At the End of the Day


 In an ATEOTD special tonight, two bright old talents have been brought together to provide doggerel of the very finest canine pedigree. Read and enjoy this irreverent rhyme on the subject of Isambard Kingdom Brunel.




Isambard Kingdom Brunel
and alcohol did not go well….
his railways and stations
were envied by nations
from Boston to Coromandel.
Though his railways were magic
his habit so tragic
brought about his ironic death knell.
He loved his cigars
and often put bars
on his steamers and railways as well.
His tipple was brandy
which rendered him randy
with alarmingly trouser-based swell.
The drink dragged him down
from Bristol to town
where he bought us a ticket to Hell –
and though they were lauded
he found his works sordid
for they were confused by Martell.
While adept at the bridge,
on Clifton’s great ridge
(so the locals of that time do tell)
his boozing so feckless
did render him legless
and down to the river he fell….
So while downing each glass
he’d lie back on his ass
and dream of his tame hooker Nell.
His railway to Bristol
shot off like a pistol,
though his steamers did not do so well:
the Great Western stank
(no one did him thank
for designing vehicular Hell)
for his plans all were addled –
so the steamer that paddled
went rather pell-mell on a swell.
He staggered through Soho –
a Victorian boho –
and pissed, in the gutter he fell…..
but all this Dutch Courage
would often encourage
his gob to sound off like a bell.
He insulted Macadam
(he called him a madam)
telling Telford to fuck off as well.
But he built the Great Britain
(and though he was shittin’
both conkers and bricks rather well)
he was no cowardy custard
and with wit most mustard nobody his dreams could quite quell.

His River Thames tunnel
became a last funnel
in which his huge ego might gell –
but the bloody thing leaked,
so the passengers freaked,
and the project became a hard sell.
He was a great Briton
but sadly was bitten
by habits into which he fell.
His death from a stroke
(almost totally broke)
broke the heart of a madamoiselle –
of whom we can’t speak
(but we’ll give you a peek)
just enough of a hint you might smell:
she was not called Victowia
in fact she was more of a
rough bottle of Hirondelle.