People think that Leeds is a fine old Yorkshire city
With sophisticated hotels where you can drink nice warm beer
And pick up prostitutes on the cheap
(the negative being you can't understand what they are talking about,
as they say things like, 'EEEEEEEEeeee Up Lad, 'Ow moooch ya gonna pay me?')
But I can reassure you that such is not the case,
In fact the fine city of Leeds is a total and utter dump
A craphole set in the pigsty that is West Yorkshire.
I was there, with my best friend of the moment, Angus McBollock,
Who (you may be intrigued to hear) was runner-up in the contest
For Ugliest Man of the Year (North of England heats only, regretfully).
Angus and I were taking a walk along The Headrow,
Having just had a truly disgusting Indian meal
Which we knew would be making a dynamic reappearance
Through our eager twitching sphincters all too soon
(How ironic to have accidentally selected the worst Indian restaurant
in the Leeds-Bradford conurbation in the face of so much competion).
And what do you think happened? Well, I'll tell you.
We saw these two slappers walking along the street,
Wearing skirts so staggeringly short you could almost see
What they had eaten for their breakfast poking out,
And Angus cogitated that they were totally up for it
For the price of a couple of gallons of delicious Yorkshire ale.
So we accosted them and dragged them into a pub
(or "poooooob" as t'locals cutely call such establishments)
And after we had poured a few quids' worth down their fat gobs,
Angus asked them to come back to our hotel room for a foursome.
"Eeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyooooooooop!" the fatter of the two yelled,
"Worrrya think we are, cooooopla sloooots, laaahhhhhhkk?"
And she took out the stolen Biretta she had in her handbag
And plugged Angus 'twixt his poor pathetic peepers.
I can tell you, I ran like a doped up Olympian out of t' poooob
And took refuge in the toilets of the Grand Theatre,
From where I could hear the screams of the singers
At the end of Hans Werner Henze's latest opera
Which was playing to an audience of precisely three.
Leeds? You can shove it as far as I am concerned -
The Merrion Centre can do without my custom;
And Theakston's beer tastes like equine urine anyway.
Honorable mention
Silver trophy winner
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