Geoffrey Dyke won the Euromillions rollover,
but it didn’t change him…

Because he spent thousands on plastic surgery to preserve his appearance.

getbackinthebox:

Carter Timothy had a collection of wonderful balloons
But every time he touched one
It burst.
He was scratching the back of his head with his hind leg
(I should point out, Carter was a leopard)
When in walked a kindly old man.
The old man tickled Carter behind the ear.
There was a pop,
And Carter turned into a real boy.

Essentially I get given three seemingly disparate words and I weave them into a magical eiderdown of wit and emotion.

(Probably)

getbackinthebox:

Geoffrey struggled to explain what had just happened.
Rudy simply stared enviously.
“Do it again!” he demanded.
So Geoffrey turned the hot tap
And a whole banana came out.
“Put it with the others,” Rudy ordered, smacking his lips

Was I involved in this…?

I couldn’t possibly say.

(But yes. Yes I was.)

My contemporary Mr. Key has somewhat cornered the market of Royal Wedding poetry, so instead I’m going to write about my friends Stieg and Nikki who are getting married on the same day (and their best man Mick who secretly fancies Nikki, but shh, don’t tell anybody…)

‘We are gathered here today,
well, some of us at least,
those that could be bothered
to extract their fat arses from their well-grooved chairs…’

is how the priest will probably start.
And the hours spent on
moving chess pieces round model tables
to make sure Auntie Sue
won’t call Auntie Liz
a ‘brazen hussy’

(unless she shouts, of course)

will ultimately be futile
as both stay home to watch
the future monarch
stomp down the aisle
with his bride-to-be.

Huw Edwards won’t commentate on your wedding, Stieg.

And no-one will turn up.

Apart from perhaps comitted Republicans

Who may well have given up on the idea of marriage completely

Solely to spite the Royal Family.

Little Jimmy McCracken,
when asked who he wanted to win the London Marathon,

replied that it was a close call

between Haile Gebrselassie

and his Uncle Gav

who was dressed as an apple strudel…

Alhassane Outtara.
Laurent Gbagbo.
Moussa Koussa.

Iggle Piggle,

All got on the Ninky Nonk.

The Pontipines and the Wottingers were not impressed.

There goes the neighbourhood…

breakforcake:

Stephen Timkins went to Tesco
He wanted to get some weetabix
But they were all out of weetabix
so he bought them out of Carlsberg,
rang up Dean and Bryn,
and they all went back to Stephen’s house and watched the football.

Now that’s my kind of poem.

Bezant

Desolation.

Up here
no-one
can hear
you scream.

From fear,
despair
or sheer bloody boredom.

I never asked for this.

In fact, I’m still not sure how Dad financed this.

A space station, fielding calls for International Rescue.

His claim to fame was being one of the first men on the moon…

some time around 2030…

Scott gets a rocket that comes out of a swimming pool
for fuck’s sake.

And Virgil gets a sort of cargo plane thing…
this is utter arse.

Why can’t I live on the fucking tropical island?

All my food comes in packets.

Lady Penelope?
Never even fucking met her, mate.

I’m never involved. I’m a glorified call centre.

Even when there was a problem with the Sun they sent sodding Thunderbird 3.

I can’t catch a break.

I won’t lie,
it’s not
what
I
expected.

[This is semi-autobiographical in the Tim Key sense… as opposed to the actual sense]

Woman of the internet,
I knew you were the one for me,
when I browsed your Facebook Profile Pictures
and you were easily the least offensive
of your immediate friendship group.

I acquired your address,
by means tantamount to crime
and I’d understand if you slapped a restraining order
on me, but you can’t accost my heart
(because it would be a Cardiac Arrest, you see?)

So, I sent you a gift,
it’s almost, essentially, basically ideal,
but I wrapped it in red tape and the postman,
well, he went and made you sign for it,
which was a pain in the arse.

Yes, it’s a red rose,
made entirely from tin-foil,
old Nintendo controllers and a child’s laugh.
Is that any good to you at all?
It’s rubbish, isnt’ it?

I knew it would be…