The Custard Man is...Overjoyed?

The Game is Afoot!

"Come, Watson, come!
The game is afoot!"
"Shall I wear a pair of shoes, Holmes,
Or just a single boot?"

"I know jiujitsu, Watson,
and Moriarty can box.
But all you do is take extensive notes,
So wear your wollen socks."

Bannerjee baboo is true to The Cause

Comrade Bannerjee, on having an orgasm,
Said he'd much rather an orgase havm,
For experiencing another
Would make even a Brother
Of the Communist Church stoop to bourgeoism.

Bannerjee Baboo Takes Up Golf

Bannerjee baboo, a clerk from Calcutta,
when attempting mashie shots with a putter,
would often boast
he didn't butter his toast
at breakfast/ He toasted his butter.

Much A-Diet About Nothing

Eat no more, ladies, eat no more;
Men were gourmands ever;
One fork in salmon, one in pig's corps,
To one course restricted never;
Then sigh not at salad, nor at soup be ruffled,
But let them eat until chocolate souffled,
And be you lithe and bonny;
Let your stomach's protests be muffled
Into 'Hey, nonny, nonny'.

Eat no more steak, dear ladies, eat no mo
Dumplings, full of meat and heavy;
The chicken and mash of men was ever so,
Since summer, fully sozzled in gravy;
Then sigh not at salad, nor at soup be ruffled,
But let them eat until chocolate souffled,
And be you lithe and bonny;
Let your stomach's protests be muffled
Into 'Hey, nonny, nonny'.


Original text:
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/shakespeare/sigh_no_more_ladies.html

Stephen Fry on P.G. Wodehouse

Stephen Fry, actor/ writer/ prince among contemporary polymaths, talks about Plum Wodehouse, 'English literature's performing flea', in his article "What ho! My hero, PG Wodehouse", published in The Independent on January 18, 2000.

...

Had his only contribution to literature been Lord Emsworth and Blandings Castle, his place in history would have been assured. Had he written of none but Mike and Psmith, he would be cherished today as the best and brightest of our comic authors. If Jeeves and Wooster had been his solitary theme, still he would be hailed as the Master. If he had given us only Ukridge, or nothing but recollections of the Mulliner family, or a pure diet of golfing stories, Doctor Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse would nonetheless be considered immortal. That he gave us all those - and more - is our good fortune and a testament to the most industrious, prolific and beneficent author ever to have sat down, scratched his head and banged out a sentence.

If I were to say that the defining characteristic of Wodehouse, the man, was his professionalism, that might make him sound rather dull. We look for eccentricity, sexual weirdness, family trauma and personal demons in our great men. Wodehouse, who knew just what was expected of authors, was used to having to apologise for a childhood that was "as normal as rice-pudding" and a life that consisted of little more than "sitting in front of the typewriter and cursing a bit".

...

Read the full article here>>>http://www.drones.com/fry.html

A Professor of English from Delhi

A Professor of English from Delhi
Thought Byron was better than Shelley.
And when asked about Donne
He'd say, "Donne's more fun
than a pound of raspberry jelly."

Further Adventures of The Boy from Gloucester

There was a young boy of Gloucester,
who needed all the strength he could muster
to win in a bout,
which he, no doubt,
would have done, had he been robuster.

So the boy of Gloucester took a train to France
to learn how to box and defeat perchance
the rival, a crafty
soul, but the dafty
returned instead with a Diploma in dance.

W.Churchill is a Very Rude Man

Original Images:

Churchill: http://myhero.com/images/guest/g6857/hero7007/g6857_u3848_Sir_Winston_Churchill.jpg; http://hodja.files.wordpress.com/2007/08/churchill.jpg

The Feast at Solhaug Gives Ibsen Indigestion

James Joyce deserves some credit for this one.

Original Images:
Ibsen: http://www.concentric.net/~marlowe/ibsen2.jpg
Eno: http://www.vintageadvertisingprints.co.uk/images/M/MEnos-Fruit-Salt-(AA_1_8_78).jpg; http://www.rpsgb.org.uk/informationresources/museum/exhibitions/themotherofinvention/images/fruitsaltbig.jpg

"Human, all too human!" complains F. Nietzsche

...




Original Images:
Nietzsche: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Nietzsche1882.jpg
Bayer Aspirin: http://www.adclassix.com/a3/59bayeraspirin.html

And hast thou slain the Jabberjee?

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberjee, my son!
The monocled eye, the umbrella's jab!
The nonsense verse and occasional pun,
The charminar, the gift of gab!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberjee?"
"I thought you said 'Jabberwock'! Oh, my hat!"
"You've killed the wrong one, I see...
You fool! (he wailed) You awful prat!"

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Custard Man

Howard was a custard man,
who lived inside a custard can.
The custard man wore a shabby
hat and kept a custard tabby.
Then on June the twenty-third.
as he fed a custard bird
to the cat, it coughed and spat
all over Howard's custard hat.
Howard called the vet and he
said he'd been alarmed to see
his dearest pet, his cat o' custard,
normally a healthy shade of mustard,
had, on eating that awful bird,
gone so white, it looked like curd.
The vet came over, took a taste,
gagged a little and made all haste
to tell his custard friend, Howard,
the custard cat had, in fact, soured.

***

Show me the chump that says only people with a respect for rhythm and metre should be allowed to attempt nonsense verse and I will show you a person who would not have survived in Nijni-Novgorod, even if he/she were a scratch player and had won Abe Mitchell's ribbed-face mashie in the weekend lottery. They would have their putters smashed ceremoniously over their gigantic egos and their golfing licenses revoked. Harsh punishment, you say? I think not.

"A Brief and Fictional History of Underclothing" or "What the Well-dressed Person is Wearing Underneath"

Hubbard Bros
Specialist Manufacturers of Long Johns and Long Jerrys since 1450


The company, now a household name, had extremely humble beginnings. John and Jerry Hubbard started the enterprise in 1450, with only what they could get from selling their mother’s cupboard at an auction, by way of capital. That meagre amount proved just enough to get them going in order to manufacture what was, and still is, the last word in underthings.

Starting with private assignments for the many women they had known in their colourful past, their products grew in length and volume, until one day they had enough material to create leggings that covered the legs and vests that reached the waist.

John, the older brother, devoted himself to long, sensible, ankle-length coverings, called Long-Johns, and waist-length vests, both targeted principally at men who went to war and women who were less well-off or just preferred not to risk pneumonia for the infinitely less rewarding pleasure of pandering to their beaus.

The controversial initial designs, however, still managed to draw excellent prices from an ever widening circle of female customers, ranging from short-frocks to bed-pan age. These were continued under the supervision of the younger Hubbard, as Long-Jerrys*, now marketed almost exclusively to what they called the ‘more adventurous’ women - those that fancied designs that were (liberally to some, inappropriately to others) embellished with large amounts of lace and ribbon.

*spelled Lin'gerie by the Paris branch for marketing reasons

Limerickery

A few years ago, while still at school, I decided that if I ever wrote poetry, I would make certain that my efforts would, at the very least, border on general ridiculousness.

This was my first attempt at writing limericks:

There was a young boy of Gloucester,
Who needed all the strength he could muster
To win in a bout,
which he, no doubt,
Would have done, had he been robuster.

It is obvious to me now that I had little talent for this and I'm vaguely relieved I gave it up or I would soon have found myself going batty with the sheer effort of trying to find rhymes for Mediterranean and Medinipur.

Writing clerihews is far less exhausting, anyway.

Do reply with an original limerick, if you've written any or have the energy/ inclination to write one now.