50 Cent Sale

[After losing his much-publicized chart battle with Kanye West, cuddly rapper 50 Cent books himself a spot on a cable shopping channel to earn back some dollar and female attention.]

That's right, my name is 50 Cent
I'm the baddest rapper

Since MC Hammer.
I come from the hard-knock streets
With the scars to prove it.
I'm doing this infomercial
To score some candy,

So keep your credit card handy
For a range of merchandise
Based around my music.

We'll start with the kitchen stuff
Like this oven glove

For my single 'In Da Club'
It's adorned with some naked chicks
And a big fat gun.
Or how about this travel iron
With the legend:

'Get Creases Out or Die Tryin'?
Just be careful with delicate silks
Not to press it hard on.

Moving on now to apparel
You can look your best

In this bulletproof vest.
You don't want to end up like me
All riddled with holes.
And finally for today's show
Walk away your gangsta blues

In these Massacre shoes
With a picture of your darling Fiddy
Glaring out from the soles.

Jeremy Kyle

[With apologies to Mika, this Grace Kelly pastiche addresses the self-righteous daytime ITV talk show host.]

Do I offend you?
Do I repulse you with my worthless life?
Am I too lazy?
Is it my baby?
Have I been sleeping with my brother's wife?

I could be loathsome
I could be dole scum
I could be father to a wayward child.
Why don't you like me?
Why do you slight me,
Jeremy Kyle?

Your show's on after Lorraine Kelly,
With her fashion tips and cosy chat.
So I have to tune in every morning
Just to find out who you're screaming at.

I could be savvy
I could be chavvy
I could be shallow and uninspiring.
I could be a junkie,
Or look like a monkey:
I could be ripe for patronising.
You're always so mean,
Venting your spleen
Flaunting your God-given talent to judge
Why don't you like me?
Why do you spite me?
Why do you treat me like ignorant sludge?

I could be cheating,
Prone to wife-beating;
I could be all of those guests on trial.
Why do you hate me?
Why do you slate me,
Jeremy Kyle?
I could undress
For my DNA test;
I could turn your sneer into a smile.
Why don't you like me?
Why don't you bite me,
Jeremy Kyle?

Internet Poster Children

[Inspired by Queen guitarist Brian May's long-standing passion for blogging and annoyance at MySpace, this poem imagines him refusing to be hounded off the web.]


Vicious gangs of cyber-bullies,
Happy-slapping virtual hoodies,
Lurking in the HTML
To make my online heaven hell.
They laugh at me on MySpace
But they'd never do it to my face.
And I choose to ignore them
On the Queen discussion forum.
They made a WeeMee of me
With hair obscenely curly.
Covered a wooden spoon with pubes
And said it was me in a film on YouTube.

Internet poster children,
I ought to track them down and kill them.
But I won't let technology
Become my mortal enemy.
Internet poster children,
Let them eat spam, and bug Robbie Williams.
As dear dead Freddie used to say:
No-one makes a monkey out of Brian May.

Suffer Terry Wogan

[Inspired by the rumour - now sadly denied - that Morrissey was to write the UK's entry to this year's Eurovision Song Contest, here's imagining the type of song he might have performed.]

Luxembourg, so much to answer for.
Did you save face
When you withdrew your place
And the Irish conquered in '94?
I hope you're singing now
Oh I do hope you're singing now.
As you sneer down your nose
At the glittery clothes
Of the udders that milk
This shiny cash cow.

Frankly Mr Wogan, this position you hold,
It pays your way but it corrodes my soul.
I'm afraid to say that your jokes
Just aren't funny anymore.
And your slick toupee can't detract from the fact
You're an awful crushing bore.

Sandie Shaw, the woman I adore,
You pulled my heart's string
When I first heard you sing
Back in '67 when you wiped the floor.
Are you watching me now?
I do hope you're watching me now.
You returned my love
When you sang Hand in Glove.
Now I aim to reclaim your Eurovision crown.

Oh Terry it was really nothing
When Jemini took to the stage.
And shamefully secured
A dismal nul points score
While the monsters of Europe
Just jeered in our face.
But they won't be laughing now
No they won't be laughing now.
As we storm the Finnish city
With this jingoistic ditty
And Bigmouth takes his glorious bow.

As Nice As Kylie

[A heartfelt poetic tribute to pint-sized international treasure Miss Minogue.]

Why can't everybody be
As sweet and nice as Kylie?
Even when she's tired and ill
She still stays pert and smiley.
Love rat boyfriends come and go
But Kylie's never bitter;
She steadies herself with a feathery hat
And hides her tears with glitter.

An Antipodean angel
Wearing tiny Gucci wings.
Whole stadiums reverberate
In rapture when she sings.
The kind of girl you'd trust to watch
Your bag while you used the toilet.
And if she got wind of a terrorist plot
She'd do her best to foil it.

Why can't everybody be
As down-to-earth as Kylie?
This pop princess won't do pretentious
Sets for smug Jo Whiley.
If Kylie ruled the world
There'd be no war or suicide bombs.
Just billions of people moving,
Dancing and grooving to her songs.

A Date with Diddy

[Inspired by this story about a possible romance between rap mogul megastar (P) Diddy and model-turned-actress Sienna Miller.]

"Sienna, my dear," said Diddy one night,
"Come with me back to your room.
I'll shower you there with Cristal champagne,
And douse you with trendy perfume.
We can sit and watch DVD boxsets.
I've got Friends seasons 1 to 4.
After Chandler and Monica get it on,
We'll burn effigies of Jude Law."

"Diddy my darling," Sienna replied,
"I'd much rather go for a drive.
The press are obsessed with my current success,
And they can't take my picture if I'm inside.
So say goodbye to your entourage
Leave your feeble Friends on the sofa.
Take off your jewellery and fashionable shades,
And pretend you're my personal chauffeur.

They slipped into his Mercedes Benz
Where Sienna passionately kissed him.
While Diddy fiddled absently
With his TomTom sat-nav system.
Sienna deduced he was dithering
As he struggled to start the ignition.
"Diddy my driver, what's wrong?" she cried,
"Are you wary of carbon emission?"

"That's certainly a burning issue," he said,
"But it ain't the problem, amigo.
This car was custom-built for Diddy
And is fuelled by my hip-hop ego.
Without my posse and trademark bling,
I'm as powerless as a mere flunky.
So lets head back to your hotel and watch
The one where Ross loses his monkey."