A Sackful of Limericks Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Introduction to the new edition

  Author’s note to the first edition

  A Sackful of Limericks

  Copyright

  About the Book

  If you’ve ever wondered what happened to the young fellow from Malta who bought his grandfather an altar…

  If you’re concerned about the camper called Jack who found a huge snake in his pack…

  And if you suspect that an eccentric landowner called Grey spent Christmas a very strange way but aren’t sure precisely what that entailed…

  Then a dip into Michael Palin’s Sackful of Limericks will provide all the answers – and a lot of fun besides.

  About the Author

  When not engaged in composing limericks, Michael Palin acts, performs, writes books, and travels the world with a film crew in tow.

  Introduction to the new edition

  As the old saying goes, a limerick is for life, and not just for Christmas. But there is something festive about this particular literary form, and I’ve always thought their natural home might be inside a cracker, wrapped around those cosy little gifts like self-assembling ear-rings and plastic thumbscrews. No cracker company has yet seen the wisdom of my plan, so I decided to by-pass the Christmas table altogether and unload A Sackful of Limericks straight onto your pile of presents. They’re written to appeal to all those who run out of things to unwrap. Now, instead of looking sad and unloved, they can fight back by reciting a limerick or ten, entertaining, irritating and annoying all those who are slowly amassing socks, homemade jams and pruning shears. They can also be used when Grandad wakes up, or the computer goes down, or to get rid of unwanted guests. They can also be used to help digestion, frighten the cat, and break the ice when the vicar calls.

  I’ve written them over the years, and many were originally published as a collection for children. I feel, though, that limericks are ageless. By which I mean that it’s impossible to put an age limit on them. The form of a limerick has a certain melody to it, which, if you get it right, is something to which people of all ages can respond. It’s also infuriatingly impossible to stop writing them once you’ve got the flow, which is why there are a lot in this collection which have not previously seen the light of day.

  So, with these confessions from a compulsive Limericist out of the way, it only remains for me to thank Caroline Roberts of Hutchinson who encouraged, nagged and generally cajoled me into the first published selection, Susan Sandon and Nigel Wilcockson at Random House for picking up the baton and inspiring me to add to the sackful, and my original and wonderful illustrator Tony Ross for coming on board again and bringing to life the weird collection of those who live in these limericks.

  Michael Palin

  London

  May 2016

  Author’s note to the first edition

  There is no easy way to write limericks. The age-old formula of standing in a bucket of Mersey water with a kilt worn inside out is still not popular. There are those who swear by electrodes taped to the head and others who think that carrots eaten from the thick end downwards on the third Sunday of any month with an ‘s’ in it are most effective, but for me there’s nothing to beat a very large Scotch, a shoulder massage and an editor who rings every half-hour to see how it’s going. But sometimes nothing works.

  I have sadly had to abandon certain limericks such as the one about the fellow from Grantham called Titus who was

  A boon to all limerick writers,

  The number of times

  His name could make rhymes

  Was practically ad infinitus.

  on the grounds of bad Latin; and the young man from Vermont

  Who had all that a young man could want

  Nice clothes, lots of cash,

  A non-serious rash,

  Except both legs were on back to front,

  as it didn’t rhyme; and the policeman from Tring

  Who had an extraordinary thing

  But I did manage to write a limerick for a nice lady called Paula who said she was a midwife and no one ever wrote limericks about midwives:

  They said of a midwife called Paula,

  If there was any trouble just call her.

  Her skills in the water

  She learnt from a porter,

  Who delivered fish, fresh, off a trawler.

  Happy reading.

  A Sackful of Limericks

  A doctor from near Aberdeen

  Had a pet anaconda called Jean.

  If you said, ‘Please’,

  She’d give you a squeeze

  But few of the patients were keen.

  A garage mechanic called Knowles

  Had more than his fair share of holes.

  He had two in each ear

  And four more quite near

  And nostrils the size of bread rolls.

  A young man from Redcar, called Vince

  Used to drop very obvious hints

  Like, ‘Oh dear, I say!

  It’s my birthday today

  And I’m right out of After Eight mints.’

  A deep-water sailor called Rod

  Used to dive in and rescue live cod.

  He wasn’t a fool

  Who thought nets were cruel,

  But he certainly was pretty odd.

