Indie Disco Kid

[A quick pastiche of 2006's hottest band (apparently): Arctic Monkeys]

Well haven't you seen the indie disco kid,
Scrabbling on the floor for his poppers' lid?
Pushing to the front of the cubicle queue,
With a pocket of powder that's soaked right through?

Haven't you seen him throwing some shapes,
Blurring the line between humans and apes?
Desperate to score but he'll leave alone
And give it one last shot on the night bus home.

It's always the same, I know what you're thinking:
A short, sharp song about dancing and drinking.
Spiced up with a fucking swear word or two.
Stick it on the web and watch the hype come true

So what do you think about such and such?
Is a Mercury prize too hot to touch?
Can you please give us leave from the Brit Awards farce
And an enema to clear the NME from our arse?

Visions of Lionel Richie

[In which Irish crooner Ronan Keating is faced with spirited opposition when he considers covering a Lionel Richie song for his next single.]

Visions of Lionel Richie
Holding a gun to my head.
Snarling: "I've heard your records, bub,
And believe me, you're best off dead.
You've ruined too many pop classics
By some of my dearest friends.
If life is a rollercoaster, toots,
This is where your ride ends."

"Please Mr Richie," I whimper,
"How can you be so unfeeling?
I've worshipped you since you couldn't slow down,
I gasped as you danced on the ceiling.
I cried at the Hello video -
The blind girl who won your heart.
And somehow made a perfect bust of your face,
A veritable miracle of art."

"That was the old me," snaps Lionel.
"As soft as my white nylon suit.
Now I'm a 21st Century guy,
A bitter moustachioed brute.
Haven't you seen my daughter Nicole?
She's selfish and skinny and wild.
She's enough to drive the sanest man mad.
Of course, she's not really my child..."

It's then that the vision begins to fade,
And Lionel turns into thin air.
I pray to the Lord to deliver his soul,
End once and for all his despair.
But as for his ominous warning
To leave his back catalogue alone.
I don't have much choice with my limited voice
And complete lack of songs of my own.

I Wish I Was Various Things

[A poem in which folk-pop sensation Sandi Thom contemplates being a proper punk rocker and some other things too]

I wish I was a punk rocker,
With safety pins through my nose.
A pink mohican on my head
And rubber bondage clothes.
I'd earn the wrath of Teddy Boys
As I shopped along the Kings Road.
Then pogo to the 100 Club.
To gob on The Ramones.

I wish I was a piece of cheese,
Just waiting in a trap.
For a mouse to come and nibble me,
So I could spring and break its back.
I'd watch with morbid interest
As it was eaten by the cat.
Then scream when I was pilfered by
A particularly ravenous rat.

Singing: won't you come and ride with us,
In a minibus with Phill Jupitus?
To a time when people turned swastikas
Into handy garden ploughs.
My rose-tinted version of history
Has brought such great success to me.
And thanks to my basement webcasts,
I don't even need to leave the house.

I wish I was a Victorian girl,
A writer like Emily Brontë.
Curled up coughing myself to death
With my beloved toy Dave the Monkey.
I'd curse my sisters, Charlotte and Anne,
For their feeble attempts to revive me.
Then realise the flowers in my hair
Were nothing but poison ivy.

Paris the Korea Girl

[In which Paris Hilton, glued back together and reanimated after her previous adventure, makes herself useful for once]

So I'm sharing a baked potato
With a North Korean dictator.
Sent by the CIA to convey
Top secret security data.
When they told me to meet with Kim,
I pictured a lady tall and thin.
Instead here I am with a toad-like man:
All glasses and oily skin.

"I know why you're here, Miss Hilton,"
He smiles as he shoots some children.
"You're trying to ban the nuclear program
I'm oh-so-carefully building.
But you and your friend Nicole Richie
Are nothing but slutty and bitchy.
You carry no weight in this communist state
And your perfume is making me itchy."

"Now come along Mr Jong-il,"
I laugh and knock back a strong pill.
"If my elegant scent won't make you relent,
Then maybe my latest song will."
But as I get up and gyrate,
My chihuahua begins to vibrate.
Then jumps on Kim's lap and blows him to crap,
Leaving just a foul head on a plate.

The Classic Sting

[To celebrate the release of Sting's new classical opus Songs From The Labyrinth, Mick Jagger recounts a twisted tale of musical corruption.]

Sting and Paul McCartney came knocking on my door.
They said we've got an offer, Mick, you simply can't ignore.
We're going to stage a concert, under guise of charity.
Then run off with the profits and a huge appearance fee.

This sounded like a top idea; I told them count me in.
I'd sing a few crowd-pleasers and then leave the rest to Sting.
The tickets sold like hot cakes at surprisingly high prices.
McCartney said we'll be so rich, we'll need to find new vices.

