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!"

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.

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?

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 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."