thing.

Terrorists have tiny minds.

One man’s terrorist is another man’s neighbour.

The aim of terrorism is to kill one and frighten a million. Because fear is highly contagious it is a surprisingly successful strategy.

It is far worse to lose your life to terrorism than to an avalanche or an earthquake. The latter are merely acts of God whereas the former reeks of human agency and human evil.

Bullies, like bad wines, don’t travel well and usually only manage to poison their local neighbourhoods.

Attempts to correct old injustices often simply create new ones.

Achieving a simple life is seldom easy and achieving an easy life is seldom simple.

We can all coin original cliches but even if accepted as legal tender, they soon become devalued.

I attended Oxbridge whereas my brother left school at fifteen with no qualifications. Guess who’s the millionaire? I’ll give you a clue – it’s not me.

Mantra of a self-made millionaire: School’s for fools and Uni’s for loonies.

Money doesn’t make you happy – so the rich constantly reassure us.

Mediocrities are generally much richer than geniuses.

Moderation never killed anyone but why take the risk?

If  I won the lottery I’d start working.

I have nothing to declare but my debts.

If debt is slavery then most of us are slaves.

The only people crying at my funeral will be my creditors.

Anybody can be a celebrity.

Thanks to ghostwriters, celebrities are acquiring a reputation for literacy, even eloquence.

Many celebrities claim to have had miserable childhoods so they can gain our sympathy as well as our money.

If it wasn’t for the tabloids, celebrities would never be exposed for the shameless hypocrites most of them are.

‘He’s got a way with words.’ ‘ He’s also got away with murder!’

A critic is someone who knows the value of everything and the price of nothing.

In Britain a poet with contacts but no talent will get published whereas a poet with talent but no contacts will not. This has not gone unnoticed by the British public who no longer buy contemporary poetry.

The British Poetry Establishment is a cesspit of cronyism.

The British Poetry Establishment gives corruption a bad name.

The British Poetry Establishment manages to be both racist and politically correct simultaneously. Quite a feat!

The British Poetry Establishment treats struggling poets like lepers.

If Tony Blair’s mantra was ‘education’, the British Poetry Establishment’s is ‘exclusion’.

To what shall I liken the British Poetry Establishment?  It is like unto a jar of scorpions who, when they aren’t mounting each other, are trying to sting each other to death.

British poetry is like golf or tennis in that a tiny handful of people win all the prizes.

A rejection slip is like a rich man saying to a beggar  ‘I personally am not going to help you but I sincerely hope that someone else will.’

Emily Dickinson only published a handful of poems during her entire lifetime which is why she was a true poet.

Emily Dickinson wrote poems like a pear tree produces pears.

Poets tend to die far younger than novelists or non-fiction writers mainly because they either starve or drink themselves to death.

The greatest poem ever written was The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. I must have read it a thousand times and yet it still fills me with delight. Most modern poetry is abject rubbish in comparison.

Most contemporary poets are ludicrously overrated.

Poets write ‘above themselves’. Otherwise we would be able to produce poetry at will.

True poetry bubbles up from the subconscious mind. The right-handed poet writes with his left hand and vice versa.

Early fame is the worst thing that can happen to a poet. The limelight distracts them.

A poet is without honour in his own country. That’s why Auden went to America and Eliot came to England.

Poet, prophet, priest, philosopher, psychologist are all fingers of the same questing hand.

Proverb, aphorism, adage, maxim and epigram are all fingers of the matching hand.

Schopenhauer said you could tell whether a writer was worth reading within a couple of pages. Most fail the test.

Tolstoy thought that Shakespeare was overrated and I’m strongly inclined to disagree with him.

If Shakespeare were alive today he probably wouldn’t be able to get published.

The most fertile century for British poetry was the nineteenth; the most futile the twenty-first.

Earth is an angiogram of heart.

The two most useful words in the English language are and and but.

For the hard of hearing, a pair of socks is a paradox.

