I’m not quite sure where this week’s ALAW comes from. Maybe it’s that I’ve not been away on holiday for a while and the last one, June two years ago, was a holiday in Mallorca that inspired ALAW#142.
Anyway, here’s a corresponding limerick to that one, with the lascivious rôles reversed in aid of ALAW gender balance…
There once was a lass from Mallorca Saw a bloke whose butt was a corker When she first made a pass She felt quite an ass Which, really, she shouldn’t have ought ter!
Postscript: Yup, I know. It’s the third time I’ve used ought ter as a rhyme; the second time it’s been done in association with shouldn’t have; and this week it’s not even a true rhyme, but, hey, throw me a bone! You try writing 240+ limericks without any repetition and with 100% perfect rhymes🤪
I woke up this morning – ALAW publication day – with no limerick in mind. Fortunately (or, perhaps, unfortunately given what it gave rise to) a quick read of today’s Graun elicited the fact that lockdown has seen the number of British naturists ‘soar’.
“British nudists’ group reports exponential growth in participation in online events since pandemic restrictions came into force“.
A nude bakery class seems to be popular, Naked kitchen with Pam, no less, but one in which participants’ webcams must be switched on to avoid “lurking perverts” – perish the thought!
Anyway, thus inspired (as an occasional-but-fully-clad baker myself) a quiet, contemplative walk in some woodland avec mon chien resulted in this week’s less than memorable ALAW.
A baker was really quite lewd When baking some bread in the nude ‘Cos to knock the dough back He gave it a whack With a tool that’s exceedingly rude.
Spherocytosis, usually a hereditary condition, is one in which the proteins that are supposed to make your red blood cells (erythrocytes) form into biconcave discs are miscoded and, instead, ultimately result in smaller, spherical cells (spherocytes).
Spherocytes are broken down by the spleen much more readily than erythrocytes and this may lead to various issues including a haemolytic anaemia.
All of which is why I’m giving a shout-out to The Tall Child who has non-hereditary spherocytosis (his was a spontaneous case). Although not anaemic, his blood haemoglobin is at the low end of normal. Spherocytes are also known to offload oxygen to cells less efficiently than erythrocytes so, coupled to low haemoglobin levels, one consequence can be to become fatigued more easily. Despite that, over the course of nine weeks he has followed the UK NHS structured ‘couch-to-5K’ programme and, last week, he successfully hit the thirty minute run on target.
Well done Ben, that’s brilliant!
A young man with odd-shaped corpuscles Once ran from Dundee o’er to Brussels. He trained for the fray On the couch-to-5K And it gave him some very sore muscles!
As a 1970s teenager I really, really disliked The Bay City Rollers. I’m not sure what it was about them that I disliked – everything except their Scottishness probably – certainly their clothes, their hair, their songs and their appeal to the girls I rather fancied, but who never fancied me in return. The only group that I thought less of was The Osmonds.
(Confession. I once pretended to like David Cassidy’s songs to impress a girl I was keen on. It didn’t work and I’m embarrassed by it even today!)
Still, it’s sad to hear of the death of Les McKeown, the Rollers’ lead singer. Sad not only for his family, friends and fans, but also because one’s abiding memory of him relates to ‘youth’ at the time now in your life when you increasingly make grunting sounds as you lift yourself out of a chair!
Here’s the limerick:
A tartan-clad boy-band’s front guy Now sings from a stage in the sky. Though he ran with the gang When he sang Shang-a-Lang Now it’s Bye, Bye, Leslie (Goodbye)!
My (current) favourite dog walking area has the terrific advantage of being a sheep-free zone. The obvious benefit is that dogs can run off-lead without any concerns about sheep worrying. The less obvious advantage is that it prevents my Border Collie, @calliebordeaux, from indulging in one of her favourite-but-gross pastoral activities; eating sheep sh*t.
Unfortunately, horse riders can also use the woodland tracks and that means there are occasional piles of horse poo to negotiate. Horse poo is also a savoury delight according to Callie, but such piles are usually obvious enough to be seen in time for me to distract her with a treat before she can indulge her gastronomic passion.
