After a series of unfortunate television shows
and poor investments,
Ant and Dec fell on financial hard times.

Years of underpaid student union gigs
dressed as PJ and Duncan ensued
as the Geordie duo’s relationship
slowly deteriorated.

One evening, after a particularly unsuccessful performance at a
Working Men’s Club in St. Helens,
their agent reminded Ant about
the insurance policy they took out many moons ago
that stated if one of them were to die,
the other was entitled to £1million.

Ant smiled as he understood their crafty agent’s
sinister suggestion and began plotting ways to
murder his best friend;
oblivious to the fact that Dec was doing the same
after having a similar chat with their agent.

Unfortunately, due to many alcohol and
drug-fuelled supermarket openings
where Dec would stand on stage right instead of the usual stage left, in an attempt to reinvent themselves as Dec and Ant,
on the day they had planned to carry out the killings
they drunkenly struggled with the age old dilemma
of trying to work out which one of the double act they actually were
and both ended up accidentally killing themselves.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The baby screamed for so long
its head exploded.
Her parents laughed as fellow diners
pulled teeth and bits of tongue out of their bowls of pasta.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

As he sat backstage,
staring at the bloodied stumps
that were once his fully functioning fingers,
Ian, Basingstoke’s second best pianist,
began to seriously regret the bet he made with his housemate.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

But it’s just not fair, whined Michael Fish,
staring into his cup of tea.

We all get hate mail, Fishy, said Sir Trevor McDonald dismissively
as he slurped his raspberry and cherry Slush Puppy.

Moira Stuart nodded and ordered her
second Twister ice lolly.

But they’re blaming me for this heat wave, Michael moaned.
It makes no sense! One said:
‘this is your biggest cock up since the Great Storm of ’87.’
Another called me a ‘boring, bald bastard’.
What should I do?

I dunno, scoffed Sir Trevor. I guess you could always grow a pair?

Moira Stuart high-fived the Knight of the realm
as Michael’s chin began to quiver.

NEWS JUST IN! exclaimed Sir Trevor.
Semi-retired meteorologist has no back bone…
And now for the weather.

Moira Stuart cackled as Michael openly wept;
his tears finally putting an end to the
ongoing drought.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

5:00pm

“It’s OK” said Max, sipping on some wine.
“They only did it three times, we’ll be fine.”

5:15pm

“What a bitch, sleeping with that bastard Rick!”
“I’d love to slap them both,” growled Max. “They make me sick.”

5.30pm

“Oh God, I would do anything.” Max cried.
“How can I win her back? What haven’t I tried?”

5.45pm

“I had dreams of kids and her as my wife.
“This is a nightmare,” sighed Max. “What’s the point of life?”

6:00pm

“Oh well,” said Max, now blushing slightly red.
“Can’t blame her really; Rick was ace when I had him in bed.”

© Carl Burkitt 2013

for Alicia

If I knew you loved The King’s Speech,
I’d wish you a wonderful Firthday.

If I knew you loved Western Australia,
I’d wish you a wonderful Perthday.

If I knew you loved the planet,
I’d wish you a wonderful Earthday.

If I knew you loved a wide set penis,
I’d wish you a wonderful Girthday.

But all I know is you like shit jokes,
so here’s to a punderful Birthday!

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Before I reach one hundred years
I wish to do just one more thing:
Not write a book or learn to sing,
not taste one thousand different beers,
not fix those rusty garden shears,
or even punch that plonker, Sting.
Before I reach one hundred years
I wish to do just one more thing:

Nothing daft like conquering fears
or working out the length of string.
I wish to tell you everything;
then drink up all your pain and tears
Before I reach one hundred years.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

Like those around her,
she lost a limb;
the limb of time.

Our one-armed juggler,
our one-legged sprinter,
our one-eyed lighthouse keeper

her task is monstrous
and often thankless.

Like those missing something,
something vital,
she excels.

Our one fingered pianist,
our one-footed ballerina,
our one-fisted boxer

her efforts are breathtaking
and always noticed.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

There was a young, happy couple that appeared to have it all,
the girl was cute and bubbly, the boy was strong and tall.

Women often frowned at the girl’s sheer joy,
furious they missed out on such a perfect boy.

Whilst men would kick and curse and swear
that they couldn’t see the girl in her underwear.

Now on the surface this couple was ace,
but during the summer a struggle they did face.

You see, the girl, all sweet and pretty and fun,
was a bronzed, little angel who loved bathing in the sun.

But the boy, for rhyming purposes let’s call him Mark,
preferred winter months, hidden in the dark.

Mark was cursed with pale, pathetic, weak skin
and a single ray of light would boil his chin.

He just didn’t care about the benefits of vitamin D,
and would pray they could relax and simply watch TV.

But his sun-thirsty girlfriend, let’s call her Daisy,
loved being outside and thought Mark was just lazy.

On any bright day Mark would wake up and moan,
awaiting Daisy’s texts that would surely be on his phone.

Things like: “Hey there lazy, the sun’s finally shining,
get your shorts on, it’s time for picnic dining.”

More often than not he’d think of a lie;
a way to avoid it, without making her cry.

Things like: “Sorry darlin’, I’m on my way to see mum.”
She need not know he was at home on his bum.

This cat and mouse chase went on for months and days,
until a sun-kissed morn when Daisy wanted some rays.

It was 32 degrees and she was determined to go out,
so she stormed up to Mark’s and confronted the lout.

“Right then, Mark,” she delivered with a scream,
we’re going to the park, grab your sun cream.

Mark yelled and moaned, not once, twice, but thrice,
until Daisy kicked his shin and convinced him it’d be nice.

The young, happy couple lay for hours in the park,
Daisy was proud she’d persuaded stubborn Mark.

But as she opened her eyes to check on her fellow,
she was instantly sick and no longer mellow.

Instead of her boyfriend, who she wanted to cuddle,
lay a melted corpse; a kind of burnt, fleshy puddle.

Daisy wept and longed for her man,
until a bronzed, muscly bloke,
complimented her tan.

© Carl Burkitt 2013