Tag Archives: Johnny Clithero

Post No. 5 (in which Johnny misunderstands a policeman)


Hello Peeps.

No preamble or disjointed ramble today.

Just a shorty called….

Stopped by a Cop


I got stopped by a cop the other day
He said I’d driven through a red
He said where are you going anyway
I said I’m going home to bed
He said I haven’t got my breathalyzer gear
It’s at the station with my stab proof vest
But I suspect that you have had a beer
So you can do a little test
Walk down the road as far as those lights
And keep to a straight line
I reckon you’ve had at least five pints
You’ll get a ban and a fuck-off fine
I set off he said what’s your name
I said John, what’s yours he said Ralph
He shouted out You’re staggering
I said thanks… you’re quite handsome yourself

Back soon with some more stuff



Post No. 4 (in which Johnny joins the audience for a psychic show)


Hello and welcome to the imaginatively titled post no. 4.

Once again a big thanks to our few, our happy few, band of readers and likers.

As they say, the nights are drawing in, winter’s on its way and it’s nearly time to wrap up tight.
Wrap up tight against the coming onslaught of the winter marketeers, out to bleed you dry and leave your lifeless corpse strewn on the carpet as a tasty snack for Santa and his reindeers. Wrap up tight against the greedy, profiteering energy companies who might as well hold a big magnet over your house and suck every last cent up through the flue.
From Halloween to New Years Day, it’s no time for the faint of heart or the light of pocket. In fact Halloween itself is so big nowadays it ought to have its own eve like Christmas and New Year. Halloween’een, the eve of battle. The battle against merciless commercialism.

Which in a round-about way brings us to today’s topic… The Undead!
Or to put it in a less scary or sensational way, spiritualists, mediums and such- like and the existence of the afterlife.
Can these psychic Sallys or mystic Malcolms really converse with the dust biters? I mean, from what I’ve seen, they are all a bit vague until they get some poor sap drawn in, by which time they’re so mesmerised under the spotlight that they will agree that their grandad was called Mussolini and the Queen Mother used to help their late aunty pick coal off the local slag heap.
And another thing. Don’t you find it a bit discomforting that the dearly departed are sat on a cloud somewhere, monitoring your every move like some spectral Trueman Show?  I know they reckon that they look away when you’re in the toilet or having a crafty wank, but I’m not sure I would. Or indeed will.
I must admit I’m a bit sceptical about it all. Although, having said that, I recall many years ago on a day trip to Blackpool, that a fortune teller prophesied to my missus that I’d never amount to much. Spooky or what?

This week Johnny plants himself in the audience of one of these spiritualist séance events. There is the now the almost customary profanity warning  as Johnny lifts the lid on the hereafter, with a more or less verbatim account of proceedings in….

Is There Anybody Here Called Dave


Is there anybody here called Dave
I’ve got a message from beyond the grave
It’s coming through now… yes..ok.. fair enough…
It’s from Bonzo, he says woof woof woof woof.

Is there someone whose name begins with an A
Your granny is here and she’s something to say
She tells me the legacy is under the floor
But it’s not very much because she was poor

Is there someone called Margaret or is it Gordon or Fred
Your dad says it’s not all that bad being dead
The food’s ok the weather is fine
And there’s bingo every night around nine.

Here’s one for James from your late aunty Mabel
She says that you’ve stolen her Chippendale table
You know it was left to your first cousin Pete
And she saw you hiding it under a sheet
So give it back you thieving louse
Or her and her mates will be haunting your house.

Is there a Julie? Can you come up to the stage
It’s your mum, tell your father to please act his age
She’s spent some time floating round at his place
And she says his behaviour’s a total disgrace
He’s bothering young women, he’s neglecting the lawn
And he’s spending all day watching internet porn

And finally as we’ve only got minutes to spare
A message from someone called Colin to Claire
He says I’ve thought about us quite a lot since I died
And I don’t want to see you when you pass to this side
You’ve always been a stroppy cow
And I’m knocking about with some new people now.

Hold on I’ve got Jimmy Savile on line three
He wants to speak to the boss of the BBC
He says now then, now then, goodness gracious
These allegations are a bit salacious
About me and my sleazy showbiz pals
Messing with under-age guys and gals
If you don’t stop giving me all the blame
I’ll be back next week and I’ll start naming names
It wasn’t just me there’s a least another ten
So hows about fucking that there then.