For an American, parity is a parody.

If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

Nightmares are the brain’s way of percolating the body’s poison.

We have much less time than we think.

In Life as in Art it is not quantity that matters but quality.

The artist who doesn’t please himself rarely pleases anybody else.

We are all in the gutter but some of us are prone and others supine.

We fear death but we often fear life more.

Anyone who doesn’t believe that the human condition is essentially tragic should visit a hospital or an old people’s home.

When we see a beautiful child we know that they will gradually grow old, ugly, hairless, toothless and eventually die of a debilitating disease.

He:  ‘Read it out, I’m not wearing my glasses.’  She:  ‘I can’t, I haven’t got my teeth in.’

Anyone who thinks that life isn’t essentially a comedy has no sense of humour and has never read Balzac.

Life is a series of concentric circles and eccentric people.

Nietzsche philosophized with a hammer but would have been better off using a file. I philosophize with wise saws and modern instruments.

Schopenhauer thought he was being a realist but others called him a pessimist.

Schopenhauer was an existentialist a century before Sartre.

Sartre didn’t marry De Beauvoir because he was unattractive.

Sartre was a frog who looked like a toad.

Heard compliments are sweet but those unheard are sweeter.

Death-bed conversions are invariably futile – or so we believe!

Being born again is no stranger than being born once.

Reincarnation is no weirder than deincarnation (otherwise known as death).

We only live once. We live forever but we only live once.

If the Buddhists are right, we have already been judged thousands of times.

People have committed murder to escape ennui.

People have committed suicide to escape debt.

I am not a catholic so I have to confess to my wife. The spare room is surprisingly comfortable.

Religions that permit contraception tend to have smaller congregations.

Wars will continue until we get our population under control. Wars are nature’s way of decimating humankind.

There would be fewer wars if we were more lethargic. Most of the world’s trouble is caused by energetic types.

The christian church has caused much more misery than happiness during the last two thousand years.

Greed, selfishness and envy are the salient characteristics of human beings.

You can’t advantage one ethnic minority without disadvantaging another.

The only thing worse than the tyranny of the majority is the tyranny of a minority which is what usually happens.

The only ethnic group that it is perfectly legal to discriminate against are White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. I should know as I am one.

Although I am very sympathetic towards Aboriginals and Native Americans, no one has ever offered me free land on the grounds that my ancestors were pauperized by William the Conqueror.

Most people are economically conservative and socially liberal. Conversely, I am economically socialist and socially conservative.

The Buddhists believe that ultimately we all get exactly what we deserve. I sincerely hope they’re right.

Champagne and caviar create more human happiness than most things.

Rose and roe are excellent substitutes for champagne and caviar.

Few things provide as much pleasure as a full English breakfast.

A pullover is a woollen trap cunningly designed to catch all the food that falls from one’s fork.

Why is it more socially acceptable to be dependent on caffeine than alcohol?  Logically speaking, dependency on alcohol should be no more shameful than dependency on oxygen.

My preferred places are beds, baths and bars.

I can resist everything except chocolate.

Eating regularly is the best revenge.

Although other animals sometimes suffer boredom and restlessness, they never seem to experience guilt, shame or even embarrassment.

Our lives are so dominated by trivia that it’s a wonder we ever achieve anything at all.

Sex is very strange. We frequently find ourselves making love with people we dislike.

We can desire someone we don’t like and vice-versa. That’s why honey-traps and gold-diggers are often successful.

Newsreaders should be easy on the eye as well as the ear.

Like many men I have a thing about female newsreaders.  My favourites are Carrie Gracie, Mary Nightingale and Anjali Rao.

Like many men I have a thing about female tennis players.  My favourites are Steffi Graf, Maria Sharapova and Venus Williams.

Like many men I have a thing about lesbians.  My favourites are Sandi Toksvig, Alice Arnold and Peggy Reynolds.

For the want of a nail, the beauty pageant was lost.