The concert proved a great success, and not a soul surmised
That this gang of ageing rockers were taking them for a ride.
We jammed a final encore, then slipped away backstage
To drink champagne and share our massive, ill-begotten wage.

Sting came in with a large brown bag and said "I've got the loot."
But our faces dropped as he emptied it, and realised we'd been duped.
Instead of a pile of money, or even a big gold bar,
Out fell an old wooden instrument, with strings like a guitar.

"Here's your lute," Sting sniggered. "You've both been rather greedy.
All cash has gone to Africa to help the poor and needy.
I knew you wouldn't play for free, so devised a cunning scheme.
But thanks for coming anyway, you made a marvellous team."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, McCartney seemed the same.
Tricked by a Tantric tosser with a silly one-word name.
We needed a witty comeback to prove we could take a joke.
So buried him alive with a hornet hive and sold his wife for coke.

Justice for Janet

[A poem in which Janet Jackson contemplates the best way to promote her new album, 20 Y.O., in the face of post-Nipplegate indifference.]

Searching for a different angle,
Or maybe three like a scalene triangle;
Trying to avoid another scandal
To get my career back on track.
I'd posed in every known position,
Flashed my breast in a live transmission.
I needed an evil mathematician
To calculate a chart attack.

I met him at a costume party
Dressed as the fat one from Laurel and Hardy.
He said his name was Moriarty
And politely kissed my hand.
I explained my sales situation,
While he listened with great concentration.
Till his face lit up with inspiration
And he told me of his plan:

"We'll start the campaign with a good clean song,
In the promo vid you can keep your clothes on.
Support from radio won't be strong
But downloads should keep us afloat.
Then bang! - we'll release the dirty one,
With lyrics and visuals designed to stun.
You can writhe around on a naval gun,
Wearing nothing but a see-through coat."

"Oh Moriarty," I giggled with glee,
"You fell for my trap so perfectly.
I'm working undercover for the FCC,
And you're guilty of moral corruption.
I'm not Janet Jackson at all, you see,
But Sherlock Holmes, your old enemy.
Now the world will once again welcome me
And forgive my wardrobe malfunction."

Courtney's Brand Love

[A poem inspired by this story about British TV comedy presenter Russell Brand seducing 'rock chick' Courtney Love]

"Roll up, roll up, you gullible swines,"
Said the ragged Dickensian fop.
With his face like a rot-ridden spider plant,
I could see no incentive to stop.
"Excuse me," he grinned, as I tried to slip by,
"But aren't you the girl out of Hole?"
Then spouted a pun on this fact so filthy
I felt myself losing control.

"Listen you creep," I snarled in rage,
"Where the hell do you get off?
With your drainpipe jeans and messy black thatch,
You're nothing but a sex-crazed goth."
But then this Brand gave a wave of his hand
In a mystical magic maneouvre.
And cleared my head of all that I'd read
Of his unsavoury acts with a Hoover.

The beast transformed right before my eyes
To a Byronesque liquorice love god.
With caustic wit and untamed hair
Like a 21st Century Ken Dodd.
We rocked the hotel bed all night,
I was Spungen to his Vicious.
Then I tied a cravat round his big fat mouth
To mark this strange Brand 'delicious'.




tags: courtney love russell brand byron sid vicious delicious ken dodd

Greyfriars Bobby Gillespie

[A dog-themed tribute poem to the Primal Scream front man and legendary caner. Buy the latest Scream album here.]

Bobby Gillespie said with a pant:
"There's life in this old dog yet."
So we slipped a collar around his neck
And led him straight off to the vet.

The surgeon withdrew a sample of blood
Then said to me: "now listen son,
I don't know what you've been feeding this pooch
But it hasn't been Pedigree Chum.

This canine is more drug than dog
He's a bona fide junkie mutt.
Instead of just sniffing for substances
He's snorted the stuff straight up.

We can send him off to a farm in Wales
Where he can rest and chase some sheep.
Or I can fetch the needle I call 'Old Faithful'
And put him humanely to sleep."

"Don't you know who this is?" I asked,
"He's a verified legend of rock.
We don't want to mangle the Scots mongrel's mojo,
We just want to give him the chop."

The quick operation caused Bobby no harm,
His tail soon resuming its wag.
We gave him a bone to reward his compliance
And took his balls home in a bag.

.

The Ballad of Chantelle and Preston

[A love poem for the fake popstar-cum-Celebrity Big Brother winner and Ordinary Boys singer in honour of their forthcoming nuptials]

Chantelle said to Preston:
"Does my brain look big in this?"
As he fixed the last bolt in her neck
And sealed it with a kiss.
"You look lovely babe," he purred.
"You could almost pass for real.
Now lets go and make a million
On our OK! wedding deal.