Well that’s it for now. We’ll be back soon with more of this senseless drivel riveting stuff.

Post No. 3 (in which Johnny comes across Ricky Gervais in Pizza Hut)


Is it post No.3 already? Doesn’t time fly when you’re sat around in your underpants all day blogging.

We still haven’t got many readers but a big thanks to our followers and likers so far. I’m not sure how to get more readers but one thing that was mentioned was to put a lot of stuff out , so over the next week or so we will probably be going all in as they say in poker. And why not? If nobody likes it after that at least I won’t have to write any more of this shite enlightening doggerel.
Before we start a word of warning there may be some language or terms that some people may find offensive in today’s post but we hope that you will take it in the context that it is written.

Neil Armstrong is the definitive moon man. Buzz gets his rightful place in history but only because he was there as well, and because he is called Buzz. Poor old Mike Collins was like the designated driver who couldn’t find a parking space and had to keep going round the inner ring road while his mates were getting off their tits on moon dust.
But who were the others? The third, the fourth, the tenth?
Nobody knows, unless they are swotting up to go on The Chase, and nobody cares because their journeys were pointless. Some might say money wasting vanity. In this instance the first is the only one that matters and the only one that was necessary.
Somebody had to get there to prove it could be done. When they did get there they found, much like Eastbourne, that there was fuck all to do apart from kick a few stones about. Because they’d bought an eight-hour ticket for the Eagle they had to hang around longer than they wanted to get their money’s-worth.
The flag was planted, the feat accomplished. No one could better Armstrong, not even the guy sat next to him could equal him. Nothing more to do, nothing much to see. Leave it now. It’s done. Next stop Mars, though God only knows why.

Which brings us in a very round-about way to today’s topic…

Just as keenly contested as the race to be the first man on the moon, was that to be the first comedian to say cunt on prime time television.
Step forward Larry David.
I don’t know if Larry was the first but, like Armstrong, his was the definitive one.  Larry David took the c-word and smashed it out of the ground in his brilliant Obituary Typo episode. That showed ’em. Can’t be bettered, can’t be equalled, leave it now. It’s done.
 Disconnected profanity has been sent to bed, it’s no longer shocking or funny, if it ever was. The heroic comedians now have to take things even further in their quest to reach the final frontier of taste, to break down the barriers on our behalf and of most importance to them, to impress their mates. But I can’t help thinking that a lot of them are picking their opponents / victims with the skill of  Don King plotting a no-hoper’s path to a world title bout.  Only difference is for them there’s no final showdown where they get left on their arse while someone else skidaddles with the purse. They’re not that stupid and certainly not that brave.

Blimey, that was a bit of a long-winded prelude to today’s proceedings.

Anyway you can all relax now because here’s Johnny with….

Ricky Gervais

What is it with Ricky Gervais
Him who does the comedy and movies and plays
I saw him out the other night
In Pizza Hut with some acolytes
The tall one with glasses said something funny
And Rick made that face like a speed freaking bunny
He looked a bit scruffy in an old black t-shirt
When they came in I was on my dessert
I was having some of those Chill Company chocs
And I thought put that bunny back in the box

I watched as the waitress arrived with their pizzas
They got three chicken sizzlers and one margherita
Oh and one of them had ordered a supreme veggie
Then Ricky said Wossy loves me when I’m edgy
He does that smirk when I’m controversial
But it fucks up my chances of doing commercials

They ate half their pizzas then stopped for a rest
And Ricky sat back and he puffed out his chest
It’s all about free speech I’m righting a wrong
Then I heard him say retard and spazzer and mong

Well Rick’s little gang they just fell about laughing
The Pizza Hut manager brought all his staff in
He stood them arranged like some heavenly throng
To hear Ricky say retard and spazzer and mong

I swear soon there were fifty around his table
While he searched for more words to mock the disabled
And as they clapped their hands and egged him on
Louder came retard and spazzer and mong

There were people with camera phones wedged in the door
One girl laughed so much that she pissed on the floor
There’s only one Ricky! They’d started a song
As he screamed at them retard and spazzer and mong

