This won't mean much if you don't know me, but some of my friends (?) call me Muttley.... because apparently I have a tendency to grumble a bit. This ditty was penned to thank them all on my 60th birthday which we recently celebrated together at a chateau in the Loire .
So what's he got to moan about? Of what is he afraid?
His wife, his cash, his health, his looks, the fuckers got it made.
Why does he whine, what is his gripe when tantrums he doth throw?
Pin back you ears, listen carefully to this tale of Muttley woe.
He's driving down a country road, not Littleton it's plain,
When around a bend his brakes lock up. Those lycra twats again!
They're slow and wobble side by side. They really should be shown
The roads are meant for cars you sods - fuck off and find your own.
His kids are great but drive him mad, his wife is not impressed
He's ignored at best or shouted at when opinion is expressed.
The kids come first, no matter what, it's really not a myth
Thank god the dog has finally gone. His ranking now is fifth.
He's tried at golf. Oh how he tries. He's played so many rounds.
With so much practice, why does he go, so often out of bounds?
His garage is full of naughty clubs that punish pride and purse
The only thing that's keeps him playing is knowing that Paul is worse.
His motorbike and Corvette are signs he's reached that stage
Where the Vette gets all the attention and his helmet hides his age.
His clothes don't fit. He's on five two. It's years since he's had hair.
Heaven knows what it is that girls can't resist about that millionaire.
To all Dog's Dinners, fine bottles he brings. It's always a hassle it's clear.
Hounds know bugger all about wine. He could have brought Casal Garcia.
His Harlequins are not on form and England has a curse
For when his wife sits next to him, it makes them play far worse.
Muttley's innings has been longer, than Aussie cricketers
In fact it's been four hundred, and twenty in doggie years.
That's a bloody long time to be a miserable git, he must be stuck in a rut.
There's only two hundred and eighty years left, to become a more cheerful mutt.
So thank you all for celebrating, my 60th year with fine dining
Even if it is at the expense, of listening to more whining.
I'm really not a miserable git, but it doesn't stop me thinking
This is getting far too expensive and I need you to stop drinking.
I've said my piece and now you know why misery is my life.
But it's not all bad, there's some hair left and I've definitely got the best wife.
You've got used to my attempts at humour. You ignore all my pet hates
But despite all of this grumbling, I'm truly blessed with amazing mates.
Senilité, Depravité, Hilarité!
So what's he got to moan about? Of what is he afraid?
His wife, his cash, his health, his looks, the fuckers got it made.
Why does he whine, what is his gripe when tantrums he doth throw?
Pin back you ears, listen carefully to this tale of Muttley woe.
He's driving down a country road, not Littleton it's plain,
When around a bend his brakes lock up. Those lycra twats again!
They're slow and wobble side by side. They really should be shown
The roads are meant for cars you sods - fuck off and find your own.
His kids are great but drive him mad, his wife is not impressed
He's ignored at best or shouted at when opinion is expressed.
The kids come first, no matter what, it's really not a myth
Thank god the dog has finally gone. His ranking now is fifth.
He's tried at golf. Oh how he tries. He's played so many rounds.
With so much practice, why does he go, so often out of bounds?
His garage is full of naughty clubs that punish pride and purse
The only thing that's keeps him playing is knowing that Paul is worse.
His motorbike and Corvette are signs he's reached that stage
Where the Vette gets all the attention and his helmet hides his age.
His clothes don't fit. He's on five two. It's years since he's had hair.
Heaven knows what it is that girls can't resist about that millionaire.
To all Dog's Dinners, fine bottles he brings. It's always a hassle it's clear.
Hounds know bugger all about wine. He could have brought Casal Garcia.
His Harlequins are not on form and England has a curse
For when his wife sits next to him, it makes them play far worse.
Muttley's innings has been longer, than Aussie cricketers
In fact it's been four hundred, and twenty in doggie years.
That's a bloody long time to be a miserable git, he must be stuck in a rut.
There's only two hundred and eighty years left, to become a more cheerful mutt.
So thank you all for celebrating, my 60th year with fine dining
Even if it is at the expense, of listening to more whining.
I'm really not a miserable git, but it doesn't stop me thinking
This is getting far too expensive and I need you to stop drinking.
I've said my piece and now you know why misery is my life.
But it's not all bad, there's some hair left and I've definitely got the best wife.
You've got used to my attempts at humour. You ignore all my pet hates
But despite all of this grumbling, I'm truly blessed with amazing mates.
Senilité, Depravité, Hilarité!
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