by Roger Merry There's a famous curry centre in Blackpool, That's noted for hot vindaloos, Where they've buckets of water on t' tables, And steel straining bars in the loos. Now young Albert had been constipated, For three weeks his tum had been funny, 'Till someone told him a curry, Would give him a good run for his money. So Albert determined to try one, And not knowing which one to choose, Shut his eyes, stabbed his fork in the menu, It came down in the hot vindaloos. It was number eight Albert had chosen, To relieve him of all constipation, With extra hot sauce to disguise the fact, It was off the bone Alsatian. They had a good laugh in the kitchen, When somebody picked number eight, And they brought it in quick 'cos it soon dissolves, The enamel from off of t' plate. Albert said a prayer and picked up his fork, Then thought he had better make certain, He'd have the time to cross the floor, To the gents past the plastic curtain. From table to toilet took twelve seconds flat, Provided he didn't slip, And the coin operated lock on the door, Said tuppence per person per trip. So Albert went back and ate his vindaloo, 'Till his eyes filled up with tears, And the hairs on his legs turned round and round, And steam came out of his ears. But that infamous number eight curry, Had no more effect on his guts, Than a pint of Watneys red barrel, And a packet of planter's nuts. He waited for twenty minutes, With no results, and then, The customers gave a round of applause, As he asked for the same again. He re-timed his run to the toilet, Ten seconds a nip, To the door marked gents and the sign that said, Tuppence per person per trip. But after another plateful, He didn't feel too grand, As he clenched his teeth and sat there, On his arse with his fork in his hand. The waiters waited and waited, For the curry to do its worst, But that second Alsation vindaloo, Had no more effect than the first. Another twenty minutes passed, He couldn't speak a word, He just had to point to the menu, In order to order his third. A hush fell over the restaurant, They were all too impressed to laugh, And one of the waiters, two sikhs and the chef, Asked him for his autograph. The manager tried to dissuade him, But Albert just shook his head, As he re-timed his run to the toilet, And make it in eight seconds dead. And as he began the third one, His stomach felt just like Stonehenge, And he'd only forced down four forkfuls, When the curry began its revenge. The customers cleared a gangway, As, feeling the end was certain, Albert leapt to his feet and in three seconds flat, Had vanished through the plastic curtain. As the customers waited and wondered, About the fate of the boy, They heard a muffled explosion, And a cry, half anguish, half joy. The minutes passed, then Albert emerged, His face full of venom and hate, They could tell by the way he walked all bow legged, That he'd got to the toilet too late. He looked round the crowded restaurant, And a moan passed through his lips, It was lucky for the carpet, He was wearing his bicycle clips. At last he spoke to the waiting crowd, In a voice so plaintive and strange, With a five pound note in his hand, he gasped, " Has anyone got any change?"
The end