Women inspire men to works of genius and then make them do the washing-up.

Love is never wrong.

Why do so many positive words begin with L?  Lucky lovers luxuriate in laughter, life and light.

Why do so many negative words begin with P?  Paranoid, pockmarked, plague-ridden, poverty-stricken peasants plead pathetically.

Why do so many royal words begin with H?  Harry Henry Hewitt haphazardly hunted hundreds of hen harriers.

I have never been able to resist taking the piss from a safe distance.

Every solution has its problems.

Minor problems tend to go unmended.

Less is more and more is less.

The Chinese are interesting but the Japanese are fascinating.

Sweden was the most boring country in the world even before they made prostitution illegal. Now it has no competitors.

Prostitutes understand men better than professors of psychology.

Renting your body can lead to selling your soul.

Society is an organized hypocrisy and nowhere more so than in Britain.

To be born British is to win the booby prize of life. Everybody else feels they have the right to hate us. The Germans are carefree in comparison.

The British are obsessed by the weather because it spares us the embarrassment of more intimate intercourse.

Tony Blair apologised for the Irish potato famine but he never said sorry for the war in Iraq.

Morally capitalism is like leaving everything you have to your oldest child and letting the others starve. There is nothing wrong with capitalism if you don’t mind starving.

Life is not fair. The rich have made sure of that.

If the fates dictated that we could die famous at forty or anonymous at eighty, most of us would choose the latter.

If love of money is the root of all evil, then love of fame is the root of all folly.

I’ve no desire to be famous but on the other hand I don’t want to be completely ignored either.

I’m not competitive – I just like winning.

The proportion of the world’s population that genuinely prefers giving to receiving is probably less than one per cent. For every giver there are over a hundred takers.

Watching the naturally selfish attempting to be altruistic is a bit like watching a monkey trying to drive a car.

We reserve our best wine for visitors but fortunately don’t receive many.

I don’t have any children, my wife doesn’t drink and we don’t get many visitors so my cellar should be reasonably safe.

I can’t see the point of having children. They only grow up and criticize you – often from quite a young age.

John Updike said the disappointing thing about having children is that they just turn into other people.

Although he broke several commandments, I can’t believe that a man who gave the world so much could be anywhere other than in heaven.

Parricide and matricide are the ultimate ingratitude. You are removing life from the very people who gave it to you.

I have no money or children. All I have are my poems.

My father enjoyed writing poetry whereas I enjoy having written it. There is a huge difference.

(Three from my father:)

‘My dear boy, one has to remember that salesmen, although individually invertebrate, do represent the backbone of the market economy.’

(When his boss promised to ‘clear out all the dead wood’)

‘Speaking on behalf of the dead wood, I’m not very happy about this.’

‘Some yob yelled out “corduroy suit!” which didn’t seem to me to rank very highly on a scale of vituperation.’

Poetry is prose that rhymes and scans – or not as the case may be.

Prose is plain speech whereas poetry is closer to song – or vice-versa.

Poetry is a frog and prose is a toad.

Prose is an oak and poetry is a rowan tree.

The distinction between poetry and prose is now so blurred that most modern poetry is really prose under a pseudonym.

Words matter. Sometimes they are healing hands and sometimes hand grenades.

When it comes to prose, clarity is everything.

Attractive ideas are often dressed in rags.

If a book were a building, a brick would be a paragraph.

We must build our lives with the materials to hand.

It is remarkable how many prose writers wrongly believe they are poets.  Some even become poet laureate.

Oxford University seems to have found itself up a well-known creek without a Padel.

You don’t need discipline to write poetry. You just need a drink.

Plagiarism is a tax that the barren exact from the fertile.

Plagiarism is the literary equivalent of child abduction.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery then plagiarism is the sincerest form of theft.

Stop riding on my rainbow!

I have written down less than one per cent of what I have seen in the watches of the night.

Half of my dreams actually happen. The trouble is I never know which half.

