Mick Twister’s Bigly Brextastic 2017

I could easily fill this review with Trump and Brexit, but there’s too much other good stuff around, so let me briefly summarise those twin horrors.


It was a year when one  man bestrode the world of news like an unusually small-handed colossus. Things were not easy for Donald Trump right from his January inauguration, as aides came and went, amid FBI investigations into collusion with Russia. Johnson said of Hoover that it was better to have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in – but Trump’s advisers were too busy practising autofellatio to be able to piss anywhere, while Trump prefers a hotel to a tent when it comes to recreational urination. Here are a few selected highlights of his limerick year.


A fellow of riches untold

Who frolicks in showers of gold

Talked plain on the stump.

Hail President Trump

The Man Whom the World was Missold.


The President wants a big wall

Gigantic and massive and tall

Along a vast border

But signed his huge order

With hands inexplicably small.


The POTUS’s press team reacts

To unwelcome truth that detracts

From his greater glories

With fictional stories,

Rebranded ‘alternative facts’.


When Comey was given the push

Sean Spicer hid out in a bush

So now he’s on leave

And many believe

Will shortly be out on his tush.


Scaramucci provoked a fandango,

Denying it takes two to tango

For strategist Bannon,

A fellow loose cannon;

I ask you – how low can a mango?


Paul Manafort getting indicted

Has many Trump-watchers excited

They cannot but notice

It’s leaving the POTUS

Increasingly thickly beshited.


Events in the UK were dominated by the continuing shambles that is the Brexit process, with Article 50 triggered in March, and Theresa May’s spectacular miscalculation in calling an election to increase her majority (spoiler: she didn’t). At Tory conference, things became still more more shambolic as even the letters in the slogan behind her quit.


As Prime Minister of the UK

I’m writing this letter to say

I want to break free

It’s not EU, it’s me.

Sincerely, Theresa M. May.


There once was a woman named May

Who threw an election away

She lost her majority

And has no authority

How long can she honestly stay?


 Theresa May’s fight to survive

Was broadcast from conference live;

She had a bad cough

The wall said F off

And May got a P45.



Meanwhile the Brexit talks themselves went nowhere slowly. Britain loudly established firm red lines – on the final bill, the order of play and the Irish border – then crossed them all. All the Brexiteers could proffer as progress was a return to blue passports – but a) they were really black anyway, and b) we could do that without leaving the EU!

The EU draft programme for Brexit

Once every member state chexit

Is do it in stages

Don’t let it take ages

And hope that no bugger rejexit.


A Eurocrat known as Michel

Said Brexit talks aren’t going well

Though May tries to mask it

We’re in a handbasket

Whose end destination is hell.


Said EU head honcho Jean-Claude

The UK must pay what is aude

So settle your tab

We’ll call you a cab –

But first let’s have one for the raude.


As Britain negotiates Brexit

The border continues to vexit

With May’s coalition

In fragile condition

This could be the issue that fexit.


When Britain has left the EU

Our passports once more will be blue;

As blue as the holder,

Abandoned to moulder

For hours in a non-EU queue.


Elsewhere in the world, 2017 confusingly saw a man with an (almost) unrhymable name take over in Harare, and Hariri briefly quitting in Beirut, Pakistan’s Nawaz Sharif coming to grief because off a forgery involving the wrong MS typeface, Catalonia attempting to go it alonia, and more nuclear willy-waving from North Korea’s Kim Jong-Un – among other things.


Ex-Gambian President Jammeh

A despot and medical shammeh

Who claimed to cure AIDS

Has gone, but evades

A much-deserved spell in the slammeh.


A fellow named Kim from Pyongyang

Was badly in need of a bang

He fired his Rodong,

A missile that’s long

And has to stand in for his whang.


The Panama leaks brought to grief

The man who was Pakistan’s chief

And so for the want

Of a credible font

The country is now sans Sharif.


The laureate Aung San Suu Kyi

Who wanted Myanmar to be free

Now watches in silence

As state-sponsored violence

Compels the Rohingya to flee.


There once was a man from Girona

A Catalan go-it-aloner

Who ran off to Brussels

When Spain flexed its muscles

And made him a wanted persona.


Has Lebanese PM Hariri

Lost interest in power, grown wiri?

Or is he a victim

Of Saudis who trictim?

Perhaps a more plausible thiri.


Mugabe’s barbed wire piragua*

Is stuck up that old stretch of agua

That’s known as Shit Creek

Sans paddle, this week,

Outwitted by old Mnangagwa.

*a type of canoe


In the world of stage and screen, it was the year Hollywood discovered things could get a whole lot worse than merely reading out the wrong winner for the Best Picture Oscar. Harvey Weinstein was left in disgrace with only his plant pots for company, and more and more women came out to say #metoo. As the scandal of sexual abuse and harassment spread, it was left to Doctor Who to strike a blow for sexual equality in showbiz, by regenerating as Jodie Whittaker. That limerick, incidentally is now my all-time most-retweeted.


The best film award in LA,

Presented by Warren and Faye,

Won top prize for bloopers,


Creating complete disarray.


