Most people say, "Where the fuck?" when they hear the city of Derby mentioned;
Or they think of the horse race which is named after the Earl of Derby not the town,
And is run on the delightful green turf of Epsom in bourgeois Surrey.
And I can fully sympathise with this lamentable lack of geographical awareness,
Bearing in mind no other British city of a comparable size is so worthy of avoidance;
But now I shall illuminate your ignorance, dearest reader, forthwith.
Derby, the county town of dear Derbyshire is but a short drive from the High Peak,
A delectable area of dales and attractive old centres of habitation;
In particular I would comment the lovely spa town of Buxton to you,
With its charming graffito-endowed decaying neo-classical crescents
And its charming Opera House (sadly bereft of an opera company but where,
with a bit of bad luck, you might suffer an amateur Gilbert & Sullivan production);
And of course, Chatsworth House's landscaped gardens are well worth a visit
(at this juncture may I add I once snogged a girl young enough to be my grand-daughter there).
But I digress - anything to delay mentioning the horrors which befell me in Derby.
Perhaps I exaggerate, Derby is not all redbrick ugliness marred by sixties improvements;
Indeed the city possesses the second tallest parish church tower in all of England
Which is one of its fabulous claims to international architectural renown
And the newish bus station is a landmark to the cognoscenti I have heard;
There is also a most charming black and white public house in Queen Street
Whose toilets I nipped into to puke up a load of half-digested Pakistani grub,
In between shopping in the chic boutiques which make the city
A haven for those seeking a lovely piece of handmade jewellery
With which to bribe another innocent girl to surrender her body.
But what was I doing in downtown Derby if it is so grim a metropolis?
Well, confidentially, many moons ago (when I was young and utterly unscrupulous)
I was propositioned by a very ugly but wealthy lady of an uncertain age
Who offered me a significant amount of folding lolly for a weekend of untrammelled access
To my (then) utterly handsome lithe honed and toned torso and mighty genitalia
And Derby was the only place where I could be sure no one would recognise me
As only blind tourists or masochistic mental defectives would ever go there.
And thus it came to pass that Sandra Ramsbottom-Snotworth and I ended up
In the hideously decorated bridal suite of a self-rated four star hotel
Whose name I will not mention for fear of causing a ruinous libel suit.
Oh how I suffered during our extended lovemaking, even with my eyes screwed shut
And the lights out, I could still visualise the horror I was copulating with:
You did not win the "Ugliest Woman Over 50" contest in Northumberland
In the early sixties without having something special in the physiognomy department
And Sandra had wiped the floor with her rivals three years in a fucking row.
But, none too soon, our sweaty contortions were ended albeit momentarily
And we went downstairs to the Wild-West themed "Steak 'n' Burger" bar for a snack
And it was then that tragedy befell poor old Sandra, my companionette in lust.
A group of Transylvanian vampirists were holding their annual convention in the hotel
(it was probably the only establishment in Britain who would accept them
mainly because of their unearthly bad breath and disgusting body odour);
And when they saw Sandra's ghastly dial, they got really quite excited
As they knew that her head, stuck on a spike, would scare the living shit
Out of even the fiercest and most evil members of the Transylvanian undead.
So those wicked brutes grabbed poor ugly San and they carted her off forthwith
(luckily I managed to grab hold of her handbag before she got dragged away)
And I heard their shrieks of glee as her head was safely detached from her body.
I decided I would skip the rest of my meal and invest in a taxi to the station:
Even at that tender age I knew which side my proverbial bread was buttered on.
Dear God, I shall never return to that dreary drab city on the Derwent
And I seriously recommend you to do bleeding likewise if you know what's good for you.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author notes
This is the 56th poem in my ground-breaking "Memories" sequence in which I recall tragic losses I have suffered at the hands of violent criminals and other reprobates. Why not try the other 55? They will repay your effort.
Oh yes, and I have carefully chosen a suitable colour scheme for this poem: a brownish shade reminiscent of the River Derwent when the sewage overflow pipes burst.
This poem is dedicated to "Weewatto" who lives in Derby, the only jewel in that Midlands purgatory. I have made some slight revisions to the original (3 new lines, no less!) to make it even more appealing to her. In nmy own opinion it is a f*cking work of f*cking genius, and I say that without a trace of modesty.