Will you take this Ordinary Boy
To be your better half?
With my girlish frame and wolfish face
I'll always make you laugh.
Even though you've got no talent
There's a certain naive charm.
So I'm sure I'll find some comfort
In your cold robotic arms."

"Oh my God," she said three times,
Her voicebox briefly stuck.
"I'm famous for doing nothing
And just can't believe my luck.
Although your brand of lightweight ska
Does nothing for my ears,
A media-bankrolled marriage
Will be great for our careers."

The big day came and Chantelle shone
In her Primark wedding dress.
While Heat magazine and GMTV
Wished the couple all success.
But Preston's band weren't happy
That he'd left them in the lurch.
And gunned the grinning groom to death
As he stepped outside the church.

Such horror stunned the nation
For a quarter of an hour.
To see romance so pure and sweet
So suddenly turn sour.
A 21st Century tragedy
Like Romeo and Juliet.
Now Chantelle walks the streets alone
With a sign that reads 'To Let'



tags: chantelle preston prestelle celebrity big brother love poems

Snakes on Thom's Plane

[Imagining the theme tune to hotly-anticipated summer movie Snakes on a Plane, as sung by Thom Yorke of Radiohead to the melody of Street Spirit (Fade Out). For more SoaP-inspired songs, see here.]

Putrid serpent
Beneath an aisle seat.
Slithering poison
At 30,000 feet.
Seeking unsuspecting hands
In which to sink its evil fangs.

Breach the cockpit
The pilot sprawled there dead.
Boa constrictor
Wrapped tightly round his head.
Crushed his skull with brutal force,
Now we're flying way off course.

Snakes on a plane
They'll throttle and maim.
Snakes on a plane
It's happening again.

Bleeding, choking,
Passengers writhe in pain
Desperately sucking
The venom from their veins.
Listen to the children's cries
As cobras spit into their eyes.

Stewardess screaming
Is a doctor in the house?
But an anaconda
Has swallowed him like a mouse.
Surrounded by cold-blooded dangers
But Samuel L Jackson's gonna save us.

Snakes on a plane
Aero-reptile reign.
Sssnakes on a plane
Next time take the train.

You're Rubbish Mate

[An affectionate pastiche of hot new British singing sensation Lily Allen. She's a sassy lady whose songs are gravy]

I saw you walking through Brixton Market,
Carrying a pig in a rolled up carpet.
You were with some girl I hadn't seen before,
She seemed a few steps up from your usual whore.
I was on my bike so I didn't stop
But as you went in a smoking accessories shop
The hog in the rug stared me in the eyes
And said: 'look at the crap that this guy buys'.

That's the truth and now I see
You never were no good for me
On the bottom rung of society
'Cos you're rubbish mate and always will be.

So I've made it big no thanks to you
With a number one single and album at two.
My UK tour's doing wicked business
Which should keep me in coke from now until Christmas.
Even The Guardian's singing my praises,
Says I'm the freshest new talent in ages.
I'll never return to your sad situation,
But thanks for the lyrical inspiration.

That's the way it is you see,
I'm young and rich and wild and free.
You'll languish in obscurity
'Cos you're rubbish mate and always will be.

Too cool to be a Sugababe;
There's more to me than a MySpace page.
I'm riding the Chopper of destiny
But you're rubbish mate and always will be.

The Passion of Lindsay Lohan

[Former teen queen actress-cum-popstar Lindsay Lohan recounts a tale of artistic woe and spiritual triumph]

The Daily Show's always making out
That George Bush isn't clever
But I've got bigger fish to fry
So I'm like yeah, whatever.
See something happened recently
That really messed my head.
Scum sprayed graffiti on my house
And this is what it said:

'What's the point of Lindsay Lohan?
What does she have to give?
Why are decent people shot and killed
While Lindsay Lohan lives?
Has she ever made an album
You could sit through more than once?
Lets put her down across the town
In different colored fonts.'

This call to arms shot through my heart
Those cruel words really bugged me.
I'd always thought up to this point
That everybody loved me.
I told the maid to scrub it off
If her family wanted feeding.
But the next day to my disbelief
A new message appeared, reading:

'What's the point of Lindsay Lohan?
Where does her talent lie?
Won't she be completely screwed
When Judgement Day arrives?
What's the deal with Lindsay Lohan?
Just how did she get this far?
Which direction were we looking in
While she became a star?'

This time I was really mad
Oh boy, I'd had enough.
Who would twice befoul my sacred walls
But that bitch Hilary Duff?
So I called a gangsta pal of mine
Whose services don't come cheap
And had the whole Duff family
Dismembered in their sleep.

That's the point of Lindsay Lohan:
She's a girl who gets things done.
She swats her enemies like flies
But knows how to have fun.
So don't mess with Lindsay Lohan;
Bow down to her instead.
Or everyone you care about
Will end up bruised and dead.

