The Special Category

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'Don't Let's Be Beastly To The Germans' - Noel Coward

We must be kind, and with an open mind
We must endeavour to find a way
To let the Germans know that when the war is over
They are not the ones who'll have to pay.
We must be sweet, and tactful and discreet
And when they've suffered defeat
We mustn't let them feel upset
Or ever get the feeling that we're cross with them or hate them,
Our future policy must be to reinstate them.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
When our victory is ultimately won,
It was just those nasty Nazis who persuaded them to fight
And their Beethoven and Bach are really far worse than their bite
Let's be meek to them, and turn the other cheek to them
And try to bring out their latent sense of fun.
Let's give them full air parity
And treat the rats with charity,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

We must be just, and win their love and trust
And in addition we must be wise
And ask the conquered lands to join our hands to aid them.
That would be a wonderful surprise.
For many years they've been in floods of tears
Because the poor little dears
Have been so wronged and only longed
To cheat the world, deplete the world
And beat the world to blazes.
This is the moment when we ought to sing their praises.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
When we've definitely got them on the run
Let us treat them very kindly as we would a valued friend
We might send them out some bishops as a form of lease and lend,
Let's be sweet to them, and day by day repeat to them
That 'sterilization' simply isn't done.
Let's help the dirty swine again
To occupy the Rhine again,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
When the age of peace and plenty has begun.
We must send them steel and oil and coal and everything they need
For their peaceable intentions can be always guaranteed.
Let's employ with them a sort of 'strength through joy' with them,
They're better than us at honest manly fun.
Let's let them feel they're swell again,
And bomb us all to hell again,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

Don't let's be beastly to the Germans
For you can't deprive a gangster of his gun
Though they've been a little naughty,
To the Czechs and Poles and Dutch,
But I don't suppose those countries really minded very much.
Let's be free with them and share the BBC with them,
We mustn't prevent them basking in the sun.
Let's soften their defeat again,
And build their bloody fleet again,
But don't let's be beastly to the Hun.

We Love The Welsh!

It seemed often a volatile battle,
A tense feud, England and Wales between.
We must unite! Culture differences settle,
Salute our mutual Queen.

It's the land of the harp, the lovespoon,
The yellow daffodil, the dragon red,
Newtown, to Flint, to St. Davids,
St. Donats, up to Holyhead.

With no need of reason, they burst into tune,
Seems at the drop of the hat, a choir form,
A welcome they'd keep in the hillsides,
(At least, our holiday homes they keep warm).

The mines dignified the urban community,
Between Pontardawe and Pontypridd,
They buzzed, but now they're the pits,
And Port Talbot steel, that's under Neath.

The men are men...sheep undoubtedly edgy,
Bleat whether the wether, the ewe or the ram.
Found in most pubs, between eleven and twelve,
Untold mutton, but dressed-up as lamb.

There's the Catatonia star Cerys Matthews,
The taffette attitude, to the letter!
But Ian Watkins (Lostprophets), best not mention.
(That bastard, the least said the better).

There's seaweed abundant (thus laver bread),
Straight outta Newport, Goldie Lookin Chain,
The Tiger Bay temptress dubbed "Dame Burly Chassis",
But little Ms. Church, three-sheets *yet* again.

There's the rugby legend Gareth Edwards,
Ryan Giggs (Man-U)...he netted League fame,
So talented at shots between the sheets,
That his own brother-in-law he became.

Drove Caerphilly north, Eisteddfod dinner,
(Rarebit...cheese on toast...lush nosh!)
Saw signs between twenty/twenty-five-odd feet, that said,

Over-burdened downstairs, and with a hairy chest,
I went to the doctor, endowment tests sought:
- "This 'Tom Jones Syndrome', is that common, then?"
- "It's not unusual!", his gentle retort.

That Bonnie Tyler? Still bemused, in France,
But where, then, did she go wrong?
It's a heartache, even a total eclipse,
Maybe for that hero she held out too long?

The beautiful Catherine Zeta Jones,
Kylie Minogue's mum, and Owain Glyndwr,
At the baize, the talented Matthew Stevens,
The Manics (band), Ty Nant, Mumbles (Gower).

The humble statesman Nye Bevan,
Benevolent to the hilt,
Unforgotten by every lefty household,
- The new N.H.S. fundamentally he built.

The late presbyterian William Evans,
(Now he's "Evans Above", so to speak),
The Johnny Owen statue in Merthyr Tydfil,
The national vegetable (that's the leek).

Dylan Thomas, the esteemed poet,
Then the funnyman Rhys-Jones (Griff),
Time for a toast, a budget bottle of bubbly:
"Tidy darts, mun! Cymru am byth!"



