Normal, My Arse
Why “Normal” Doesn’t Exist — and Why That’s a Good Thing
What does it really mean to be normal? Society often tells us to follow a script: keep your quirks tucked away neatly where no one can see them. But when you scratch beneath the surface, you’ll find that “normal” is more illusion than reality.
My poem “Normal, My Arse,” takes a playful swing at the idea that we should strive for conformity. With tongue-in-cheek humour, it questions whether normality is anything more than a myth — a beige set of expectations designed to keep people in line. From the neighbour mowing his lawn to the lady next door with her not-so-secret quirks, the poem peeks behind the curtain to reveal the messy, hilarious truth: nobody is really “average.”
Instead of celebrating sameness, Normal, My Arse shines a spotlight on individuality, oddities, and the joy of being unapologetically different. After all, our quirks are what make life interesting.
If you’ve ever felt out of step with what’s considered “ordinary,” this satirical, rebellious poem is for you. It’s a cheeky reminder that there’s no such thing as normal, and that embracing our eccentricities might just be the most liberating thing we can do.
So here’s to the peculiar, the deviant, and the gloriously weird. Because the biggest lie we’ve ever been told is that anyone or anything is truly “normal.”
Normal, My Arse
They say I should aim for the usual kind.
But “normal”, I find, is a trick of the mind.
A typical standard, a customary rule,
The sort that’s invented by headteachers at school.
Is conventional meant as a crown?
Or simply a tool to keep weirdos down?
For typical truly just means the mean,
Yet I’ve never met anyone quite that pristine.
No one is regular — check out the loo.
Each dump is a masterpiece, uniquely you.
So bollocks to normal, so beige and so plain,
We’re gloriously odd — long may that remain.
It’s common, they whisper, to marry at three —
Decades, not years — though it varies, you see.
Then buy a small semi, install IKEA shelves,
And reproduce carbon-copied versions of selves.
Be average, they mutter; don’t get too obscene.
Just missionary sex and a wipe that is clean.
No latex, no whips, no experimental fizz —
For conventional living is all that there is.
But I’ve sniffed around “normal” and found it’s a ghost —
A run-of-the-mill phantom that boasts it can boast.
It promises safety, stability, peace,
But it stinks of repression and beige antifreeze.
Yet scratch any neighbour, you’ll swiftly detect
A stash of odd habits they’d never expect.
That chap who looks ordinary mowing his grass
Might fantasise daily about licking his arse.
The lady next door, who seems standard and plain,
Keeps a dungeon of dildos the size of a train.
The postman, though regular, smiles with a wink,
And waters his ficus with lager, not drink.
So normal is nonsense, a word to control —
A bureaucrat’s lever — a pigeonhole.
It tells you your quirks are a problem to mend,
When in fact they’re the bits that make life transcend.
So let’s bin the expected, the routine, the trad,
And big up all the freaks with the kinks we’ve all had.
For the greatest of lies, since the world has begun,
Is that anyone’s “normal” — not even one.
Bollocks to ordinary, typical, or norm!
Let’s toast the peculiar, deviant and mad.
For the greatest delusion since Adam met Eve
Is that anyone’s “normal” — don’t make me believe.
And I’ll shout it in pubs, I’ll repeat it in class:
If there’s one truth worth keeping, it’s Normal, my arse!