The Eyes of Aguilera

[Inspired by a story from Popbitch about Christina Aguilera forbidding eye contact from journalists during interviews]

Of all American songstresses
They say there is none fairer
Than the little dame with the massive voice
Named Christina Aguilera.
So imagine my delight
When I was offered the chance to grill her
About any subject of my choice
Provided I brought a mirror.

I pondered on this odd request
As they led me to her room
Through corridors of lifelike statues
Bathed in eerie gloom.
Her assistant grabbed my arm
As we approached Christina's door
And said: "Now listen carefully,
There is a rule you can't ignore:

Don't look into Christina's eyes
If you want to make it home;
She's a modern day Medusa
And she'll turn you into stone.
There's nary a man or woman alive
That she's not prepared to freeze,
From record company executives
To Grammy nominees."

And peering through the keyhole
I could see the myth was true;
Her hair was made of writhing snakes
Her face a steely blue.
I wished I'd brought a sickle
To lop off her evil head
But decided not to take the risk
And went to meet Pink instead.

tags: christina aguilera pink grammys medusa mythology poems

Justin's SexyBreakfast

[Intrigued by Justin Timberlake's imminent return with his sexy new single SexyBack and equally sexy new album FutureSex/LoveSounds, this poem guesses the kind of lyrics we'll be hearing from the sexed-up superstar]

Girl you're like my coffee,
So hot and strong and sweet
I'm gonna lay you down
A special morning treat.
Don't need no milk
'Cause you got cream enough for two.
Love's on the menu
And I'm hungry babe for you.

Gonna crack your egg and test
Your firmness with a poke.
Pick up my soldier girl
And dip it in your yolk.
I dedicate this toast
To our forever lovin'.
You can eat my sausage
If you let me munch your muffin.

'Cause it's Justin's Sexy Breakfast
It's a feast of funk supreme.
And you can't leave the table girl
Until your plate is clean.
Said it's Justin's Sexy Breakfast
Tastes so good it must be wrong.
Now spread your legs like butter
I'm gonna have you naked by the end of this scone...



..

Sweet Dinner Lady of Mine

[Tired of groupies and drugs, Guns n' Roses frontman Axl Rose finds true love and a square meal in a school canteen]

"Axl," she said
As she rolled off the bed,
"Last night was like seventh heaven.
But I've got to go
Because as well you know
I'm due into work by eleven."
I gave her a kiss
This apron-clad miss
And dug out some bus fare to lend her.
Then bid my farewell
To the cooking fat smell
Of my sweet dinner lady called Brenda.

She's totally cool
As she glides through the school
To start heating up the spaghetti.
But if Jamie Oliver
Tries to come onto her
His tongue will meet my machete.
And just could it be
That she's thinking of me
As she tosses some fruit in the blender?
She's surprisingly nifty
For a woman of fifty
My sweet dinner lady called Brenda.

Although I miss Slash
And going out on the lash
I've cashed in my rock 'n' roll dreams.
You really can't beat
Something tasty to eat
Even when it's just fried egg and beans.
I ate my destruction
And now every luncheon
Has vegetables on the agenda.
Regained my allure
And I owe it to her:
My sweet dinner lady called Brenda.

Anything But Keane

[In which heiress with the leastess Paris Hilton is punished severely for her unspeakable crimes against humanity]

And so Paris Hilton was sent to the chair
Bemoaning the fact she had nothing to wear.
The guards had shaved off all her lovely blonde hair
But worse was the cruel fate awaiting her there.

Instead of employing electrical means
To fry this annoying society queen,
They'd torture her with introspective paeans
The music began and she started to scream:

"Please, no, anything but Keane!
I'd rather be stuck in a threshing machine!
I want to be back in my big limousine.
Giving some sleazy guy peaches and cream.

Their songs are so dismal and dreary and drab;
The sweaty lead singer resembles a crab.
They're the audio equivalent of picking a scab;
Can't you just give me a quick lethal jab?"

The CD ran through a selection of tunes
As three hooded figures walked into the room.
And slowly removed their mysterious costumes,
Causing poor Paris to shriek like a loon:

"Please, no, anyone but Keane!
This is like some sort of horrible dream!
I realise now I've been selfish and mean
But promise in future I'll be less obscene!"

Such passionate remorse could not be ignored
By the fair-minded folk on the prison board.
So Paris was spared Keane's final encore
And chopped into bits with a samurai sword.

Bono's Browser Battle

[Bono is pressurised to choose between his beloved Mozilla Firefox and the new Internet Explorer 7 web browser, much like other people are currently doing here and here and here]

"People," says Bono, "come gather around.
Admire the sheen of my nice leather trousers.
War is upon us and we must decide
The better of two mighty web browsers.