On a recent walk, however, I was talking to a friend and failed to see Callie head towards a heap of it. Too late, I saw her chomping down on some, but what was most galling wasn’t the act itself, but the knowing and wholly gratuitous way that she looked at us afterwards as she gleefully licked her lips. Double gross!
When your supply of sheep sh*t runs dry There’s alternatives on which to rely So don’t cash in your chips Why not just lick your lips ‘Cos horse poo will help you get by!
Postscript: like some others, this week’s ALAW requires an accompanying narrative for it to make any kind of sense. But some of them can be tweaked to remove any need for context and can be read standalone. This week’s is a good example, ergo…
When your supply of tequila runs dry There’s alternatives on which to rely So don’t cash in your chips Why not just lick your lips ‘Cos absinthe will help you get by!
So, His Royal Highness The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Earl of Merioneth, Baron Greenwich, Royal Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Extra Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Member of the Order of Merit, Grand Master and First and Principal Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Knight of the Order of Australia, Additional Member of the Order of New Zealand, Extra Companion of the Queen’s Service Order, Royal Chief of the Order of Logohu, Extraordinary Companion of the Order of Canada, Extraordinary Commander of the Order of Military Merit, Lord of Her Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council, Privy Councillor of the Queen’s Privy Council for Canada, Personal Aide-de-Camp to Her Majesty, Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom …
… has died at the age of 99.
I’m not a monarchist, but I did once meet him in the line of duty when I staffed a display stand about the scientific fish stock assessments of North Sea demersal gadoids (ie, cod, haddock and whiting). My first reaction was how small he was; très petit.
The display boards were mounted on the old Fisheries Research Vessel Clupea that was berthed in Aberdeen harbour for the occasion. Our comms person of the time had decided it would be a good idea if the Clupea could be filmed by the TV news media whilst on the move, so we did a partial tour of the harbour whilst I tried to explain to HRH, in as few words as possible, what was meant by “when we’ve caught them all, we know how many there were”.
HRH wasn’t at all interested in such plebian fish and simply commented with a pithy “I prefer salmon”. Perhaps I should have replied with “and I prefer republics!”.
Here’s the limerick:
There once was a monarchist clique That maintained a royalist mystique But it’s all come to nought For our Queen’s prince consort ‘Cos it’s ‘αντιο σας, Phil the Greek’
(from Dr Google, αντιο σας [antio sas] is Greek for ‘goodbye’)
The online Metro picked up last week on some news from the USA where a bloke called Erik presented himself to his local ER with his ‘member’ firmly lodged in a hole that he’d cut through a door in order to fit a new doorknob.
It appears that he’d consumed a viagra-like product before being ‘enticed’ by his partner from the other side of the door. You can read more about it here.
And this is the limerick:
A chap downed a chemical essence That produced a priapic tumescence. He then rogered the door And shouted-out “Phwoar!” As the keyhole clasped tight his excrescence!
I had my first covid vaccination last week and, as with the flu jab at the end of last year, I was amazed that I never felt the needle go in.
That was unlike the time that I sliced into my left index finger with a fish gutting knife and required several stitches followed by both a tetanus and a triplopen jab into my left bum cheek.
The triplopen hurt so much that I couldn’t put any weight on my left leg and, having walked purposefully into A&E with a bloodied hand, I came out limping heavily. As Corporal Jones would say, “They don’t like it up ’em!” and neither did I!
Here’s the limerick…
A doctor was asked would she come To a man with a badly cut thumb. She put in some stitches Then pulled down his britches For a triplopen shot in the bum!
No sooner had Callie, my border collie, recovered from her runny tummy (see last week’s post), than mine came out in sympathy, so this week’s limerick is unfortunately on the same topic, but I promise that it will be the last scatological verse for a good while.
His tum caused enormous disruption That continued without interruption ‘Cos a case of the trots Meant he ‘went’ lots and lots And dreaded the next mass eruption!