Dear Harvey, I have a scenario

Concerning a would-be lothario

Who’s sacked when accused

By those he’s abused:

The Fall of a Film Impresario.


There once was an old Doctor who

On dying, became someone new;

One day she awoke,

No longer a bloke,

Cos women can be Doctors too.


Not much to report on the sports front. Wayne Rooney was done for drunk-driving the car of a woman he’d met in a club. Cricketer Ben Duckett was suspended for pouring beer on Jimmy Anderson, while the best the overpaid milksops of Manchester City could muster by way of liquid assault was to chuck milk. Or was it (anagram alert) synthetic cream?


An Everton striker named Wayne

When asked by his wife to explain

Said when I am drinking

My organ for thinking

Regrettably isn’t the brain.


While holding a drink, young Ben Duckett

Unwisely decided to chuckett

He said though I should

Take care and be good

I’ve had a few pints now, so Fuckett.


Mourinho was letting off steam

At members of Man City’s team

When one of that ilk

Threw semi-skimmed milk

Or possibly synthetic cream.


Lots of memorable names checked out this year – here are a few of my tributes.

Chuck Berry (1926-2017)

Roll over Beethoven and tell

Tchaikovsky the news it’s farewell

To rock and roll’s Chuck

Who walked like a duck

And played just like ringing a bell.


Colin Dexter (1930-2017)

The late great creator of Morse

Was also a crosswording force

Most clues’d pale nexter

A belter by Dexter

Who’s fondly remembered, of course.


Helmut Kohl (1930-2017)

Farewell German Chancellor Kohl

Who played a significant rohl

In fusing the nation,

Reunification –

I guess it worked out on the whohl.


Michael Bond (1926-2017)

Old Michael Bond’s best-loved creation

Was Paddington, found in a station

Although Michael’s gone

His bear will live on,

A tale of successful migration.


Hugh Hefner (1926-2017)

A fellow who made lots of money

Said come and sit next to me honey

It’s not exploitation,

I preach liberation

Now strip off and dress as a bunny.


Christine Keeler (1942-2017)

There was a young model, Christine,

Who when she was only 19

By having affairs

And sitting on chairs

Shook up the political scene.


Fats Domino (1928-2017)

Farewell to an artist whose name

Is in rock n roll’s hall of fame

Who once found a thrill

On Blueberry Hill

Fats Domino: Ain’t That a Shame.


And let us not forget the other kind of news that keeps the limericker in rhymes – the weird shit. Some you may remember, like the poo-out-the-window woman, others perhaps not. In all cases, the limerick pretty much explains the story.

The Dulwich Defecator

Police in East Dulwich admit

They have a big job to outwit

The serial pooer,

A wanted wrongdoer

Who roams around having a shit.


How to Get Ahead in Fertilising

For sperm in a race to succeed

The secret is not simply speed

Some spermatazoa

Go fast and some slower

But rhythm’s what makes a top seed.


Tunnel Vision

Consumers beware of the fact

A wifi sex toy can be hacked

To livestream your cavity

So those of depravity

Can watch your most intimate act.


Joystick Fiend

There was a lascivious copper

Whose conduct was rather improper

When women got bare

He’d film from the air

With one hand controlling his chopper.


Good Shit!

A dealer who swallowed his wraps

Held out for 12 days with no craps,

Surrounded by cops

Awaiting the plops

That marked his eventual lapse.


Privates Abused

The PLA’s saying no thanks

To would-be recruits to its ranks;

They’re fat, it explains,

With spermatic veins

Enlarged after too many wanks.


Shit Date

A woman pursuing a poo

She just couldn’t flush down the loo

While out on a Tinder

Got stuck in the winder

Till freed by a firefighting crew.


The Golden Behind

Police caught a smuggler so bold

Whose arse hid a kilo of gold

Asked why such a sum

Was stuffed up his bum

He answered “that’s all it’ll hold!”


Susejd Rol

A baker got some people riled

Exhibiting what they reviled

As insensitivity,

For in Greggs’ nativity

A sausage roll played the Christ Child.


Massive Cock-up

The navy expresses its shock

That one of its pilots, ad hoc,

Used vapour to draw

What those below saw

Was two giant balls and a cock.

And finally, let us remember one important development this year that affects the very nature of the Twitmerick – Twitter’s decision to double the character limit from 140 to 280. Six years of writing limericks in under 140 has instilled such discipline in me that I suspect I rarely break the limit anyway. What I can use the extra characters for is including hashtags and story links with the limerick, which is handy. But I can’t help feeling something’s been lost. This one’s old-style.

A 140-character tweet

Is brief, to the point, short and sweet


May make them more w80

But not quite so damnably neat.



About twitmericks

There is an old fellow called Mick/Who's been penning the odd limerick/I admit he's no Keats/But he does them in tweets/So to follow, you just have to click. https://twitter.com/#!/twitmericks "The limerick master of the twitterati" (The Guardian).
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2 Responses to Mick Twister’s Bigly Brextastic 2017

  1. stoneyfish says:

    Looking forward to more chuckle-of-the-day reading from twitmericks in 2018.

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