He was stood on the table now giving his best
Some of the fuckers were shouting requests
It was then that I saw this geezer approach
Shaven head and a crombie coat
He was carrying a bottle of Peroni beer
And he whispered something in Ricky’s ear
Ricky’s chubby face turned red
And he held two fingers like a gun to his head

As this fellow walked away
I pulled him and said to him what did you say
To make Ricky so visibly nervous and pensive
He said it was something no more and no less offensive
I said if you’re such an outspoken and fearless bloke
Then fuck it why don’t you just go for broke
Then I asked him to say chinky and paki and nigger
But he wouldn’t because some of those guys are much bigger
Bigger and stronger and tougher than him
And he’s shitting himself about getting filled in
And I said your disabled stuff’s good but if you’re wanting to top it
What about having a pop at the Prophet

He said as far as requests go mine got rejected
But it proves beyond doubt that just as I suspected
Ricky’s campaign for the freedom to speak
Is just an excuse to make fun of the weak.

Well that’s it for this one. Tune in next time so see what our pessimistic poet has been up to this week.

Post No. 2 (in which Johnny’s friend tries to get the economy going)


Any new readers, which is virtually everybody, may want to check out the first post before reading this one and if that doesn’t put you off  feel free to continue.

Well here we are again with post No.2 from the chronicles of our languid lyricist Johnny Clithero.

The stats so far are very bad in that hardly anyone has looked at the first post. I see there is a section called Freshly Pressed for the most popular blogs so what about one called Freshly Depressed for those that no fucker is interested in. 

Having said that, special thanks go to Patrick from Canada and Brice from the US of A for being our only viewers up to now. I hope some of the English colloquw  colloquil  lingo doesn’t phase you too much and can assure you that when the hits hit the millions and the books and TV series are out, you won’t be forgotten and will be lauded as heroes of the Clithero Corporation.
Alternatively you may be the only people who ever see this crap work of literary and artistic genius.
Either way we go on. This country and it’s people did not get where we are today by refusing to blindly and enthusiastically follow a failing strategy.

So here’s today’s topic..

Don’t you find it funny that politicians, bankers and other disparate glitterati can get away with all sorts of stuff while if the ordinary bloke tries to do exactly the same, the full weight of the law comes crashing down on his sorry bonce.
This anomaly first occurred to me many years ago when I asked my dad how come Freddie Laker was driving away from the bankruptcy court in a brand new Rolls Royce. For this I got a sharp clip round the ear. I don’t know why, it’s just how things were back then.
Anyway, enough of the chit-chat, here Johnny relates how his friend came unstuck by trying to ape his betters when attempting to add some impetus to the flagging economy in…

Quantitative Easing

My mate got done for forgery
He printed twenties tens and fives
He spread them round the pubs of Leeds
The nice ones and the dives
He says he’d have got away with it
But his picture of the Queen
Was taken from the internet
And looked more like Mr Bean

He’d look for places full of folks
Loud and dimly lit
Then he and a pair of other blokes
Would pass the counterfeit
It was in one such place last friday night
While he was waiting for his change
The barman caught a tenner in the light
And noticed something strange

Here he said see this Queen’s head
It looks like him from off  Blackadder
And that’s not a hummingbird on the back
It’s a budgie on a ladder

Well my mate he turned round on his feet
And he legged it good and proper
He’d hardly made it to the street
When he was tackled by a copper
His head was spinning from the blows
He heard the handcuffs click
With blood and snot running from his nose
He was carted to the nick

In these parts they won’t let things lie
And in less than just a week
He was standing in his suit and tie
Up before the beak
The judge addressed his solicitor
Who was cheap and quite unkempt
He looked at him for ten seconds or more
Then he spat out with contempt

There’s too much of this type of thing of late
It’s disruptive and displeasing

But m’lud my client merely states
He was quantitative easing.

Five years said the Judge as he banged his hammer
With some off for good behaviour
The brief looked up and he said with a stammer
S-s-sorry I couldn’t s-s-save yer

I’m getting out of this bloody game
Said my mate as he wiped his eyes
The judge said you’ve only yourself to blame
You should be more precise.


Well that’s it for this one boys and girls, I’m going to hit the publish button and see what happens.

Coming Next on The Chronicles of Clithero

Read what happens when Johnny encounters a gobshite celebrity in Pizza Hut

This will be out as soon as we get a drawing done (could do with resurrecting William Hogarth for this one) and as soon as I learn how to work this blogging a bit better.


