Discussion in 'Current Affairs' started by Retread, Oct 2, 2009.

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  1. I originally wrote this dit back in the 1980's and gave it a tweak for the millenium. With a little tuc here and there it's still more alive than Anne Robinson...

    ‘Twas midnight in Portsmouth and district the Gestapo was out on the beat,
    On the look-out for arson and murder and matelots asleep in the street.
    The Joss Man’s secret agents, with a notebook full up with names,
    So that when they discovered a problem, they’d have some bugger to blame.
    They’d been trained in the Table procedure and could handle themselves in a fight,
    But with armbands and nightsticks and notebooks they really just wasn’t that bright.

    They were sneaking a fag when they found it, a dirty great sack so it were,
    All full up with battered in body, with tyre marks scorched down it’s hair (nearly rhymed).
    Following their usual procedure, they kicked it – to make sure it were dead,
    Then they tuned out it’s pockets and shared out it’s cash, and smoked all it’s fags while it bled.
    So they picked up this hulking great body, one at it’s head and it’s feet,
    Then they took it down a back alley, and dumped it on a civvy cop’s beat.

    Three hours later they found it, propped up in a fish shop door,
    It was naked by now and the note round it’s neck, said “This one’s a matelot, it’s yours.
    So they took it back to the dockyard, where the MO inspected the stiff,
    From the absence of heartbeat and movement he declared that it must be a Tiff!
    The forms to fill out were endless, with copies to Nelson and Drake,
    And arrangements were made for a funeral – but some bugger made a mistake!

    It wasn’t sent to the boneyard, but the Admiralty building instead,
    It was labelled up “Hat Stand, Officerâ€, rather than “Matelot, Deadâ€.
    It was stored away in an office, in a corner out of the way,
    Where it rotted and mouldered and festered, That is, until one fateful day.
    An admiral left in a hurry and forgot where he hung up his hat.
    So you’ve now got a corpse with a cap on – in an Admiral’s office at that!
    Well you know what they’re like up in London, I’m not saying they’re weak in the head.
    But that corpse is still making decisions, and no bugger’s noticed it’s dead!
    That now is the end of my story, as tales go it’s tall, I’ll allow,
    But can you give me one better reason – for the state that the Navy’s in now.
    Since we saw in the year two-thousand and toasted the century anew
    I have to ask this question... Do you reckon Downing Street too?

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