Memories of York

People think that York is a beautiful ancient city,
Home of a lovely confectionery factory or two
(which explains the dental cavities of the children,
force-fed goodies stolen by employees from the factory floor),
And who has not heard of the equally yummy York Minster
The largest medieval church in all of northern Europe?
And yet, and yet, the scale of most of its buildings is
(students of architecture have written), on a more modest and human scale
Which is just as well or else the Minster would not stand out.

But I am here to report sad, sad tidings to you, dear reader:
There is another side to the city which the Romans called Eboracum,
A fearful and terrifying side which only those who have suffered
As I have done, could possibly ever begin to imagine.
So, pin back your ear-flaps and listen to my tragic tale;
And if you have but an ounce of human blood in your veins,
Expect to weep profusely and shake your head in sorrow;
And please note that some explicit descriptions are in store,
Both of a violent and sexual character, so hold on to your hat,
(metaphorically speaking let me add for the benefit of the hatless).

I was wandering gaily around the ancient walled city,
Admiring the thirteenth century remains of St Mary's Abbey,
In the company of 8 members of the Gateshead Crippled Gay Men's Choir
(of which lofty organisation I have the honour to be assistant conductor),
When one of the counter tenors spotted a good-looking lad walking by
And unwisely said what he would like to do to him;
I must admit that it was quite specific and a bit vulgar
(and I am uncertain I would have been willing to observe the act).

Tragically for him and his comrades in uplifting gay choral singing,
The fine city of York's excellent conference facilities
Had attracted the biennial All-Scotland Homophobes Congress
And close on fifty of the delegates just happpened
To be coming out of a rather attractive half-timbered pub,
Totally and utterly out of their heads on Yorkshire Ale,
Their manly knuckles only a few inches from the ground.
"Did ye no hear yon wee feckin' Geordie cunt?" yelled one;
"Ah did, an I couldnae believe mah feckin' ears!" yelled another;
"Whats we gauntae dae with hem, we're gauntae kill yon cunt!"
"An' we'll dae all the other pansy bastards, kick their heids in!
"An' rip oot they feckin' wee bawws and stuff em doon they feckin' throats!"
And it was at this juncture that your narrator decided
It was time to take refuge in a convenient chestnut tree
Before I was mistakenly taken for a poof and severely harmed
(mercifully I had a large hip flask full of single malt
which I could sip whilst watching the chaos down below
as those wicked "bastirts" did serious harm to the fairy Geordies).

Even I, hardened as I am to murder and mayhem on my travels,
Could not believe my eyes at the brutality of those fierce fellows.
Counter-tenors, tenors, baritones, basses, all were killed
In really the most bestial fashion by those brutes;
I must also comment what they did to the corpses was staggering
Bearing in mind the perpetrators were avowedly heterosexual.
As you, my dear readers (if you are still with me) may devine
It would be no exaggeration for me to state categorically
That I was immensely relieved to be well out of it,
Sitting trembling like a leaf on a secluded tree branch,
Hoping that the cruel murderers would keep their eyes on the ball.

After what seemed an eternity of cataclysmic violence
(I noticed my trousers received the occasional splash
of blood and other, less savoury bodily fluids),
The boys in blue finally arrived in leisurely style, and,
Having initially cheered the Scotties on,
Made a couple of token arrests for breaking the peace.
Dear, dear me. I should certainly advise against any gay boys
Visiting the delightful city of York or indeed any location
Where such unfriendly conferenciers may gather;
Unless (of course) they actually want their genitals chopping off
And shoving down their throats to the tune of "The Gay Gordons".