After a joyous night of drugs, alcohol and wild sex, Eric woke up to find himself lying next to a really ugly woman. That's when he realised he'd made it home safely.

Seven wheelchair athletes have been banned from the Paralympics after they tested positive for WD40.

A boy says to his granny, 'Have you seen my pills, they're labelled LSD?' Gran replies, 'The hell with the pills, did you see those dragons in the kitchen?"

Vivian gets naked and says to hubby Colin, 'What turns you on more, my pretty face or my sexy body?' Colin looks her up and down and replies, 'Your sense of humour?' Hospital visiting hours are 5-6pm.

Cyril's wife is on the warpath again. She was up for making a sex movie last night, and all he did was to suggest they hold auditions for her part. The viewing will be Saturday from 7:00 till 8:30.

I awoke this morning at 9 o'clock and I could sense that something was wrong. On going downstairs, I found my wife lying on the kitchen floor, not breathing! I panicked, I just did not know what to do. Then I remembered, McDonalds serves breakfast until 10:30.

My wife packed my bags, and as I walked out the front door, she screamed, "I wish you a slow and painful death, you bastard!" "Oh," I replied, "so now you want me to stay!”.

I bought my wife Alice a hamster-skin coat yesterday. Last night I took her to the fair, and it took me 3 hours to get her off the Ferris wheel.

Last night, my wife asked me how many women I'd slept with. "Only you, Marcia," I told her, "only you. All the others kept me awake all night!"
My doctor says I should be able to see again in about ten days. The broken arm may take several weeks.

You know what I did before I got married?
Absolutely anything I wanted to.

I accidentally swallowed some Scrabble tiles last night. My next crap could spell disaster.

Old people at weddings always poke me and say, "You're next!"
So now I've started doing the same to them at funerals.

My missus said: "Watcha doing today?"
I said, "Nothing."
She said, "You did that yesterday."
I said, "I wasn't finished."

The importance of walking:

Walking can supposedly add hours to a person's life.
This enables you at 85 years of age to spend an additional 3 months in a nursing home at $4,000 per month.

My grandpop started off walking five miles a day when he was 60.
Now he's 97 and we don't know where the hell he is.

I do like long walks, especially when they're taken by people who annoy me.

The only reason I would take up walking is so I could hear the sound of heavy breathing again.

I need to walk early in the mornings before my brain works out what the hell I'm doing...

Every time I hear that dirty word 'exercise', I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

Seems I suffer from flabby thighs, but fortunately my stomach covers them.

Frankly, the only benefit to be had from hard work-outs every day is, when you die, they'll say, 'Ah, he looks well doesn't he!'

If you're going to try cross-country skiing, you'd best start off with a small country.

I got most of my exercise during the last few years just getting over the hill.

We only get heavier as we grow older because there's more information in our heads.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Whenever I think how haggard and bad I look, I'll find a pub with a Happy Hour and by the time I leave, I look just fine.

When you think about it, God really is the best inventor of them all.
He took a rib from Adam and made a loudspeaker.



Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Out of the night of rum and scotch—
Unconquerable spirits, both—
I curse whatever gods did botch
My corporal frame, in doleful oath.

In twitching bounce of loathsome dream
I stirred, then spewed my weary guts;
And, in the potent headache steam,
Craved sober death by fifty cuts.

Amongst the overtures of hell,
They flung me all a man could sink;
A hateful alcoholic spell;
The bane of manhood, which bade, "drink!"

Anatomy can let you down,
Yet merciless the stoned hurrah.
I am the statesman of the town:
I am the pontiff of the bar.



Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Shall I compare thee to a hairy nerd?
Thou art more reason'd and more fiery:
Thin screams do maim the text of spoken word,
And teenage hate hath all too hale a glee:

Sometime too loose the source of headroom frays,
And often is its heathen manna spill'd;
And every sage from sage sometime decays,
By universe from shade unnerving fill'd:

But thy numeric murmur shall not waste,
Nor lose possession of that sage thou ow'st;
Nor shall bums claim thou mumbl'st in blind haste,
When in distended hide to term thou grow'st:

So long as lines can rhyme, and hearts are free,
So long lives this, and this gives choice to thee.

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Former mayor of London and Brexit campaign leader Boris Johnson's prize-winning limerick about Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdogan --

"There was a young fellow from Ankara
Who was a terrific wankerer.
Till he sowed his wild oats
With the help of a goat
But he didn’t even stop to thankera."

This wayward fool thinks he's a poet
Derogatorily insulting a man from Turkey;
For he can be most irrational,
Brewing with hollow ideas so murky.

If he rejected PM David's answered plea,
Rationalizing the bandwagon for Brexit.
Won't he endorse an appropriate plan
For the UK once he wrecks it?

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