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.

Chorus:

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.