Have you heard of my love, cute Claribel,
the singer who, her voice soaring above the chalk Downs,
from Devil’s Dyke to Balham Cove, became known
as The Brighton Belle?

It was she, who when asked where
she was from by a devoted fan,
one Miss Mary MacVeagle, of county Clare,
answered, ‘Hove, a posh district, west of Brighton.’

Mary commented, ‘Oh, I went there on my honeymoon.’
It was going well and our passion was unlimited,
until I lost my newly-wed, Bob in the Lanes,
and I found him trying on a dress in Skirting With Danger,
a cross-dressing shop.

His answer left me rather dismayed, for he said,
‘‘What’s the matter, don’t I look good in a skirt?’’

‘Oh, I sympathise,’ said Claribel, ‘I fell in love with
an Irish American called Michael O’Leary,
the conductor of an all-female choir, the Sussex Sirens.

‘But he was better known in New York as
Michael-The-Chop McGurk, a chief assassin for the Mob.’

This enthusiastic lady invited us to Erin’s Isle,
where this remarkable singer was hailed
as a magnificent artiste,
attracting musicians from Antrim to Galway.

On a whim I treated her to a spell of island-hopping.
So we packed aboard a Cessna monoplane,
landing on Inishman, that tiny islet just off
County Clare’s Cliffs of Moher.

It was the setting for a crazy TV comedy about two clerics,
Father Mugwat and Fr Patrick McBoffin,
and she felt at home there, with its trotting horse and carts,
so unlike Brighton with its kiss-me-quick hats.

Being members of Wild Swimmers
of Britain (naturists’ section),
we swam under a cliff sans clothes,
the sun reflecting off a silver-backed porpoise,
which shot past like a thunderbolt,
propelling me backwards to cry out in pain,
landing on something sharp and scratching my bottom.

Claribel, laughing at my predicament,
suddenly pointed at a rusty propeller shaft,
the cause of the cut that now disfigured my left buttock.

At that moment the sun suddenly shone through the
haze to illuminate a submerged craft.
Exploring further she squealed with delight,
pointing at the ship’s salt-encrusted name, The Lady Claribel.

Swimming to the surface in case my dripping blood
attracted that well known basking shark,
Fergal – apparently I needn’t have worried
because the ancient mammal
was more likely to lick than bite it – we emerged,
babbling like kids at our discovery,
only to be swept ashore by a mighty wave.

Looking round in alarm, we saw the
shipwreck emerge out of the water,
watched from the cliff by Fathers Mugwat and McBoffin.

The clerics shouted, ‘Listen to the ship’s bell.
You must be blessed, this only happens once in a blue moon.’’

Sure enough we were deafened by a
resounding crescendo, then the newly-emerged
hull disappeared into the watery depths,
the sea perhaps unwilling to part with its reluctant guest.

We swam ashore, my lady friend
hiding her modesty with seaweed,
joking with the holy men, ‘I’m from Brighton, it’s full of weed.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ declared Fr Mugwat,
‘I once inhaled skunk with kids from an estate in Dublin,
who told me it was some sort of smelly animal.
They had a good sense of humour,
those gurriers from Ballyfermot.

‘They laughed at me, the innocent young priest,
vainly trying to teach them about the Venerable Bede.
Oh, my naivety in those days was laughable.’

That night I dreamt a whale swam past me as
I floated in the clear ocean,
the birds shrieking above the wake of its plume,
with a sailor hanging onto its fin, shouting,
‘Tell Claribel to rescue me and my mates
from the place of hidden wrecks,’
while that faithful fan Mary MacVeagle
was standing like a sentinel on the rocks,
pointing to a cave in the cliffs of Moher.

I looked closely and could see a man in the entrance,
wearing a dress and putting on lipstick,
his voice echoing across the water,
‘I was a drag artiste on that ship
which yesterday emerged from the sea.’

I looked at him closely, asking, ‘Are you Bob,
lately married to Mary.’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Your ex says you’re a good turn – do you fancy
supporting my girlfriend at her concert tomorrow?
You’ll attract the youngsters, they’re starved of ‘cool’
entertainment on this island of Inishman.’

The following evening I was getting the stage
ready for the evening’s entertainment, Claribel Sings Classical,
when in walked a fellow I vaguely recognised,
Bob the drag artiste.

While outside stretched a queue of teenagers,
and on the noticeboard was a poster saying,
‘Before the main act a surprise guest will
dress as a woman, and sing falsetto.’

A figure loomed at my shoulder,
'Looks like it’s going to be a good show,’
and I looked round to see a Catholic priest.

Then Bob came out, ‘Do you think I could
borrow Claribel’s skirt?’

A battered old car then braked to a halt,
disgorging an old chap, followed by Fr McBoffin,
crying, ‘Let there be praise for
a sinner returned, Michael O’Leary.’

The island’s policeman, Guarda Hank McHandcuff,
muttered, ‘Aye, better known to the FBI as
Michael-The-Chop McGurk.’

Just then I heard a ship’s bell ring, and to my amazement
that rusty shipwreck we’d earlier encountered sailed
in and berthed at the quay,
disgorging a load of bedraggled sailors,
led by Claribel, singing a sea shanty,
Sweet Ladies Of Plymouth.

‘How do you like my choir,’ she called out.

The lead sailor responded, ‘We’d sing better
with a barrel of rum.’

As they all piled into the hall, I said to the cleric,
‘Can I wake up now?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘you’d miss all the fun.’