(with acknowledgements to Cubby Broccoli)

We’ve a new allotment holder

Just retired from MI6

Wears a Beretta on his shoulder

Calls our lady members “chicks”

Drives a silver coloured DB5

He won’t get much in that

When he has to transport compost

From his Docklands penthouse flat

 

He takes his Martini shaken,

In his shed he keeps a score

Of days spent with psych...

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There was no bullying at my school, It was called dodgeball—oh, so cruel! We’d throw balls with great might, Hitting targets just right, And the game? Well, it was nobody's rule!

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Every post a sermon, every joke a trial. Laughter is a landmine now— step wrong and you're vile. Eyes scan feeds like scripture, policing tone and word, where irony gets cancelled before it can be heard. They brandish rules like weapons, etched in trending tags, turning nuance into weakness, and context into flags. The crowd won’t storm the palaces, real power lies ignored. T...

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In the grand tradition of poetic rivalries, two ancient Roman masters—Catullus (84 - 54 B.C.) and Martial (40 - 104 A.D.)—turn love, lust, and literary wit into a battle of birds. Catullus mourns the death of his beloved's passer (sparrow) in a tender yet teasingly erotic elegy, while Martial, never one to miss a joke, takes the metaphor and runs with it—boasting that his columba (dove) ...

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The Iglesia del final de los tiempos makes it possible: buy your way into heaven, cleanse your sins with cash, and bottle holiness for personal use. From virginity certificates to antifreeze-laced wine—pay up and be saved. Or scammed. For more bizarre offerings, check out their store at Iglesia del final de los tiempos.
 

Heaven’s cheap—just name your price, a plot of land for paradise. Fi...

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These two sharp and cheeky limericks poke fun at Trump’s famously long tie — and what it might be compensating for. They each want to wrap political satire and playful innuendo into five perfect lines.

Trump’s tie hangs down to his thigh, to distract from what’s small — wonder why? He shouts and he brags, but rumour still nags: It’s all just a well-tailored lie. And another:

Tru...

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Wee Willie’s agent made the call

Willie wasnae expecting it at all

As in his bed he idly lay

That fateful January day

“Get up Willie, Tam exclaimed

Get oot your bed and leave yer hame

Get on your kilt, your brogues, your hose

And grab your pipes and don your clothes

I’ve had a call from the SRU

The very man they need is you

This is no wind up, it’s the truth

They ...

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