Refers to an old and rather obscene British drinking song called ‘The Ball of Kerrymuir’, which, according to Terry: “[…] belongs in the same category as ‘Colonel Bogey’ — everyone knows a line or two [sorry… everyone male and in the UK, anyway]”.
The song’s title was changed into the slightly more convincing-sounding ‘The Ball of Philodelphus’ in the small-format UK paperback of Eric.
‘The Ball of Kerrymuir’. This song can, coincidentally enough, also be found in Michael Green’s Why Was He Born So Beautiful and Other Rugby Songs. That version appears to have the dirty words replaced by rows of asterisks — a rather useless form of editorial restraint, since in this particular case it means the song now contains more asterisks than normal alphabetic characters. Enter alt.fan.pratchett correspondent Tony D’Arcy, who was kind enough to fax me an uncensored copy of the song. ‘The Ball of Kerrymuir’ has 43 verses, a small subset of which I now reproduce for your reading pleasure, just to give you a feel for the song. From here on down this section of the APF is rated X.
Oh the Ball, the Ball of Kerrymuir,
Where your wife and my wife,
Were a-doing on the floor.
CHORUS:
Balls to your partner,
Arse against the wall.
If you never get fucked on a Saturday night
You’ll never be fucked at all.
There was fucking in the kitchen
And fucking in the halls
You couldn’t hear the music for
The clanging of the balls.
Now Farmer Giles was there,
His sickle in his hand,
And every time he swung around
He circumcised the band.
Jock McVenning he was there
A-looking for a fuck,
But every cunt was occupied
And he was out of luck.
The village doctor he was there
He had his bag of tricks,
And in between the dances,
He was sterilising pricks.
And when the ball was over,
Everyone confessed:
They all enjoyed the dancing,
but the fucking was the best.