Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 9, 2010

Does Your Willy Ride a Roller Skate…?

Another little ditty about a sweet and delicate friend, without whom none of us would be the same.

Please note that before the reader is permitted to partake of this tender salute to man’s best friend, and in order that his reading pleasure might be enhanced, he is obliged to read the following directions and to obey them to the letter.

Rule Number 1: The author’s instructions must be obeyed.  This rousing anthem is extremely convoluted, as well as sublimely subtle.  If the reader does not follow the author’s intent and pay full and undivided attention to the text, he is sure to get muddled.  Warning: to not look for hidden meanings.  You won’t find them, not even if you belong to one of those secret intelligence spy-ring cells.

Rule Number 1(a) – an explanation: You will note that the author explicitly said ‘he’.  The author shall brook no criticism to the effect that he is guilty of harbouring gender bias; he may be a pig – and possibly vaginaphobic – but he is in no way sexist.  He is, however, a sensitive soul, and he is all too aware that the subject matter may not be fully ‘appreciated’ by certain members of the gentler sex.  But remember this: patience is a virtue, and all those who are judged to be among the fairest and daintiest under God’s heaven shall be, in the fullness of time, duly rewarded.  For it is the sacred promise of this author that those delicate creatures, without whose wombs most dictators would not have been born, and without whose breasts they might have died within the first ten minutes, will be honoured by a spritely ode dedicated to the none other than the sacred pelvic floor. It goes without saying, this is a topic dear to every female heart, but one which is not only misunderstood by the lowly male, but which is almost totally incomprehensible.  In other words, it falls into the well-known category to which so many mysteries are consigned by men, the “Wot da fuck is that when it’s at ‘ome?” category, along with asparagus, opera, making one’s own bed, doing the washing up, and remembering not to scratch himself at the breakfast table.  

The fact of the matter is that a willy, as far as the more radicalised members of the female left are concerned, is given the same amount of respect that the entire entire female sex is accorded by the average Glasgow Rangers Football supporter. But since the average Glasgow Rangers fan mentions his willy at least ten times every ten seconds, whereas the average member of the female sex (let alone the members of the radicalised left) mentions her pelvic floor not at all, it is no wonder it has remained one of the greatest mysteries of all time. It only surprises me that some enterprising young composer of dissonant music has not made it into an opera for Glyndebourne.  And why, for that matter, is there no Broadway musical?  Andrew Lloyd-Webber, where are you when we need you?

 Before proceeding, we are opening the floor to those who were so busy looking at the illustrations during their sex-education classes that they forgot to listen.  No questions?  Then obviously you have not understood a single word I’ve said.  We shall continue regardless, and those of you in the back row who have not yet finished your breakfast, please leave now.

Rule Number 1 – a continuation: (The reader should note that the author has not erred, and that this is, in fact, not Rule Number 1B, but a continuation of the actual rule itself.  And yes, there will be a test during the next period, so write everything down carefully).

As has been clearly stated in Rule Number 1, paragraph I, if the rule is not followed to the letter, the reader shall experience a certain amount of confusion and disorientation, leading to an irreversible malaise.  Having established this, it should be understood that this anthem shall be sung lustily and at full volume and while the reader is marching proudly ‘round the room in a clockwise direction.  Under no circumstances may he slouch upon a couch or under his duvet, and he is not permitted to skim through it as though it were just another selection gleaned from the poetry canon to fulfil his educational requirements and help him answer those two multiple-choice bonus questions at the end of his A-level theoretical physics exam.  In other words, this is not one of those tedious poems written by tubercular and syphilis-riddled romantic poets.  You may be able to get away with skimming some of Shakespeare’s little doodlings, or even with the meagre witterings of Keats or Shelley, but when you are celebrating something you hold so dear as your little willy, you must be more respectful.  So, how should we approach this?  First of all, stand up straight.  Then take a deep breath, throw back your shoulders, suck in your gut, raise your head proudly, and beat your little drummer boy like a man.   And if you have been eating a proper diet, and said your prayers every night before going to bed, and have never taken your clothes off without shouting “Glory be to God in the Highest!”, ol’ willy will rise like a rocket, not fall like a soufflé when someone opens the oven door prematurely.

Now, if you are teaching this at a state school, it might be advisable to compel the students to first study the following text before the actual reading is attempted.    To do this, they must first sit at their desks, return their bacon butties and stilettos to their rucksacks, take out a highlighter – (and no, not to colour a moustache on the ginger dweeb sitting in the next desk).  You then ask the pupils to read through the poem and mark any unfamiliar words.  And please note: any pupils who mark every single word will be severely punished.  In other words, they will be sentenced to a whole day eating nothing but Jamie Oliver’s healthy school meals.

Now once everyone has the basic idea down pat, then the teacher (you) lines them up along the west wall of the classroom.  You set the tempo by cracking two heads together – a signal that every boy should extract his implement from its hiding place. Then, on the count of three – and setting off on the right foot – the marching will commence.

Now, in more advanced classes the room may be divided in half.  The lads wearing the blue ribbons will march in a clockwise direction, and the lads in the pink ribbons, will skip daintily in the opposite – or anti-clockwise – direction.