Welcome to the Chronicles of Clithero


The musings of our hero Johnny Clithero in approximately rhyming couplets or something.

Described as an “ordinary man for ordinary times” Johnny has decided to share his every day carryings on with the world at large. From the mundane, such as catching the bus to TK Max and his run ins with the police, to his interactions with star studded celebrities, super models and rich fuckers.

At this stage we should have warned you that there might be a bit of language flying about here an there and the odd phrase that one or two people may find offensive. We can assure you that this is all in context and in most part he’s only repeating what he heard. And there’s not much in this one anyway.
 Also he’s not much on punctuation so has more or less dispensed with it but it should be easy enough to follow.

Anyway let’s get on with the first post in which he recounts a terrifying encounter with the Olympic Legacy in…

Thanks a Lot Nicola Adams



I got in from the pub the other night
I might have been a little late
I got quite a start when I switched on the light
It was my missus lying in wait.
I said what are you doing stood there love
You really made me jump
Why have you cut the strings on your oven gloves
And where did you get those pumps.

She said I’m sick of you always coming home pissed
And she took a quick step forward
She threw a left that luckily missed
And broke the corner cupboard.
I said I know I’m late but why the aggression
Don’t you want to hear my explanation
She just gave me a stare and answered the question
With a left right combination.

We got in a clinch she punched my back
I tried to cop a feel
She had this gum shield with a union jack
That she’d made from orange peel.
She said get your hands off my arse you snake
From now on you’re going to do as instructed
And when I say break you’d better break
Or you’ll get some points deducted.

She said I’ll knock thee to Ilkley moor baht bloody tat
As she launched another flurry
I thought hold on a bit why’s she talking like that
She was born and raised in Surrey

I tried to cover as best I could
But she jabbed her way through my guard
Then one in the ribs with a mighty thud
God that bugger was hard
You’ll cause an injury, at my age even death
I thought it best to warn her
As I sank to my knees and struggled for breath
She went and stood in the corner.

She said don’t say nothing you’ll only lie
You’ve always been bloody shifty
I watched her footwork through one good eye
It was really rather nifty.

I got one on the nose, one on the chin
Two heart stopping body shots
She said that’s for not taking out the bin
And for leaving a sink full of pots
A right cross, a jab then a couple of hooks
She was trying to stove my head in
And that’s for chatting up Karen Brooks
At our Samantha’s wedding.

Now the coup de grace a one two three
I did my best to swerve it
Now you probably feel a bit sorry for me
But in some ways I deserve it
I’m not so attentive at the best of times
I can be a selfish lazy bastard
And like she said at the start of this rhyme
I often come home plastered
I’m always dropping stuff about
Like dirty pants and socks
And late at night I can be found flat out
Watching Babestation on the box.
That she was angry came as no surprise
I knew she’d have the face on
But it’s the first time she’s walled up my eyes
And where did she get those moves from

We’ve had words in the past and it must be said
Even the occasional scuffle
And now she’s flouncing off to bed
Doing the Ali shuffle.

I opened the door and put the cat out
And grabbed a lungful of air
Then I knocked the top off a bottle of stout
And settled back in my chair
I grabbed the remote and pressed on the power
It was Gabby Logan she was looking quite handsome
I could hear my missus up in the shower
Singing the national anthem.

Olympic highlights on BBC one
They show them when the the day is over
Gabby gets some winners on
And invites them on to her sofa
There’s this lovely little black lass sat there on it
With a gold medal as big as her face
And when they showed the clips of how she won it
It all fell into place.

So Nicola you’re a great inspiration to women
And Nicci just flashes her smile
And I’m thinking why don’t they just stick to swimming
Or running half a mile
I think Nicola’s fantastic and I’d like to bet
That anybody would
But I can tell you first hand the example she’s set
Is not a force for good.

So as I dab my nose with TCP
I say to Lord Sebastion Coe
If this is your Olympic legacy
Then I don’t want to know.

 So there we have it, the first offering from our not so new kid on the block. 
Why did Johnny’s pal get 5 years just for trying to help to boost the economy?
What was that scoundrel Ricky Gervais up to in Pizza Hut?
 What were the UK’s three richest men doing in the Hadron Collider?
 And much much more!