  A banker from Ealing called Stott

  Awoke with a terrible spot.

  Though he put on some plaster

  It only grew faster

  And at work it went off like a shot.

  There once was a fellow called Lake

  Whose motives were somewhat opaque.

  He’d give you a punch,

  Then take you to lunch,

  And pretend that his kneecaps were fake.

  An eccentric landowner called Grey

  Spent Christmas a very strange way.

  Instead of nice presents

  He’d give people pheasants,

  And laugh as they all flew away.

  There was a young man called O’Toole,

  Who, when he saw food, used to drool;

  Pizza, mangoes or tripe,

  Avocado, when ripe –

  Even gruel made his drool form a pool.

  A couple from Ruislip called Fryer

  Had a boat called The Wings of Desire.

  They sailed the canals

  With a boatload of pals

  And the cream of the local school choir.

  A troubled young fellow called Henshall

  Came over all existential.

  He went to a shrink

  Who led him to think

  That nothing was really essential.

  There was a young vicar from Usk

  Whose wife had an elephant’s tusk.

  Too big for the shed

  It went under the bed

  And only came out after dusk.

  A Frenchman called Didier Brume

  Had a clear premonition of doom.

  So, to hasten his death,

  He just held his breath,

  And lay, all alone, on a tomb.

  An eccentric accountant called Gaines

  Much preferred starters to mains.

  He’d have soup and then soup

  And after that, soup,

  And a very small portion of brains.

  There once was a deck-hand called Chris

  Who quite enjoyed taking the piss.

  He stood up and roared,

  ‘Man overboard!’

  When the victim was clearly a Miss.

  A young trainee vicar called Steve

  So enjoyed himself one Christmas Eve

  That he s
pent Christmas Day

  On the West Sussex Way

  Doing things you’d never believe.

  A clever young schoolboy from Leicester

  Allowed a sore finger to fester.

  It doubled in size,

  And the sound of his cries

  Could be heard from as far off as Chester.

  A cross-country runner called Bert

  Put in a last-minute spurt.

  He shot past the leader

  And into a feeder,

  So the last hundred yards really hurt.

  There once was a fellow called Santa

  Who was ever so proud of his banter.

  He’d put on a voice

  And call himself Joyce

  And make silly calls to Atlanta.

  A promising athlete called Noel

  Got his vaulting pole stuck in the hole.

  He flew through the air

  But his pole just stayed there

  And now sadly he’s back on the dole.

  A young TV star from Jamaica

  Had a stormy affair with a baker.

  He had the show

  And she had the dough,

  But she gave it all up for a Quaker.

  An elderly man from Nantucket

  Kept his wife in a very large bucket,

  His son in a tin,

  His dog in a bin,

  And nobody knows how they stuck it.

  A big bearded fellow called Sparks

  Got up to all manner of larks.

  He’d sing Christmas carols

  While standing on barrels

  In some of the best London parks.

  There once was a dachshund called Clive

  Who was wanted dead or alive

  For biting pet cats

  And swallowing bats

  And attacking queen bees in their hive.

  A young fashion model from Lille

  Was addicted to hot jellied eel.

  Not just one now and then

  But eight, sometimes ten,

  Which greatly reduced her appeal.

  A chair-lift attendant called Frank

  Ate tropical fish from a tank.

  When he’d swallowed them whole,

  He picked up a bowl

  Of goldfish beside them, and drank.

  A batsman from Sydney called Fairlie

  Hit a very fast ball good and squarely.

  A fielder called Reith

  Caught the ball in his teeth –

  A thing which he did very rarely.

  A lady I met in Devizes

  Bought knickers in all sorts of sizes:

  Number 10 for her dad,

  Number 3 for the lad,

  And the rest she kept for disguises.

  A young cocker spaniel called Spur

  Became quite addicted to myrrh.

  He didn’t like gold –

  He found it too cold –

  And frankincense stuck in his fur.

  A lady musician called Hamp

  Was prone to quite severe cramp.

  One day at the harp

  She got stuck in F-sharp,

  And was freed by acetylene lamp.

  A javelin thrower called Vicky

  Found the grip of her javelin sticky.

  When it came to the throw

  She couldn’t let go –

  Making judging the distance quite tricky.

  A brave taxi driver called Clive

  Once found a black mamba alive.

