Putin had a little coup
He hadn’t been expecting
While lurking in a Russian loo
Attempting his erecting
Damn Prighozin! I nearly had
A hard on. Proper stonker
And now it’s gone I’m feeling sad
Said Putin. What a plonker
He shut his eyes and tried again
He dressed as Betty Grable
He tried remembering the men
He’d had across his table
But nothing. Except Prighozin
Appearing. Maskirovka!
Said Putin. For the veil was thin
Or was it too much vodka
Fuck Prighozin. Said Putin and
Hey presto! An erection
Three inches in his little hand
Relief and resurrection
He smiled his special Putin smile
And raised an eyebrow slightly
(Been having Botox for a while
A little prick twice nightly)
The work was done, and that was it
Successful masturbation
And finally a face to fit
His special operation
Much prettier than Volodymyr
Zelensky who, said Putin
I tried to take right up the rear
But then he put the boot in
Knock, knock. Who’s there? It’s Prighozin
Come in and have some vodka!
Said Putin. For the veil was thin
Or was it Maskirovka
© Gail Foster 24th June 2023
Innuendo
Dirty Dusting at Devizes Arts Festival
*
Dirty Dusting, a tale of three elderly cleaners threatened with redundancy who start up a sex chat line, hit the stage at the Corn Exchange on Wednesday night. The play premiered in South Shields in 2003, and is currently performed by Crissy Rock, of Benidorm fame, Leah Bell, Dolores Porretta, and Andrew Green.
The audience were vociferously amused from the outset, and by the end were overtaken with mirth. After all, sex is funny, and we British do like our innuendo. Think seaside postcards and Carry On. Think Les Dawson and Mrs. Brown’s Boys. Toss in a bit of slapstick and stick slapping and more references to coming than in the Festival publicity, and there have you have it. Dirty Dusting. A riotous smut fest.
Leah Bell as Glad (‘all over’) aka Madonna is the star of the show, and it is the late flowering of her sexuality and physical comedy that provides the most laughs. Crissy Rock is the worldly wise and weary Elsie (Kylie), Dolores Porretta plays Olive (Marilyn), whose sexless marriage was once punctuated by an affair with a Scoutmaster called Arthur, and Andrew Green is the arrogant boss with a furtive secret.
It’s a whole new world (hole, even) for the Telephone Belles from the minute the phone rings. There are misunderstandings about water sports, references to hand puppets, and revelations relating to crotchless panties. It’s a steep learning curve. Good times for Glad, as she and the previously disappointing (‘You could time an egg by him’) Billy reap the rewards of her re-energised libido, but bad times for the boss (domestic suction devices; don’t do this at home, kids) as his unusual fetish is exposed. The story ends with the ladies emerging victorious and the whole cast appearing in comedy S&M gear.
I’ve never heard an audience laugh so much and so often in the Corn Exchange. People absolutely loved it. They spilled out of the Ceres Hall with happy smiles, saying things like ‘Brilliant, really clever’, ‘A laugh’, and ‘Best thing I’ve seen for a long time’. To see that people enjoyed our Festival event so much was wonderful.
I laughed twice. Something just didn’t sit right for me. In the interval I talked to Lesley Mills, who voiced her concerns about the clichéd negative portrayal of older women and their sexuality in the show. We both found a couple of the jokes a bit gross, particularly the one about things dangling out of the aforesaid crotchless thingies. Which surprises me because neither of us are prudes, and I have a reputation for mildly vulgar poetry. We also struggled to place the play in a particular time. The characters seemed to come from the 70s, but even though the phones were old fashioned there were references to Google, credit card payments, and the odious Trump.
‘You realise it was written by men’ said a gentleman from the Festival committee, quietly.
Get over yourself, some might say. It’s just a bit of fun. There’s nothing serious about it. Lighten up a bit, for goodness sake! Fair enough, but this is 2018, and we are currently revising our view on what is and isn’t acceptable regarding what and how things are said about whom. If this play had been written in, or firmly set in, the 70s, I would have understood it as being of its time and enjoyed it more. But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t ironic either. Which left me feeling slightly uncomfortable and confused.
Sorry to be a party pooper, people.
But I never did like Mrs Brown’s Boys.
© Gail Foster 17th June 2018
Me Name Is May (audio)
A Beltane Rhyme…
*
© Gail Foster April 28th 2018
Plump Fruits; for a randy friend
Ha ha, Girl, you know who you are…
*
I meet her sometimes when I’m walking
She’s as ripe as the fruit in the hedge
Today on the corner, she’s talking
Of the virtues of sex, and of veg
…
She shows me her favourite carrot
Like a rabbit, she says, oh I see
I’ve read about those in me garret
They look a bit scary to me
…
My voice gets her all of a flutter
Oh bless her, so randy, but sweet
Like the apples she turns in to butter
And the jam that she makes for a treat
…
We both prefer men, she’s just flirty
And her light innuendos are fun
Next to her I feel slightly less dirty
And more like a well behaved nun
…
Oh, she fizzes like sherbet fountains
And no rose be as fresh, or as pink
And as for the plump of her raspberries, well
I’d best leave it there, I think
*
© Gail Foster 28th October 2016
Tarquin Botley’s Hole
Take that, ‘Tarquin’, for your mischievous poem about digging…
*
Tarquin Botley was confused
Dishevelled and dismayed
How can you dig a hole with ‘owt
You cannot call a spade?