I await your plaudits and other constructive cmments.
Comments
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Most people say, "Where the f*ck?" when they hear the city of Derby mentioned;
Or they think of the horse race which is named after the Earl of Derby not the town,
And is run on the delightful green turf of Epsom in bourgeois Surrey.
And I can fully sympathise with this lamentable lack of geographical awareness,
Bearing in mind no other British city of a comparable size is so worthy of avoidance;
But now I shall illuminate your ignorance, dearest reader, forthwith.
Derby, the county town of dear Derbyshire is but a short drive from the High Peak,
A delectable area of dales and attractive old centres of habitation;
In particular I would comment the lovely spa town of Buxton to you,
With its charming graffito-endowed decaying neo-classical crescents
And its charming Opera House (sadly bereft of an opera company but where,
with a bit of bad luck, you might suffer an amateur Gilbert & Sullivan production);
And of course, Chatsworth House's landscaped gardens are well worth a visit
(at this juncture may I add I once snogged a girl young enough to be my grand-daughter there).
But I digress - anything to delay mentioning the horrors which befell me in Derby.
Perhaps I exaggerate, Derby is not all redbrick ugliness marred by sixties improvements;
Indeed the city possesses the second tallest parish church tower in all of England
Which is one of its fabulous claims to international architectural renown
And the newish bus station is a landmark to the cognoscenti I have heard;
There is also a most charming black and white public house in Queen Street
Whose toilets I nipped into to puke up a load of half-digested Pakistani grub.
But what was I doing in downtown Derby if it is so grim a metropolis?
Well, confidentially, many moons ago (when I was young and utterly unscrupulous)
I was propositioned by a very ugly but wealthy lady of an uncertain age
Who offered me a significant amount of folding lolly for a weekend of untrammelled access
To my (then) utterly handsome lithe honed and toned torso and mighty genitalia
And Derby was the only place where I could be sure no one would recognise me
As only blind tourists or masochistic mental defectives would ever go there.
And thus it came to pass that Sandra Ramsbottom-Snotworth and I ended up
In the hideously decorated bridal suite of a self-rated four star hotel
Whose name I will not mention for fear of causing a ruinous libel suit.
Oh how I suffered during our extended lovemaking, even with my eyes screwed shut
And the lights out, I could still visualise the horror I was copulating with:
You did not win the "Ugliest Woman Over 50" contest in Northumberland
In the early sixties without having something special in the physiognomy department
And Sandra had wiped the floor with her rivals three years in a *bunny* row.
But, none too soon, our sweaty contortions were ended albeit momentarily
And we went downstairs to the Wild-West themed "Steak 'n' Burger" bar for a snack
And it was then that tragedy befell poor old Sandra, my companionette in lust.
A group of Transylvanian vampirists were holding their annual convention in the hotel
(it was probably the only establishment in Britain who would accept them
mainly because of their unearthly bad breath and disgusting body odour);
And when they saw Sandra's ghastly dial, they got really quite excited
As they knew that her head, stuck on a spike, would scare the living *bunny*
Out of even the fiercest and most evil members of the Transylvanian undead.
So those wicked brutes grabbed poor ugly San and they carted her off forthwith
(luckily I managed to grab hold of her handbag before she got dragged away)
And I heard their shrieks of glee as her head was safely detached from her body.
I decided I would skip the rest of my meal and invest in a taxi to the station:
Even at that tender age I knew which side my proverbial bread was buttered on.
Dear God, I shall never return to that dreary drab city on the Derwent
And I seriously recommend you to do f*cking likewise if you know what's good for you. -
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To Michaella
I shall be obliged to report you report you for scamming points.
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Urp, I honestly didn't read this, but I bet it's the best tootin piece of literature out there and I recommend it to everyone. (except nancy pelosi, she'ss ugly)
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Applause.
I give you a standing ovation for this fucking piece. I have been to Buxton and have many friends who currently reside there but I myself will not go again. I loved the unfolding of events, how ever tragic they were. Nice that you were able to secure the handbag, hope it was worth the night terrors that I'm sure followed.
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