Battle Royale


I watched Battle Royale the other day. Then I wrote a little poem to my local M.P. Then I woke up in a junkyard surrounded by cat skulls and empty Sunny Delight bottles. But that’s another story. Did I say I wrote a little poem? Well I didn’t, that was a lie. But if I had written a poem, here’s how it would have gone:


Their posture is WEAK

Their handwriting is FLAWED.

O what will become of today’s youth?

When the hem of a boy’s trouser leg

Hangs below his ankles

Great shame is visited upon

His father and his mother.

My daughter lost her pencil case.

Great dishonour must follow.


O parents! O progenitors!

O thin-lipped fathers

And tiny-hooved mothers!

Look at the pigs you popped out

Of your slack reproductive organs!

Are you not scandalised?


I think the solution is pretty self-evident


Battle Royale


Billy Bunter, the Fat Owl of Greyfriars School

Was the first into the lists:

A symbol of the decadence of the west

Or, alternatively,

A proto-Harry Potter

But rounder

And a muggle.


Yaroo. You fellows.

And Oooooh

He cried.

I’m fashed. Have you got any jam?

He added as they chopped at his trunk

With little Japanese knives.


Bunter was the first of the gang to die.

Takiki and Naruto followed hot

On his plump and well-heeled trot



Their pickled heads now sit

In the Trophy Cabinet of Michael Gove

To remind him of the sacred duty of his calling.

His strokes them sometimes,


I shall be the victor of Battle Royale and there shall be no tuck for you Lord Teddington.


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5 Responses to “Battle Royale”

  1. Banjo Chutney Says:

    Yaroo, you mothers! Steal my tuck, feel my f… ooh, no that won’t do at all.

  2. oldrope Says:

    I’d like a Battle with cheese please.

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