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
Billy Bunter, the Fat Owl of Greyfriars School
Was the first into the lists:
A symbol of the decadence of the west
A proto-Harry Potter
And a muggle.
Yaroo. You fellows.
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,