Coldplay's It

[In this outtake from Vida La Vida or Death and his Friends, Chris Martin and co take on Stephen King's It. Er, spoilers for those who haven't read the book.]

Take me to the deadlights baby
At the gateway to the macroverse.
Through the tunnel, past the Turtle
Where Its natural form is even worse.

Pennywise used his evil powers
To control the bully Henry Bowers.
And George won't be chasing any more boats
Into the storm drains where everything floats.

Let's all meet at Neibolt Street
Where the werewolf-leper thing crawls
We'll shoot Its face with a silver slug
In the house with the bleeding walls.

Remember the solemn promise we made
Once we'd found our way out of the sewer?
Where we'd driven It down deep underground
And Beverly let us all do her.

Take me to The Barrens baby
Where the dirty old river flows.
We'll be safe in our secret clubhouse
From the clown with the blood red nose.

There's something quite extraordinary

About the quiet town of Derry.

He thrusts his fists against the posts
And still insists he sees the ghosts...

The Beauty of Gary Barlow

Starlight shines from limousines
On the streets of Monte Carlo
But I'd prefer a cup of tea
In a caff with Gary Barlow.
He'd draw inspiration from
The drabness of the venue
And weave sweet melodies around
The items on the menu.

Spreading sounds of happiness
Around the greasy spoon.
He may be a chub-a-lub
But he sure can write a tune.
I could take him back to mine
To feast on milk and cookies.
Watching pirate DVDs
In my flat above the bookies.

I would part the curtains
So the jealous neighbourhood
Saw me orally rewarding
The blond scribe of 'Back for Good'.
He could climb atop me
Like he mounted Kilimanjaro
Everything changes forever
Once you've tasted Gary Barlow.

Down to earth despite his millions
Cuddlier than Robbie Williams.
Looking pensive in a vest,
Gary Barlow is the best.

The Winehouse Rules

[In which cockney geezer actor Ray Winstone recalls a chance encounter with loopy songstress Amy Winehouse.]

To The Ivy for lunch
With Quentin Tarantino
We rap about political
Subtext in The Beano.
The red and black menace
Posed by Dennis and Minnie,
While Lord Snooty fought his fate
As capitalist ninny.

When all of a sudden
This bird stumbled in,
Climbed on a table
And started to sing,
She had beehive hair
And a PVC suit on,
Causing poor Quentin
To choke on his crouton.

She sang she ain't gonna go to rehab,
She said no, no, no.
I barked: "lets get your jacket girl,
I think it's time to go."
"She's a neighbour of mine,
I'll take her home," I lied.
Then ushered the wonderful
Winehouse outside.

She'd been shooting her mouth off
All round town.
She's got more bleeding rabbit
Than Watership Down.
So I had to think fast
To avoid a scene
And took her to a pub
With an Irish theme.

I said: "Come on love,
You're all fingers and fumbs,"
As she fiddled with the buttons
On my 501s.
She abandoned the 'job
So I gathered my load,
And walked her to the bus stop
Just down the road.

I hugged her and asked:
"You feel better now?
You were off your face,
You daft drunk cow!"
But then she snarled,
As I turned to leave her:
"I'm coming back for that thing
With a meat cleaver!"

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."

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