See Firefox, she's a lady my friends,
Smooth and sexy, with gracious curves.
Her cool interface with tabbed browsing and such
Earns her respect she richly deserves.
Offering thousands of useful extensions,
She's the smart way to surf the net.
But now it appears her unstoppable rise
Could be hurt by a Microsoft threat

What's that, you say, has he gone crazy?
Internet Explorer is yesterday's news
But no, they've reshaped it and added new functions
In a shamefully transparent ruse.
Because haven't we seen these features before:
Tabbed browsing, integrated search box?
RSS support, proper privacy protection;
That's right: they've been copied from Firefox.

Now I'm just a man who wears sunglasses indoors
But I'll always speak up for a worthy cause.
And I point the finger at Bill Gates and co
And say to them: people aren't stupid you know,
They'll see what you've done and laugh in your face
You've fallen behind in the web browser race.
Firefox is faster and cleaner and sweeter,
So take my advice: leave IE7 in beta."

Britney's Nightmares

[As a real popstar poet, Britney Spears certainly doesn't need me to write a bizarre confessional poem on her behalf. But here's one anyway]



Last night I dreamt of Debbie Gibson again
Like a warning from out of the blue.
"All glory is fleeting," she said with a snarl
Then beat me to death with a shoe.
In another recurring nightmare,
I'm back on the Mickey Mouse Club.
Christina and Justin dance naked with Donald
While I'm giving Goofy a back rub.

I can't explain these horrible dreams
Maybe I've been watching too much telly:
Gruesome movies like The Evil Dead,
Hellraiser and From Justin to Kelly.
My husband provides neither comfort nor joy,
He only loves beer, pot and poker night.
Apart from his skill at sporting crap facial hair
He's as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.

Perhaps the dreams are trying to tell me
Don't waste your life with this jerk.
Send him on his way with a tiny lump sum
And get yo' big ass back to work.
So I must reclaim my own destiny
Propel myself into the light.
Conquer the demons that trouble my sleep
And drop Kevin from a very great height.

Rod's Models, Inc

[Behind the scenes of the business that keeps Rod Stewart in leggy lovelies. Normal service will be resumed soon.]

Last year I got a part-time job
I was broke and obliged to do it.
Working in a hi-tech factory,
Churning out wives for Rod Stewart

All long blonde hair and legs designed
To travel down for miles.
Ample breasts and perfect teeth
Fixed into perma-smiles.

Sometimes he'd turn up unannounced
To inspect his latest bride
With Ronnie Wood from the Rolling Stones
Strapped loyally to his side.

He'd croak at us in his husky voice:
"Take a bit of meat off the hip.
Extend these calves by an inch or two
And remove the personality chip."

If he wasn't pleased he'd take you aside
And cast you a long-nosed look
Then sing an insipid inspiring tune
From The Great American Songbook.

Rod wasn't a bad boss all in all
And he certainly paid enough.
This summer I'm stuck making bedroom toys
For some girl named Hilary Duff.

Smurf When You're Winning

[In which Robbie Williams is attacked by a vengeful gang of small blue men. Or maybe it's just his conscience talking?]

So I'm basking by the pool of my L.A. home,
Enjoying the wonder of being alone
But tempted to give in and pick up the phone
And call for a dog to come bury my bone.

When all of a sudden I'm under attack
As two tiny creatures jump onto my back
And squeak "Now we've got you, you arrogant twat,
You're coming on tour with the rest of Take That!"

"Never!" I cry once I gather my breath,
"You'll not consign me to a fate worse than death."
I grab my assailants around their blue necks,
And stamp on them, making a terrible mess.

But as I prepare to sit back and laze
Another small figure appears through the haze.
And fixing me with a cold steely gaze,
He charges at me with his toothpick raised.

"You won't get away!" he screams with a bark,
"From Gary and Howard and Jason and Mark."
So I swipe his pick and drive it straight through his heart
And his fragile blue body just crumbles apart.

Just as I start to think everything's cool,
The biggest one yet climbs out of the pool
And laughs "Don't you get it, you ignorant fool,
We never give up, that's the Holy Smurf rule!"

By now I am thoroughly tired of this shit
And as it's quite clear that they're not going to quit,
I promise I'll send them a video clip
Since when they've all left me alone for a bit...

A Tidy Pair of Trainers

[A respectful parody of British rapper Mike Skinner aka The Streets. Contains authentic bad language]

Squeaking through the room like a vampire bat
In high-heeled shoes and a funny hat
I said to the barman who the fuck's that?
Oh it must be the bird from Fleetwood Mac.
Well we'd had a few drinks but we wasn't pissed.
More chimps on the pull than gorillas in the mist.
And though finding some talent was high on our list.
This weird witchy woman was easy to resist.

