People tend to say "Bleeding elitist or what?"
When they hear Glyndebourne Festival Opera mentioned,
As indeed they might bearing in mind that the front stalls
Cost a cool two hundred quid and two years' wait to boot.
But Glyndebourne is a quintessential English thing,
Where we upper class chappies show the oiks the door,
And indulge in a bit of cultural masturbation.
I recall I was invited down there to see
"The Coronation of Poppea" or something
Equally high class and anti-proletarian
By an ancient fat Duchess of my acquaintance;
(she had been widowed only the previous week,
but was buggered if she would waste the ticket,
and anyway she fancied yours truly gutless).
So we went down to the depths of rural Sussex
In her antiquated gold-plated stretched Rolls-Royce,
Her butch mulatto chauffeur at the leather wheel,
With a Fortnum and Mason's hamper in the boot,
Together with three chilled magnums of Veuve Cliquot;
How I nearly gagged when I saw her turkey's throat
Wobbling in the Autumn sunlight, hot with her lust.
Faithful old Sambo drove like the late Stirling Moss;
And, having served us with a goodly gallon of fizz
Delivered us to the Opera House in fine time;
And, as I suffered the old tart's hideous gropings,
I understood the truth of that wise old age,
"There's no such effing thing as a free effing lunch".
But how many sodding pints of vintage champagne
Can damp the horror of an old tart's tongue sushi?
After we had suffered the tedium of Act One
We repaired to the gardens and our posh picnic,
Smoked salmon and lobster on solid silver salvers,
Candles in baronial sconces on linen'd damask,
On our table on the green rolling Sussex lawns.
When the Long Interval was but half-way through,
My hostess announced she was ready for a f*ck
In the bushes down by the trellised rose garden,
And who was I to refuse such a horrid treat?
Thus was I obliged to take the fat filthy old trout
And bend her over in the time-honoured fashion
To give her a good old seeing to, my eyes tight shut,
In order to avoid the sight of her flaccid butts.
I must now confess it was a blessed release
When a myocardial infarct caused her to expire,
With a ladylike shriek, onto the manicured lawn
Shortly after our immense feigned mutual climax.
Sambo, her swarthy major-domo, showed his mettle
By carting his boss's corpse off to the Roller
Whilst little me, sophisticated comme toujours,
Went in to the auditorium for Act Two,
During which artistic event I persuaded
The elderly aristocratic biddy
In the next door seat to give me a quick frottage
As consolation for the loss of my dear friend.
It is so truly an indisputable fact
That true breeding will out at a time of crisis.
Adding your comment:
Good luck and keep writing!!