  Though they said, ‘Shoot it dead!’

  He decided instead

  To take it round town for a drive.

  A young man from Grimsby called Short

  Used to give things a great deal of thought –

  Like, Is there a God?

  And, How long’s a cod?

  And, Is stamp collecting a sport?

  There was a young lady called Ben

  Who got on ever so well with the men.

  It wasn’t the beard

  Or the way that she cheered

  But the pipe that she smoked now and then.

  There once was a fellow called Keith

  Who wore nothing at all underneath.

  When asked was that wise

  For a man of his size,

  He muttered abuse through clenched teeth.

  An unemployed dentist called Hodge

  Rolled used cotton wool in a wodge,

  Which he fired, with some force,

  From the back of a horse,

  Causing elderly people to dodge.

  A carpenter’s helper called Neville

  Never made anything level.

  A table or chair

  Was best made elsewhere,

  Then taken to Neville to bevel.

  A lady from Florence called Nella

  Had a dog that was such a good smeller

  It could sniff out a meal

  From as far off as Lille,

  And if it was nice it would tell her.

  A pretty young lady called Splatt

  Was mistaken one day for a cat

  By a man called Van Damm

  Who made pets into jam –

  And now she’s spread out rather flat.

  A wealthy young lady called Smirke

  Spent much of her time with a Turk.

  He ran a small shop

  With a room at the top

  Where he made all kinds of things work.

  There once was a man called O’Brien

  Who, whatever he did, kept his tie on:

  In the shower, or deck chair,

  He was heard to declare

  That ‘It shows I’m a man to rely on!’

  There was a gravedigger from Barnes

  Whose clothes were all covered in darns.

  He’d dug fewer holes

  In his life, for poor souls,

  Than his sweater had under the arms.

  A kindly old fellow called Clore

  Gave all that he had to the poor;

  But, alas and alack,

  They would not give it back,

  So he’s not giving them any more.

  A surgeon from Glasgow called Mac,

  Once forgot to put everything back.

  As his train made to start,

  His case came apart,

  And a kidney rolled down off the rack.

  A fellow from Bristol, called Neve,

  Was seriously known to believe

  That the world being flat,

  If once lost, your cat

  Would be terribly hard to retrieve.

  An hotelier, name of O’Rourke,

  Once had a quail that could talk.

  It would make little nests,

  And shout at the guests,

  And warn against eating the pork.

  A very light sleeper called Lowndes

  Would wake at the slightest of sounds,

  Like a fish thinking hard,

  Or the rustling of lard,

  Or moles far beneath football grounds.

  A handsome young fellow called Lance

  Had over a hundred great-aunts.

  He kept some in drawers

  And some under floors,

  And the judge never gave him a chance.

  A nervous young lady called Hughes

  Never knew quite what to choose.

  The harder she’d try

  The less she knew why,

  Or whether, and if so, then whose?

  There once was a man from Dubai,

  And to this day no one knows why

  He stood on his head,

  Slowly spun round, and said,

  ‘EeDiggity Obleson Rye!’

  There once was a man from Malaya

  Who refused to pay his bus fare

  (pronounced fay-er)

  On account of the fact

  That the downstairs was packed

  And the upstairs reserved for the Mayor.

  (pronounced may-er)

  (The autho
r would like to thank readers for their help with this limerick.)

  There was a young fellow from Wapping

  Who found two live slugs in his shopping.

  The girl at the till

  Took them both off the bill,

  And went on to the next without stopping.

  There once was a vicar from Bude

  Whose manners at table were rude.

  It wasn’t the noise,

  As he ate saveloys,

  But the way that he sat on his food.

  There was a fishmonger from Leeds

  Whose children were all complete weeds –

  The sight of a cod

  Or anything odd

  Would make them go weak at the kneeds.

  A young man from Utah, called Paul,

  Had a head several sizes too small.

  For the price of a dollar

  He’d loosen his collar

  And show how far down it could fall.

  There was a young fellow called Pringle

  Who desperately wished to stay single.

  But as soon as he saw

  One young lady, or more,

  He was filled with a strong urge to mingle.

  There was a young man from Malta,

  Who bought his grandfather an altar,

  But, as happens to most,

  It broke in the post,

  As it squeezed through the Straits of Gibraltar.