The Devon Tour 1997

In days of yore, a running sore,
On cricket's arse, shook Devon's core,
They called themselves Limpley Stoke;
A sorry looking bunch of folk,
Who drank and fought down Salcombe way;
Then drank some more at close of play,
The MCC denounced their name,
For fear the game should die of shame,
And cursed all those who did attend,
That black bank holiday weekend.

Those alchoholic Underdowns,
Were first to hit the seaside town,
With liberal cussing, driving out,
The frightened children round about.
Then in a rabbid thirst they flew,
Upon the luckless Fortescue,
Where gathered Bath's most loyal sinners;
Vulgar batsmen, bawdy spinners,
In a hellish congregation,
Bent on booze and degredation.

Sad to say, things ran astray,
As night descnded on that day,
Amid the towering sounds of Babel,
Sloggy slid beneath the table;
T.R. Hannell, words a slur,
Picked up sailors. Suits you sir!
Snakebite Twisty, out of school,
Was waging shares on games of pool;
While legless Closure swore he spied,
A Chadwick on the evening tide.

In a stupor, should have joined BUPA;
Future's bleak for the new model trooper,
Captain Nick's in mortal danger;
Never saw the tall dark stranger.
A flailing dervish in the gloom,
Sends him reeling to his doom.
Cries ring out, sirens wail,
The skipper's pulse begins to fail.
Prone in pain upon the grass,
Felled by a clumsy horse's arse.

Nozzer's finally got his tent up;
Tell's young Nick he's put the rent up.
'Your dinner money or pay in kind';
The colt feels shafted, from behind.
They've lost the captain, got no kit,
The morning after look like shit.
What a way to run a club;
'It's opening time - where's the pub?'
By two o'clock Gregory's plastered;
What a sad old drunken bastard.

Down the Goose, back on the juice,
The cricket just a fleeting truce.
It's time for more perverted vice,
With Chesney Hawkes and Scary Spice,
And Uncle Scott on day release.
As Simon's singing wrecks the peace,
Teletubbies swell the crew;
There's Dipsy Dawson, Laa Laa New,
But Tinky Winky Chad was late,
The River Thames was in full spate.

In dismay, the locals pray,
'Why don't they all just go away',
Mrs Miggins hit the liquor,
Saw a cripple moon the vicar.
Startled by that sturdy crutch,
His daughter found it all too much;
Had an epileptic seizure;
Nozzer volunteered to please her.
Outcasts of this sporting nation,
Sank the landlord's reputation.

Calamity Claire, shit in her hair,
Was looking much the worse for wear.
Grumpy Alex puked his beer,
Then blamed a fly which tasted queer.
One by one they rallied round,
And sat in mud to hear the sound,
Of Richard Booty's farewell gig,
Like Woodstock Two - but not so big.
Oasis riffs 'til they all keel over,
Buggered in a 6X supernova.

Headaches galore, legs like straw,
Pissing out the night before;
Except for Swampy - needs a fag,
In the woods with a Penthouse mag.
Freak show Booty's gone to sea;
Now he thinks he's Debbie McGhee.
Bending balloons is where it's at,
With Captain Twat in his tin foil hat.
Still, Limpley's loss is not in vain;
At least he'll never bowl again.

The one-legged skip's in dire straits;
Can't run away from his fuckwit dates.
Meanwhile Snacker's on his tod,
Left at camp the lazy sod.
Stuck in bed with balls like lead,
Spanks his monkey 'til it's dead.
A game of cricket then ensued,
Before the orgy was renewed.
Newton Abbot's turn to worry;
Down the town for a monster curry.

Balti, boona, vindaloo;
Like feeding time at Bombay Zoo.
Carling lager, poppadom dips;
Twisty orders burger and chips;
And Simon wants to know the price,
For Emily on a bed of rice.
Tom's in a frenzy, curry club crazy;
Spurred by an extra hot jalfrezi,
Eats his way through half the menu;
Egon Hannell rates the venue.

Final scene - nurse, the screen;
This godless gang are turning green.
Mr. Twist, is this your son,
Freely passing round the rum?
Prompting guts to heave and spill?
Or maybe it was all God's will.
Vengeance in the name of cricket,
For dancing naked on the wicket!
It really was the fuckin' end,
That black bank holiday weekend.