All I want is a big bag of cash
And a tidy pair of trainers.
The chance to offload about girls and drugs
And the pressures of being famous.
A decent spliff and a can of beer
For a moment of contemplation.
'Cos three whole albums down the line
I'm running low on inspiration.

Saw her again at some music awards.
Sitting with Seal looking well fucking bored.
I gave her a wave, which was blindly ignored
So I went back to flicking fag butts at Shayne Ward.
Downed two bottles of corporate champagne
Then stumbled right over and asked for her name
It's Alison Goldfrapp she said with disdain
Now fuck off back to the streets whence you came.

All I want is a bit of respect
And a tidy pair of trainers.
A welcome letter from America
Like that song by The Proclaimers.
A sponsorship deal from a high-street brand
And a Mr Men lunchbox and flask
Some photos of me looking moody but hard
I mean come on is that too much to ask?

Purple Rinse: Grandma's Lust For Prince

[God knows which dark recess of my mind this came from but it's a bit rude. But then so is Prince...]
"He seems nice," my grandma said
When Prince had left the house
"Perfect manners, lovely smile
And quiet as a mouse.
Tell him to pop round again
He's welcome any time.
There are several new positions
That I'm curious to try."

"Whatever would the neighbours say"
I asked her with a grin.
"If they knew his Purple Highness
Was your latest sexual plaything?
They'll stare at you in Tesco
When you're buying fresh whipped cream.
And claim they saw you on the bus
Masturbating with a magazine."

"I don't care what people think"
She mumbled through her cupcake.
"No-one raised an eyebrow
When I was humping Justin Timberlake.
Or when I placed that advert
In the second-hand shop window
Offering my expert services
On Tuesdays after bingo.

Prince knows how to treat
An open-minded geriatric
He'll set us up for foursomes
With a drummer and a fat chick.
His nimble hands will work
My wrinkly body like a pro
While his naughty tongue
Gently works its magic down below."

Unfortunately for Grandma
Prince declined her kind relief
He prefers much younger women
Who still have their natural teeth.
But she seems quite optimistic
That she'll land another lover
Preferably a sandwich between
Morrissey and Usher.

Paul McCartney Must Be Stopped

[Not a very nice sentiment admittedly, but enough's enough]

Remember mad Russian Rasputin?
They had to poison, drown and shoot him.
Of course these things don't happen now
Under President Vladimir Putin.
But if such executions
Should resume, then I insist
That old Sir Paul McCartney
Be the first name on the list.

It's true the man is talented
And has written some classic songs.
But he threatens to tarnish his legacy
By insisting on carrying on.
His music has been irrelevant
Since 1984 at least.
That cartoon with the singing frogs
Or maybe Pipes of Peace.

I have no need to hear more tunes
About birds and days of yore.
Nor double-length live albums
With the same tracks as the one before.
Drones on about going back to his roots,
As far as I'm concerned he can stay there
The only roots he needs to worry about
Are the ones from his badly-dyed grey hair.

I'm sure that he and Heather
Both deserve a longterm break.
They can live off all those
Millions in royalties he rakes.
Take a holiday indefinitely
And think proudly of the past.
Just ensure his latest album
Is most certainly his last.

tags: mccartney heather beatles rasputin hair poems

Podcast Poetry with Oasis

[A fictional transcript of Noel Gallagher's first foray into the exciting world of podcasting, on behalf of his Big Brother label.]

Hello world and welcome
To our first exclusive podcast.
As usual in the race to set
The trends it seems we've come last.
But now we've overcome
Initial doubts and techno fears
To make this feast of fun
And crazy content for your ears.

Let me start by slagging
Damon Albarn off for once.
Oh he thinks he's hip and clever
But he'll always be a ponce.
Now he hides behind some idiotic
Monkey-faced cartoon.
Singing in a strained falsetto like
A castrated Looney Tune.

Coldplay, they're another
Soggy slice of middle class
Wouldn't know a rock and roll vibe
If it bit them on the arse.
Radiohead, now what the hell
Is that rubbish they churn out?
Write some proper songs you freaks
And stop noodling about.

Now lets plug our album
'Cos it hasn't sold enough.
Go tell all your friends to buy it
They can skip through Liam's stuff.
There's at least three decent tracks
And the production's pretty slick
Shame my talent has been on the wane
Since 1996.

Oh hang on, Conor McNicholas
From the NME just arrived.
Seems that every poxy podcast
Must be checked and verified.
Well I don't have time to justify
My genius to some git.
I'm off for a beef Pot Noodle
Let Liam finish this shit.


tags: oasis noel gallagher podcast guardian liam gallagher

Spirits of Rock

[Inspired by the recent dubious attempt to contact John Lennon in a TV seance]


"Speak to me Kurt," the medium said.
But the signal was as flat as Keira Knightley.
I guess it's hard to talk when you don't have a head.
Not to mention looking rather unsightly.
So she moved on, to Jim Morrison
Who we thought would be good for a laugh.
But no-one replied with a lizard-based song.
I suppose he was stuck in the bath.

