My maternal grandfather had a talent for writing rude poetry. He once changed the lyrics to the whole of Perry Como's "Magic Moments" and would regale us kids with this magnum opus as often as the mood would take him, which was often, because he loved getting a laugh out of us. Needless to say, it was full of the kind of double entendre we didn't understand but thought hilarious. My nan, however, understood it thoroughly and would storm into the room and shout, "that ain't even funny, Albert."
Why am I blogging about this? Well, yesterday I came back from auction and unpacked a box of silver plate and found this pheasant. Almost immediately I was transported back thirty years or so to my nan's front room and my granddad and my uncle Reg saying this tongue twister:
I'm not a pheasant plucker,
I'm the pheasant plucker's son.
I'm only plucking pheasants till the pheasant plucker comes.My nan was so incensed that she hit them both with a stick. Now, that really ain't funny, Albert.