Saturday, 26 November 2011

A genuinely funny yet affectionate poem about slappers

There was one item at the Pass On A Poem meeting I attended last night which had the whole audience rocking with laughter. Yes. A poem! I don’t mean those polite titters the English dutifully produce when they know something’s meant to funny but which you wouldn’t laugh at even if you were out of your gourd on nitrous oxide. Here was a roomful of people guffawing, myslef included.  At a poem!

Well, a set of song lyrics, to be accurate. I heard Victoria Wood doing “Saturday Night” as a song on TV many years ago and found it mildly amusing. Last night, without musical accompaniment, and read by an amateur poetry-loving young woman, it was much funnier.

I’ve no idea if it’ll have the same effect when encountered for the first time as words on a page – but here it is:

Oh dear what can the matter be?
Eight o’clock at night on a Saturday
Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Coming to town double quick.

They rendezvous in front of a Pillar
Tracey’s tall like Jonathan Miller
Nicola’s more like Guy the Gorilla
If Guy the Gorilla were thick.

Their hair’s been done it’s very expensive
Their use of mousse and gel is extensive
As weapons their heads would be classed as offensive
And put under some kind of ban.

They’re covered in perfumes but these are misnomers
Nicola’s scent could send dogs into comas
Tracey’s kills insects and dustbin aromas
And also gets stains off the pan.

But it’s their night out
It’s what it’s all about
Looking for lads
Looking for fun
A burger and chips with a sesame bun
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of living it up
Painting the town
Drinking Bacardi and keeping it down
But it’s all all right
It’s what they do of a Saturday night.

Oh dear what can the matter be?
‘What can that terrible crunching and clatter be?
It’s the cowboy boots of Nicola Battersby
Leading the way into town.

They hit the pub and Tracey’s demeanour
Reminds you of a loopy hyena
They have sixteen gins and a rum and Ribena
And this is before they’ve sat down.

They dare a bloke from Surrey called Murray
To phone the police and order a curry
He gets locked up, it’s a bit of a worry
But they won’t have to see him again.

They’re dressed to kill and looking fantastic
Tracey’s gone for rubber and plastic
Nicola’s dress is a piece of elastic
It’s under a heck of a strain.

Oh dear what can the matter be?
What can that terrible slurping and splatter be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Snogging with Derek and Kurt.

They’re well stuck in to heavyish petting
It’s far too dark to see what you’re getting
Tracey’s bra flies off, how upsetting
And several people are hurt.

Oh dear, oh dear
Oh dear, oh dear

Oh dear what can the matter be?
What can that motheaten pile of old tatters be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Getting chucked off the last Ninety-two.

With miles to go and no chance of hitching
And Nicola’s boots have bust at the stitching
Tracey laughs and says what’s the point bitching
I couldn’t give a bugger, could you?

In addition, there was a Paul Jennings comic number ("Galoshes"), an amusing one by Matt Harvey (“Curtains”) a jaundiced view of professional poets (“The Poetry Game” by Charles Bukowski), the Edward Lear poem I mentioned in my last post (last post? geddit?) and no less than two by Ogden Nash.  Nash appears to be all over the place, suddenly. Again, I've no idea is this is because we're living in such deflating times, but he deserves a resurgence.   


  1. It's "The Fat Slags" from Viz Magazine.

  2. Ah, my second-favourite Viz characters, behind (unfortunately) Johnny Fartpants.

    I don't want to sound off, Andrew, but can I just say how much I haven't enjoyed your poetry over the years?