No talk on the line from the late Johnny Cash.
Michael Hutchence wasn't hanging around.
I guess Buddy Holly must already have crashed.
George Harrison didn't make a sound.
Mama Cass may have been choking on something.
Elvis didn't rise from his seat.
Either Sid Vicious was busy shooting junk in
Or forcing Karen Carpenter to eat.

After two hours of nothing but silence
A voice from the other side spoke
It said "What's the point of this farcical seance
Is it meant to be some kind of joke?
You're messing with things that you don't understand
And I strongly advise you to stop.
And curse this crappy cable channel In Demand
For charging ten dollars a pop."

Chocolate for Doherty

[An imagined note of support from a 14-year old girl to the troubled Babyshambles front man Pete Doherty.]

Dear Pete, I saw you on the evening news
What have you been taking now?
You need to knock this thing on the head
And I think I know the way how.

Instead of caning that smack and crack
And getting yourself in a state
Fix on a king-size Snickers Bar
Or crumble it up with a Flake.

Chocolate is cheaper and cooler than drugs
It won't make you act like a prick
And if the police stop and search you again
There's no law against possessing a Twix.

I'm sending a Crunchie by registered post
I hope that it sweetens your tooth.
There's also a Kit-Kat you might want to share
With the other three blokes in your group.

I hope that you'll follow my chocolate advice
I really don't want you to die.
Start the night with a Fruit and Nut Dairy Milk
Not a puke-stained heroin high.

So next time I notice your name in the papers
I'll know that there's no need to fret.
Perhaps you'll have stolen a Cadbury's Creme Egg
But you'll make a good album yet.

Forward to Bedlam

[Reflecting on the darker side of James Blunt 's meteoric rise to fame from a future perspective.]

Looking back it seems so obvious
As all the signs were there.
Sat there stripping on a glacier
With long dark greasy hair.

Singing love songs like 'You're Beautiful'
To some elusive girl.
When deep down all he sought to do
Was subjugate the world.

Well we all bought Back to Bedlam
Thinking what a fresh new voice.
Never realising this purchase
Would be our last through choice.

As his tunes became ubiquitous
A Blunt in every home.
The feeling grew much stronger
That our minds were not our own.

Seems he learned his trade in Kosovo
In scenes of disarray.
And decided on returning
There must be a better way.

So he started making music
With subliminal undertones
Designed to raise a loyal army
To appoint him to their throne.

When several singer-songwriters
Were gunned down in the street.
His gradual global brainwashing
Was finally complete.

Now he has the minds of millions
All humming to his whine.
Forced to do his evil bidding
Until the end of time.

....

Hendrix in London

[What if Jimi Hendrix arrived in England in April 2006 rather than September 1966? Written to the tune of Purple Haze]

Touched down at Heathrow about half-past eight.
White collar man wouldn't let me through the gate.
Next thing I know two cats are searching me.
Like I was a voodoo threat to national security.

Took a ride to some hip producer's home.
Making sure to avoid the congestion charge zone.
I asked the guy, would he like to hear me play?
He said no point, it's all done on computers these days.

Within a week I started getting press attention.
Even Heat magazine gave me a small mention.
Said I was stepping out with some chick from a soap.
But they didn't give our long term prospects too much hope.

Got a gig tonight in Camden Town
With a band thrown together by some A&R clown.
Sharing the stage with a bunch of washed-up junkies.
And I'm second on the bill to the Arctic Monkeys.

The Bee

[This bee-inspired poem/song recently turned up at a jumble sale in Crawley, allegedly written by Robert Smith of The Cure*]

Today I spent an hour or three
Staring at a picture of a bee
It made me feel so happy inside.
Yellow black and buzzy
Making lots of honey
With no need to worry or hide.

I'd like to spend my hours
Rooting around in pretty flowers
Then flying home to service my queen.
Oh what a mighty buzz
Living in a healthy hive of love
A cog in one big busy bee machine.

Though I'm sure bees have their problems
Just like every living thing
Such as dying prematurely
When they use their only sting.
The dark threat of fumigation
And horrific nectar costs
Or bearing all the blame and shame
Of trouble caused by wasps.

What I think I'm trying to say
Is if I leave this heartless world today
I'm willing to return in bee form.
Collecting lots of pollen
From a field in Holland
And swearing my allegiance to the swarm.

Can't you see it's killing me?
I'm droning for the colony
I just want to be
A bee...

[*obviously it didn't really]

Musings on Mariah

[A batch of sonnets dedicated to the demanding diva otherwise known as Mimi.]

