It’s a Stupid Story

Audrey Doorberry  from Norbury was a forgery. Audrey Doorberry’s sister, Marjorie Doorberry, also from Norbury, was not a forgery but a small bowl of pot pourri, brought back from Gay Paris by Audrey and Marjorie Doorberry’s father, Anthony Doorberry, from Calgary, who had carved out a career in the light cavalry but who had unfortunately gone to the bad and instead pursued acts of burglary, buggery and all sorts of dastardly devilry which he had undertaken masterfully whilst calmly and casually wearing corduroy and Burberry.

            Audrey Doorberry, it was plain for all to see, worked awfully carefully to get a smart Harvard degree but somewhat stupidly went on to become a secretary working in a laboratory. Her sister, Marjorie Doorberry, who, if you recall, was also from Norbury, worked in a hostelry with a carvery and was basically something of a mystery.

            Audrey and Marjorie Doorberry from Norbury had a sister, Felicity, towards whom they did not feel remotely sisterly, for, you see, Felicity Doorberry, had been blessed with the most glamorous mammaries and enjoyed nothing more than to pose artfully and gracefully with said mammaries on display for all to see in the pages of a gruesome magazine for lecherous imbeciles. The hideous idiocy of this artistic apostasy exposed itself when Felicity Doorberry was asked to pose yesterday with a Barbary lion from a zoo in Mandalay.

Right. Enough rubbish for one day, said the author. Can I get on with writing a poem now?

  

Audrey Basket Must Die

It’s true there are people I’d like to delete,

  And several I feel who are no less deserving,

Although I pretend to be charming and sweet,

  In truth my behaviour is slightly unnerving,

  (If I see a badger, I don’t bother swerving).

So – why, you may ask, are my morals so tawdry?

The reason is down to a Miss Basket (Audrey).

This Miss Basket (Audrey) did little but write

  And dream of her poems appearing in print.

The snag was that all her creations were shite,

  (Her talents were that of a fourteenth rate bint),

  She couldn’t get published and spent her life skint.

So – now you’re still patiently wondering why

It is I’m amoral and Audrey should die?

Well, I once had dreams about writing a novel,

  And making a million from selling my book;

I struggled for years and I lived in a hovel,

  (I’d had no idea just how long writing took),

  Once writ, no-one read it, they’d not even look.

S0 – forlorn and rejected by every big-hitter,

I ended up angry, then sad and then bitter.

And that’s when I set up a press in my house,

  To publish the works of each down-hearted writer,

The first through the door was a girl like a mouse,

  And that’s when I first met Miss Basket, the blighter.

  I said I’d promote her just like a prize-fighter.

But – I saw that her poems were perfectly awful,

To charge her would doubtless have been quite unlawful.

Her book was the most unbelievable seller,

  It sold by the ton, but Oh, deary-dear, oh!

Miss Audrey then turned her rich back on this feller,

  And then she was voted a National hero,

  While my little novel sold nowt more than zero.

So – now every day I do nothing but cry,

And this is why Miss Audrey Basket must die.

(And she will, as soon as I’ve finished rewriting my novel.)

I’m not sure it was worth it, said the readers. You should have stuck to the nonsense. Furthermore, ahem… creeping misogyny? What with the reference to topless models and proclaiming that Audrey Basket Must Die?

They aren’t real.

Think of a tree, said the readers.

Okay, said the writer, what of it?

Is it real?

Oh, very smart. No, it isn’t.

There was silence from the readers as the implication of this answer sunk in.

Ha! Not so clever now, are we, eh? said the writer, just before realizing the corollary: no-one was reading his latest blog.

Blast!