Bournemouth once again has me in its midst. I returned on Monday via a myriad of frustrating public transport, and I have already consumed every minute of lecturing scheduled for this term. Now just to wait for the exams...
In the interim between my living here – some know it as Easter – something sat in the corner of our kitchen, silently growing. The mysterious beast seemed impatient with waiting to be consumed by us lowly students. Upon my return I found this beast hiding amongst others similar.
Imaginatively named ‘onion’ by my flat, we have kept this example of lacklustre onion-use to forever (or at least for the next few weeks) remind us that buying a massive sack of these root vegetables really isn’t necessary.
My return to Bournemouth also saw me set to work on four limericks due in today. That’s right; an assignment of mine was to write some limericks. I am paying over £3,000 a year in order to do this course, and an assignment that goes towards my grade for the year is writing some jovial, ‘slightly saucy’ poems.
Note the quotation of ‘slightly saucy’ – this is a genuine snippet of the official document given to us outlining what is necessary. This is the full sentence; ‘They should be funny and slightly saucy without being over rude.’ I kid you not.
We were also told that ‘work should be neatly presented with due attention to spelling’. Now, as an English student – and a human over the age of 10 – I can’t see how this statement isn’t painfully patronising and completely inappropriate for supposedly ‘Higher Education’.
Anyway, these are the poems I wrote. There is yet another piece of explicit material in here, so watch out. This blog is becoming obscene!
There is an old boat moored’n Dover,
And upon its hull is a clover,
It once brought such luck,
And the captain a fuck,
Despite his sweet tooth for pavlova.
The sheep that reside on the Marsh,
Put up with unreasonably harsh,
But they’ll still squirm away
When the Welsh come to play,
Despite the claim that Welshmen sexually abuse sheep being an ungrounded, ridiculous and frankly racist stereotype that resides upon solely farce and lies.
There is a strange boy from Headcorn,
Who has an addiction to porn,
On Google he looks,
No need for those books,
That dirty little pervert called Shaun.
There was a young man from Herne Bay,
Who’d often proclaim he was gay,
He’d go up to Camden,
Once, twice and again,
To find a man with whom he could play.
Writing these really drew my attention to what an awful form of literature the limerick is. What seems more important is the rhythm, so one could just grunt rhythmic noises along to the meter and it would be as effective as a thought-out and laboured-over piece.
As we were also bound to the ‘slightly saucy’ rule, it was nigh on impossible to write anything remotely interesting or meaningful, so do excuse the crudeness of them.
One last thing before I go, I got bored so I made this advert from a picture that I thought looked fitting. You can tell I’ve been bored.
Adieu.