Mariah Carey,
To what shall I compare thee?
Perhaps a restaurant in the swanky park of town?
Or liquid nitrogen poured inside a clown?
A creamy stain upon a rented wedding gown?

Mariah Carey,
Your ambition doesn't scare me.
You deserve to spin forever like a top.
Can you get me some bananas from the shop?
Plus a paper and a can of diet pop.

Mariah Carey,
Are your cupboards nice and airy?
Does your toilet flush itself when you clap twice?
While a midget keeps your kitchen clear of mice
And a talking mirror offers health advice?

Mariah Carey,
With your voice like a canary
Or a budgie with ideas above its perch.
Your face as cold and uninviting as a church
May the gods of Diva Hell not spare the birch.

The Wickedness of Westlife

[Supposing that behind that clean-cut image, the Irish crooners aren't such nice boys after all.]

Louis Walsh frowned
As his boys tossed around
The head of Sienna Miller.
He sighed: "Guys, I know
You don't dig Boho
But that wasn't a reason to kill her.

Now we'll all face
A public disgrace
From the pigs of Primrose Hill
These murder sprees
Have really got to cease -
Can't you do something else for a thrill?"

"Louis," they said,
While skinning the head
"It's not just a bit of fun.
Sharon Osbourne says we must
Satisfy her bloodlust
Before we score another number one.

She has woken from the deep,
Without her beauty sleep
And needs to look her Osbourne best.
Nobody must know
That beneath her reddish glow
She's a surgically-enhanced Rose West.

So give the gal a chance,
Come join us and dance
With the Devil in the pale moonlight.
Help us disembowel
The nasty Simon Cowell
And devour him with some Chicken Tonight."

The Royal Visit

[Imagining what might happen if Madonna Queen of Pop popped round for the afternoon.]


A rich old lady came to tea
Her face was full of apathy
I asked her if she fancied me
But she was barely listening.
It seems her husband lets her down
He doesn't dig her disco sound.
He makes her pay for every round
While his career is fizzling.

She said so sorry to be rude
But she could not abide our food.
I asked to see her in the nude
But I don't think she heard me.
She showed me photos of her daughter
While my dad went out and bought her
Several crates of special water
She said ours was dirty.

Her hands were like old withered claws
No wonder she fell off her horse
I told her she should get divorced
But she just plain ignored me.
She said that she would love to stay
But she had business in L.A.
She'd change her outfit on the way
To something chic but whorey.

As she left she kissed my nose
She said I was an English Rose
I offered to take off my clothes
But she was on the porch now
She left behind her walking stick
Her attitude got on my wick
I hope our muffins made her sick
On Sting and Gwyneth Paltrow.


tags: madonna pop music kabbalah gwyneth poems

Kelly said to Carrie

[A purely hypothetical face-off between Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, the lovely winners of American Idol seasons 1 and 4.]





"Excuse me, is anyone sat here?" asked Kelly.
Laughed Carrie, "well no-one but you."
"There's a yogurt in my pocket I'm dying to share.
So I sure hope that you like tofu."

"I hope it's not poisoned," said Carrie unsurely,
And emptied a spoon down her throat.
"Of course not," grinned Clarkson and stood up to leave.
"But it's packed to the brim with peyote."

And so Carrie wandered through mystical plains
With Bo Bice as her spirit guide.
Visions of vegetables taunted her, humming
The songs of Martina McBride.

She woke with a start upon Checotah Bridge
Her journey had come to an end
Now only one thing remained on her mind
Find Kelly and wreak sweet revenge...


[To be continued]

The haunting Katie Melua

[Inspired by the ubiquity of the enchanting singer-songstress Katie Melua.]



The first time Katie appeared to me,
She was old and draped in blue.
"My child," she croaked, "I have walked this Earth
Since 1892.
Can you lift the curse that forbids my rest
For my time long ago passed me by?"
"Don't think so," I said, and she nodded her head.
"Oh well, it was worth a try."

Three years disappeared and to tell you the truth,
I never once gave her a thought.
'Til a song on TV in a sofa sale ad made me realise
That she had been bought.
But could I have hindered this desolate fate
If only I'd purchased her CD?
"Not sure," I decided, when all in a flash
She was shimmering in front of me.

"Melua why I was just thinking of you,"
I offered unconvincingly.
Her youth now restored, she was handsome and taut
With hair that shone gloriously.
"Your mistake," she intoned, "could have cost me my life
But instead it worked out rather well.
I am younger and richer than ever before
And have shaken that strange musty smell."

"Good for you," I replied as sincere as I could
Before making a dash for the door.
But Katie was quick and with one mighty kick
Sent me crashing down onto the floor.
"My second CD is much better," she said,
"It's laidback and tuneful and clever."
"Don't give me that, you still work with Mike Batt,"
I screamed as she skinned me for leather.