Now please note, that in the case of the more advanced classes, there must be a dramatic pause before the last two verses.  During this pause, the two halves will line up in the centre of the room, facing each other.  At this point, the boys with the blue ribbons will be presented with long poles, and the other group – the boys in pink – shall be presented with sparkly fairy wands.  There will then be a dramatic fanfare (composed – it goes without saying – by none other than Andrew Lloyd Webber and performed on the cello by his brother Julian). As this fanfare reaches its climax, a cannon shall be discharged, after which the final two verses shall be performed as a Morris Dance, with the boys in pink flitting about with their little wands, and the boys in blue clubbing the boys in pink with their poles.  It goes without saying that the skipping and frolicking and clubbing must be done on the beat, and every single time the boys in pink are clubbed, the boys in blue will chant, “Fuck Fuck Fuck!” and the boys in pinks will squeal (in an eager falsetto tone), “Oo Oo Oo!”

Now, I do not anticipate that the boys from the state school will ever achieve this level of perfection, but as long as they can march round the room without the classroom disintegrating into bedlam and with only the accepted modicum of blood having been spilled, I shall be satisfied.

And remember: if you are not sophisticated enough to glide your tongue around the meter: force it (it’s the first step to understanding how poetry should be read).  And if you are not sure of the meaning, try to remember last term’s lecture on ‘connotation’.

Are we ready?  Then at the count of four, let us begin:  “a one – a two – a three – a four:”

 Doth willy ride a roller skate

And slide across the floor?

When his foreskin’s filled with chocolate

Do you love him all the more?

 

Doth your willy like to strut his stuff

Across the ballroom floors?

Do his danglies really shake and bake

When you bang them ‘tween the doors?

 

Doth willy stand up straight and tall,

Sing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing?’

When drooping does he hit the floor,

And ring out with a mighty ping?

 

When willy strokes your little dog,

Doth he pick up all his fleas?

Doth he hate to walk out in the fog

Or dance upon the freezing breeze?

 

Doth your willy get a headache

When he climbs into a tree?

Doth he taste like jam and crumpets

And smell of kedgeree?

 

Doth his inner tube go poking out

At the smallest thing?

And doth he always spit his wad

Du-ring the Highland fling?

 

Doth your willy ride a roller coaster

At the county fair?

Will it peer into the toaster

Upon a punter’s dare?

 

Doth willy ever read a book

On summer afternoons?

Or doth he sit and watch the box

Or play upon the runes.

 

Doth willy hide out from the chef

When the water it doth boil?

And doth he not like steamy baths

When all wrapped up in foil?

 

Doth willy pack his bags and flee,

When greeted by a moil?

And doth he sail across the sea

Or trench into the soil?

 

Doth willy rub in olive oil

Upon his tender head?

When blisters start to bleed and roil

And scorch it purple red?

 

Doth willy take a holiday

When rubbed raw by your hand?

And do you give him ginger beer

And affix a rubber band?

 

When willy doth crave company

Do you treat him very nice?

Or do you shove him in all dry,

And smack him once or twice?

 

When willy goes into your barn

To ride upon a horse,

And when you try to jump a fence,

Do you dump him in the gorse?

 

Doth willy argue with your guys

When they do belly ache,

And do they snigger at its size

And say he was a wee mistake?

 

When willy he doth take a bath

Upon a morn so cold,

Then doth your wife say ‘ain’t he cute,’

A’hidin’in his fold?”

 

Is willy very camera shy

And hates to take his pic,

Do you snap it anyway

And below it write: ‘this is my dick?’

 

If that is what you do, my friend

Then please remember this,

Willy’s the only friend you’ve got

So do not take the piss.

 

If he decides to go on strike,

There’s nothing you can do.

No surgery or bright blue pills

Will fix the damage you did do?

 

So treat your little willy nice,

And moisturize his skin

And powder him all up so nice,

And make his facie grin.

 

Then he will serve you all your days,

And make you very proud.

Through all your good and sundry lays,

You’ll thank him oh, so loud.

 

For he hath been through thick and thin,

A faithful happy chap,

So do not push your luck, my friend,

And land him with the clap.

 

And if you shove him up a whore

After a drunken brawl,

Please don’t forget to wrap him up

Inside a latex shawl.

 

So, drink to little willy, please,

He is your one true friend.

He knows your moods inside and out,

And will your spirits mend.

 

Oh, willy dear, when I do die,

I’ll stuff you full of straw,

And hang you up upon the wall

Above the gun rack in the hall.

 

And when St. Peter wants to know,

Why was it left behind?

You’ll say it’s time it had some fun….

All on its own, without a thuggish man to mind.

 

This little song is at its end

There isn’t any more.

The same is true about you, my friends, …

Please leave, and shut the door.

 

A Note for Headmasters and teachers:   Should this exercise prove successful, may I suggest it should be presented by the whole school during Sports Day?  And don’t be too concerned about the parents’ reactions:  those who do not understand it will be too embarrassed to ask, and who do understand will be too embarrassed to say anything at all.  But, in any case, I shouldn’t worry too much about that.  Anyone who’s ever heard a group rendition of anything at a school assembly will know that, not only will none of the pupils remember many of the words, but the words that are remembered will be completely mangled, and therefore, unintelligible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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