I know. I know. It's not actually a ballad.

 

I’ve laughed till my sides split at some of the shows

No longer on the TV

The Beverley Hillbillies, Morecambe and Wise,

And Open All Hours are just three.

 

Then Gavin and Stacey, One Foot in the Grave,

The Young Ones and Benidorm too,

And then there’s Blackadder, of course, Benny Hill

And Porridge to name but a few.

 

But of all of the programmes I’ve ever enjoyed

That’s been discontinued a while

The finest by far in my humble view

Was the one that starred Jeremy Kyle.

 

Wayne and Waynetta are seated apart

For fear that she carries a knife

And Wayne is accusing the world and his dog

Of shagging his beautiful wife.

 

Now, most say her beauty’s best called somewhat niche

With spare tyres beneath her crop top

And forearms like Popeye, a face that’s as fair

As a Featherstone rugby league prop.

 

Soon Charlene storms onto the set from the wings

With snarling and swearing and threats,

Fuelled up by a couple of lines of cocaine,

Four vodkas and free cigarettes.

 

Waynetta’s not taking this crap lying down

So Steve who’s the bouncer wades in

He stands in between them as strong as an ox

But catches one square on the chin.

 

Then Wayne who’s been left out of all this so far

Complains of his black and blue glans

“I can’t get no sleep because of these two

Making excessive demands”.

 

Waynetta’s pink shell suit reveals her bum crack

Charlene hoiks her gob on the floor;

Graham the counsellor fears for his life

And cowers behind a stage door.

 

Then Wayne gets his nob out to offer us proof

He says he’d be glad of a rest;

Now Jeremy opens the envelope

To reveal the paternity test.

 

At last silence falls upon our motley crew

As they await news of the sprog;

But Jezza announces that no-one’s to blame –

It turns out the father’s the dog.