Many people will have heard of the ancient city of Gloucester,
Part time home of the admirable Three Choirs Festival,
A wonderland for the tourist, replete with Roman foundations,
Dingy dilapitated Victorian docks (note the alliteration,
those of my learned readers who are literary aesthetes),
And the unique distinction among towns of such distinction
That it has no professional theatre or orchestra
Or indeed any trace of high culture whatsoever
(apart from the appallingly naff Boat Jumble Festival);
However Gloucester has two outstanding claims to fame.
Firstly, it has good exit roads so you can leave easily
In order to go somewhere more interesting (anywhere in fact);
And the second claim to fame is immortal Cromwell Street.
I was visiting this gorgeous gem of an English city in order to attend
One of the more exciting events organised by the intrepid geniuses
Working day and night for the enterprising local tourist board:
The "Fred and Rosemary West Familiarisation Tour",
Involving lifelike re-enactments of Fred's adventures
By talented local amateur "thesbians" in the King's Theatre
(as well as spontaneous alfresco interments on street corners,
one of which made my regurgitate a whole Cheese Whopper
all in one staggering gooey lump of multi-coloured majesty).
In order to get my new bulimic goth teenage mistress, Sandra, excited
I had invited her on the Fred and Rosemary tour, as she loves blood
(and I was suffering from erectile dysfunction mainly because
of her unfamiliarity with a bar of soap, and I thought even she
would need a shower after watching the show at the King's).
Tragically, the performance was interrupted by a group of rivals:
Yes, you are right, it was the ultra-violent Yorkshire Ripper Fan Club
Staging a protest that their man was a more brutal serial killer
(which in my wise opinion is a load of old bollocks, Fred W. could have
knocked spots off Peter Sutcliffe any old day in a straight contest -
anyway, such a discussion is academic since dear Fred is dead
and old Pete is safely locked away in a friendly loony bin).
But I digress: poor Sandra got so involved in the theatrical debate
That she more or less obliged some of the less stable Sutcliffe fans
To disembowel her there and then in the front stalls of the theatre.
I can tell you, dear reader, I was more than a little bit frightened
And I hot-tailed it out of the historic auditorium toute de suite,
Heading for the nearest hostelry for a quick Campari and soda,
En route to the red light district down by the docks for a quickie.
Need I say that I shall avoid this urban Gloucestershire paradise
For any of my planned future romantic and erotic assignations?
(So any nymphos interested will need to suggest an alternative.)
(In the photo the one on the left is Fred - I think)
Honorable mention
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