Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knyght

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The Kyng's crewe chilled at Camelot that Krystmas

With many tasty geezerez, gotte up in good geare

Blokes with a reppe, well-rayted in a rukke.

People who culde partie with a vengeance

The do went onne for dayes and dayes

Arthur's burde mucked-out the place some mornynges

Emptied ashetrays, clered out cack and cannes

Hoovered-up the roachez and the rubishe

Come midday it all went raydeo rentals agayne

For they were as a Millwalle posse bygge style

All of themme on Stella beere and shortes

all daye.

Laddes drunkke and stinkeing

Loades of booz and scoffe

Everybody thinkking

Somethynge myghte go off.

New Yere had hardely hitte home

When Arthur telefonede for a Thai Takeaway

Loude cryed the laddes for more lagere

Arthur shoutede: "Shutte itte - the sprogges are sleepen.

Queene Brenda has gotte the arseayke over this

She must go to B&Q fyrste thynge for the Sayles.

Sir Gary, see if there's any signe of that scranne yet."

But scarcely had Sir Gary got to garden gayte

When a bigge bastarde on a byke burste inne

Strayght up the halle, oil on the Axminstere

Queen Brenda's Ykea lampe lyeing flatte.

No kydingge. This was a honey-monstre.

Grene leather, grene leggynges, grene skid-lidde.

Armes lyke legges. Legges lyke tuggebotes.

Bigge bushey beard down to his belte buckle.

Strayght uppe.

On his bakke a Death's hedde

Manneres very rude

And thenne Sir Gavin said:

"Yow fond of hospital foode?"

The verdant knyght gayve it summe verbal:

"Who's the guv'nor? You bunche of hayre-dressers."

The Kyng was not beste pleased about this

And lookked about for backuppe from the laddes.

But nobody wantez a rukke bifore the nosebagge arrives

You ever tried Thai Takeaway wythe brokken teethe?

"Anybodye wante summe?" Asked the Grene Byker

"I thought you was supposed to be a harde crewe."

You culde see Arthur was just about to lose itte

Quietly spoke Sir Gawayne: "Outsyde. Right nowe."

Arthur said: "No leave itte Wayne," but too layte.

This almyghty boundle beganne wythe the berque.

Wayne wellied the wlonke with a wheel brayce,

Dogges barkeing. Nayghbour's lyghts come on. The lotte.

Thence came the Fylthe. Blues and twos. Wyth back-uppe.

The Grene Knight - and full credite to hymme - told the Fylthe

Itte was a misonderstandyng. So offe they trottede.

Thenne he turned hym rounde to Gawayne and sayde:

"You! Returne matche. Yeare's tyme. My turfe. Be there.

Or else."

Helmet nowe wyth dente

Bloode on daygloe veste

Offe the toeragge roared

Somewhere to the weste.

Gawayne slinges his Benne Shermanne in the Zannussi

Breakes open a Becks and belches lyke a bastarde.

"Thisse is welle bloddie seryious-I'm goner nede a motore."

Kyng Arthur said it would be sortede. Saye no more.

Wynter draggede onne thene Springe and the FA Grail

Millwalle didn't gette a lookke-in they waz robbede.

So the entyre crewe, Arthur, Sir Gawayne, Sir Daerrenn

Sir Warrene, Sir Lee, Sir Shaun, Sir Kevin of New Crosse

And alle the othere Johns flewe to Ibeetha for a fortnyght's funne.

Muche drynkeing, fyghteing and horizontel joggeing was theyr.

Then after, was deportayscheon and some payeing of fynes.

Soone cayme Autumne and thenne soddynge Wynter agayne.

Wayne, his yeare near uppe, must taconne thyss tossere.

The laddes had a whippe-rounde bifore-hande.

Gawayne was gotte in ordere by the boyse.

Eighteen-hole Dokke Martyn's, dodgey Mayce gasse

Combatte kecques, welle-sharpenede Stanleye Knyve

Numbere two croppe, Crombie, Fforde Cyortina.

The cattles knackeres! For he was welle-toolede uppe.

"Putte the bastarde oute of businez!" Cryed the Kyng.

"Itte's welle in hande. The gytte's gotte it comeing."

Calles backe Gawayne.

The trippe to the northewest as bade as it could be

Contraflowe, roadeworks and a smacke-up by Stoke

Gawayne, as it goes, endeing up neare Northe Wayles

Hitte was Krystmas Eve and he was cremecraquered.

By stroke of lucke, Gawayne mette anothere mayte,

Bertilak, who ran a garage wyth knyghtclubbe tacked onne.

Well apointede, as it happened. Usede to runne wyth Arthur.

What a gaffe! Coquetayle barre, Faery lyghts. Opticces

Raised acryliq sheepeskinne dais, smokede glasse tabil.

Waterebedde. And thys was juste the gueste bedroom.

