A Young Fellow Called...

This joke has been my party piece for years.  I was a teenager when I learned it and  it’s a teenager’s joke.  Usually I tell it at the end of an evening, when most people have had a few, knowing they’ll not be able to remember it the next day.  Thereby I’ve kept it to myself.  Well, we don’t spend whole evenings out very often now, and trying to keep a joke to yourself is daft, so here you are:

Two young lads are having a pint, and one asks the other: “How are things with this new girlfriend, then?”

“Well, not too good,” said his pal.  “She’s always on at me about culture and poetry and stuff, and how thick I am…  I’m getting nowhere.”

“Ah man, recite poetry to her!  That’ll persuade her knickers off!”

“Come off it – I don’t know any poetry, do I?”

“Well, I know a poem, I’ll teach it to you, you recite it to her tonight, and Bob’s your uncle!  It goes like this:

There was a young fellow called Skinner
Who took a girl out to dinner;
They wined and they dined,
And at quarter to nine,
She finally had it all in her:
The dinner, not Skinner!”

“Fucking hell!”  the thick one said.  “That’s brilliant!  I’ll get another couple of pints and you can help me learn it.”

And so they had a few more pints and spent the afternoon memorising this poem.  That night, this lad’s girlfriend was on his case as usual about being dopey and not reading any books or anything, when he says, “Excuse me.  I know loads of stuff, poetry and that.  In fact, I could recite a poem now, you know.”

“Go on then,” she said, sceptically.

“Right, well… There was a young fellow…  There was a young fellow called…  Oh shit.”

“See,” she said.  “You’re a dummy.”

“No, no,” he said, getting his gander up.  “I’ve got it now:

There was a young fellow called… Tucker!
He took a lass out to supper!
They drank and they ate,
And at quarter past eight,
He finally put it right up her!
Not Tucker!
Some other fucker:
I think it was Skinner.