He’d really dug a lovely hole
A fork had come in handy
And then some faffing with a hoe
Had made the rim look dandy
It sure was an amazing hole
‘Twas dark and deep, inviting
The making of it had been hard
The end result exciting
Quite why he’d dug it wasn’t clear
At some point he’d said ‘F*ck It’
Had armed himself with beer, and
His very favourite bucket
Then he started, then he finished
Then he stood, in thought, beside it
Not quite sure next what to do
To fall right in, or hide it
For how do you explain a hole
Discreetly and politely
Without referencing arseholes
Or the once a week, or nightly
Now Tarquin was a tactful cove
Politically correct
He stood there thinking by his hole
All noble and erect
Till he came to a conclusion
That is popular with men
I’ll fill it up, and then I’ll come
And dig it out again
*
© Gail Foster 22nd August 2016
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast and the Curious Cocks of Brownsea Island
*
an epic tale of innuendo
*
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Philosopher, poet, and muse
Wore Victorian skirts that swept up the dirt
And peculiar button up shoes
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Found herself suddenly slighted
Bereft and bemused, and less than amused
And suffering love unrequited
The effect on her verse was dramatic, and worse
‘Twas inspired by horns and baguettes
As hysterical rage seeped through pen to the page
Like some awful poetic Tourettes
Eyebrows were raised as her work was appraised
It was said she was caustic and crude
A potty mouthed tart with a poisonous heart
Who was totally randy and rude
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Watched her story unfold with dismay
Watched her petticoats slip as each vulgar quip
Made a whore of her more every day
So she packed up her quill, and pink ink for a thrill
Spare petticoats, perfume and papers
Her smelling salts, eye mask and lavender bags
For random attacks of the vapours
I will go to an island, Fantasia said
I will contemplate beauty, and truth
I will take me a train, travel far, and regain
The lost innocence of my youth
The romance of islands, Fantasia thought
All lost in the shine of the sea
Supernaturally kissed in a glimpse through the mist
How inspiring, how perfect, how me
The day on the train was a bit of a strain
There were some sticky moments with tunnels
And the bit where the guard blew his whistle real hard
Made her tears of mirth flow in runnels
Much to her shame, the boat was the same
Flushed her delicate cheek to a bloom
Oh, the sniggering joys of seamen and buoys
Being tossed on the wave and the spume
The island was lit by a mystical light
And the breezes blew scents warm and heady
Like a virgin, she thought, that has never been caught
Although many had been there already
She started to feel profound and unreal
No man is an island, quoth she
An island’s an island, a man is a man
And neither’s the other one, see
She undid her bonnet, inspired, and on it
Licked her quill and began to create
A verse about loneliness, islands and stuff
Solemnness, sorrow, and fate
It was peaceful and sweet, there were flowers at her feet
And the soft sound of sea through the trees
All became gentleness, sweetness and light
Purity, poetry, ease
For a moment, a moment, Fantasia there
Channelled a serious grace
Although anyone else would have just seen some bird
Looking mad with a gurn on her face
Gone was the gut churning river of smut
That had streamed from her mouth and her pen
I am making a vow, Fantasia said
No more innuendo or men
The universe heard, every well-meaning word
‘Tis the way that the universe works
And God likes a joke, like a mischievous bloke
Who plays practical jokes upon jerks
What sound is that, our Fantasia thought
Absentmindedly watching a deer
Like a low distant grumble, a curious rumble
Got louder, and odder, and near
Suddenly, far in the distance, a herd
Of curious cockerels appeared
Oh my goodness, she said, and reached for the salts
For a sniff’s always good when a-feared
They’re coming, they’re coming, the curious cocks
They’re growing, they’re growing in size
Not surprising as they were much nearer by then
Running swifter than any crow flies
The cocks are upon me, Fantasia cried
Like a rabbit in lamplight she froze
As, eager to play and all puffed in display
They peck, pecked, at her skirts and her toes
They were all shapes and sizes, blue, green and red
Some aggressive, some shy and retiring
Some had a wild beady look in their eyes
And one had no cylinders firing
It was surely a shock, the appearance of cock
In the midst of the island idyll
Ironic in fact in the light of the pact
Fantasia had made with her quill
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Suddenly knew what to do
For all that was needed to scare off the cocks
Was the swish of her skirts and a “Boo!”
Growing smaller, and smaller, the curious cocks
Disappeared as fast as they came
‘Twas all quite astounding, Fantasia thought
And the universe reckoned the same
*
Fantasia Lavender Fortescue-Prendergast
Philosopher, poet, and muse
Inspired by the tale of the curious cocks
Penned a verse to surprise and amuse
The wink of the sailor boy on the way back
Made her flush with a blush that was red
There was something about him that floated her boat
“Just call me Fanny” she said
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 