"Staye here as longe as you lyke Wayne," said Bertilak.

"I knowe the mushe you're aftere. A ryghte yaa-hoo.

He lives notte two myles from here. Helpe yourselven.

Drynkes - whatevere. My lady Lynnette will looke after you."

Gawayne culden't believe it and gratefule he gaspes.

"Toppe geezere!"

Krystmas was kepte in a blur of beere and Bacardie

Gawayne laye in bedde layte lookeing at Loadede

Many a lockke-in he hadde in Bertilak's barre

Drynking. He gotte completeley Schindleres Liste

Thenne three dayes bifore the bygge battle, Bertilak sayed,

"Oute of Bacardie. I've gotte to go to Cashe and Caerrie.

I'll be back layter. Mynde the missus for me."

That mornynge, Lynette came into Gawayne's chamber

A handsome tarte, feisty and fitte-lookeing.

She was tryeing it onne but Gawayne kepede coole.

Whene Bertilak was back he said, "Awryght thenne?"

"Sweet as," sayes Wayne. "Sweet as."

Bertilak bunges Gawayne a bottele of Bacardie

"Toppe man. Give it summe lewinski thenne."

Welle goode.

Come the nexte daye, Bertilak drove to Droitwich

To see a manne about the manifolde on his motore.

Same drille. Chille oute dude. Helpen yourselve.

Gawayne was waykened wyth a wet tongue in hys eare

"Leave it oute Lynette. Yow are Bertilak's beste burde."

By eveneing, Bertilak is backe wyth hys wafty Y-Reg

"Anythynge happened lyke?" He looked at Lynette.

Gawayne buttoned itte, notte wysheing to saye nuthinne.

Bertilak bunges hym a boxe of Beckes beere.

"Sortede thenne."

The thyrd daye, Bertilak beckons Gawayne, going,

"I've got a little tyckle going offe with some tomfoolery.

Looke aftere Lynette - there'll be a longe drynk layter."

Gawayne is abed whenne Lynette comes inne

Ful beautifulle, hayre falleing downe, wonderebra

Legges withoute ende ande some craftie contryvance

Begot fromme Janetreger, crotcheles camiknickeres

Thiss was almoste too muche. Gawayne was gaggeing

But by prayer to St Clintaune he kept his wingknut onne.

He beggede one thyngg from hys mayte's missus:

Batteryes for his Gaymeboye, flatte synce Boxeing daye.

Thys she gives him ande he setles for a snogge.

Wythe no rumtie-tumtie. For thatte was ryght oute.

Thenne Bertilak poppes inne and poures a Pernod

He gives Gawayne a gold signet ringe for good lucke.

Lynette lowngeing blissede oute to Teddie Penderegrasse

"Worde in your shell-lyke Wayne. Did she trye it onne?"

"No chaunce."

Nowe dawnede the daye of the returne rukke

Gawayne got into gears, wobbile but welle uppe for itte.

A myle uppe the roade he sees a signe sayeing

Private Dryve Keep Oute. Bye nowe he's brickyng itte.

The Grene Knyght's garage was huge - a hoogstraaten.

Heareing bangeing from wythinne, he warnes:

"Come over here iffe yow thynk you're harde enough."

"You slagge." The grebo was giving it alle of thatte.

"Botteled oute? Yow, snowedroppe!" Goes Gawayne.

This was takeing the pysse for the Grene Knyght

He swunge at Gawayne's baunce with bayseball battle.

Twyce more he twattede hym. Wayne woulden't go downe

Whene Wayne mayced hym, it seemed to slowe hym uppe

Butte backe he came with a kicke to the cryckette sette.

Whych causede Wayne's eyes to welle watere

Hade enoughe have yow? Had enoughe yow bastarde?

Gawayne gritted his teethe. "Do you tayke Swytch?"

They backkede off.

The Grene Knyght tooke his helmet off his heade

Underneathe itte was Bertilak, Gawayne's host.

Got uppe lyke a grebo - the fulle maunty.

Gawayne, gobbesmackede atte being setuppe

Kickede atte hys Cyortina doore, sweareing stille.

Bertilak said: "This wasn't dowen to me, Wayne

The Kyng had heared it said you was alle mouthe

He wantede to see howe you cayme uppe in the washe

But since you're sounde, we'll calle thys a rezulte."

Wythe thatte, the Grene Knyght slunge a can of Stella

At Wayne who stashede his Stanleye Knyve awaye

Thence aftere they repairede to Gabriella's

A nearbye knyghtclubbe knowne for lappedauncing

Whereupone theye gayve the shortes a severe caneing

Resulteing in a rukke wythe seven bounceres

And anothere runne-in wyth the localle Bylle

Baled oute by Lynette onn Mondaye mornynge

Stille singeing "No one lykes us. We don'te cayre."

As itte goes.

The Ende

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