The one person we can never get away from is ourselves.

I love the way cats exit a room, leaving their tails behind momentarily.

Dogs don’t contradict us but cats do.

Dogs bark; cats mark.

Dogs demur; cats purr.

Dogs crap; cats nap.

Dogs dawdle; cats cradle.

Dogs are dogmatic; cats are categoric.

Dogs are macho; cats are camp.

Dogs are straight; cats are great.

Dogs are New Labrador; cats are Conservative.

Dogs are Protestants; cats are Catholic.

Dogs are right-pawed; cats are left-footed.

Dogs are Hindus; cats are Buddhists.

Dogs are sunny; cats are moony.

Dogs are funny; cats cost money.

Dogs are legal; cats are regal.

Dogs are loyal; cats are royal.

I don’t have any pets but my wife does.

Brains tend to outlast beauty.

In Britain brains still play second fiddle to brawn.

The criminal lacks all virtues save courage.

Crime pays if you don’t get caught.

Many a family fortune is due to criminal ancestors.

Wilde says that we regret what we haven’t done far more than what we have. Many prisoners would disagree with him.

If people genuinely feared incarceration we would have far fewer criminals.

Prison is a clumsy solution to an intractable problem.

Intelligent people tend to have few children which is why society is inexorably deteriorating.

Pontius Pilate was a liberal.

Oscar Wilde was a genius.

Energy is eternal effort.

Energy is consciousness and consciousness is energy.

I owe that observation to Einstein and Joseph Campbell.

Common misconceptions:

There is no God.

God is a mass of contradictions.

Religion is nonsense.

Philosophy is a waste of time.

Travel broadens the mind.

French cuisine is the best in the world.

British cuisine is the worst in the world.

Swedish women are always beautiful.

Spanish men are always handsome.

Men are more intelligent than women.

Women are more sensitive than men.

Men and women are the same.

Women and men are radically different.

Men are better chefs than women.

Women are worse chauffeurs than men.

Men are more logical than women.

Women are less licentious than men.

A sex-change will improve your life.

Country folk are nicer than townies.

The earth is four and a half billion years old.

The universe is thirteen and a half billion years old.

Anybody can become an artist.

Anybody can become a painter.

Anybody can become a poet.

Anybody can become a musician.

Anybody can become a mathematician.

Anybody can become an athlete.

Anybody can become an actor.

America embodies the future.

Russia represents the past.

Hollywood films are worth watching.

There are three classes of aphorism: original, derivative and downright copies.

My favourite aphorists are Samuel Johnson, Arthur Schopenhauer and, of course, Oscar.

Wilde was heavily influenced by Johnson who was heavily influenced by Shakespeare who was heavily influenced by Chaucer who was heavily influenced by the Bible.

Oscar didn’t like women much; I do.

Teaching is ninety per cent personality.

Listening to someone is very different from hearing them.

Talent is no longer considered necessary for success in the arts.

It is the Arts Council that creates the intellectual atmosphere of our age.

We should support the arts by voting with our wallets.

The supreme vice is selfishness.

Getting exactly what one wants often proves fatal.

Experience is a euphemism for our errors.

Regrets, I’ve had plenty.

Religion is the last refuge of the desperate.

Christianity is the last refuge of the confused.

Re-reading is usually a waste of time.

Science is necessarily amoral.

Criticism is far easier than creation.

Charity rhymes with clarity but does not resemble it.

The main aim of charity is to ease the conscience of the rich.

You can’t choose your family – or your friends.

For an aphorism to have any real force it needs to be true or at least feasible.

Every form has its traditions: limericks are sexist, satire is reactionary and aphorisms are cynical.

Aphorisms depend on pith, paradox and plausibility.

Untrue aphorisms fade like cut crysanthemums.

An aphorism is a memorable saying.

Aphorisms are addictive.

Aphorisms are the written record of a wasted life.

Copyright   Simon R. Gladdish   2009