I've been looking through my old stuff. This is a bit dated but funny, I think.              

 

I’m a mental nurse and know all about neurosis,

maybe mine’s got worse but nobody seems to notice.

I’m at peace, it’s believed, with each sister and brother,

they don’t see my heart bleed and the pain that I suffer.   

Like today I’m in the office and I’m multi-tasking,

dunking biscuits in coffee, there’s a message here asking,

“What do you want for the Christmas vittels,

a chic restaurant or beer and skittles?

Posh and expensive or cheap and cheerful?” 

I became apprehensive, anxious and fearful.

It was "Posh", I reflect, was the word that did it,

I imagined “Becks” was in company with it. 

Should’ve read with my specs from a closer distance,

can it be Posh and Becks are coming for Christmas?

What more could hurt me, could be more gruesome

than talking turkey with the tawdry twosome?

An ageing right-winger and an anorexic!

I’d be looking for the finger pointing to the exit 

and soon be sinking into an early bath,

then I got to thinking - and you might laugh-

but what if Elton John turned up with his piana'

and started singing that song about Princess Diana?

Or maybe Andrew Motion reciting a sonnet

declaring royal devotion - I want to vomit

so I race to the Gents' and meet Jimmy Saville.

Now then! Now then! I’m beginning to unravel!

So many could be coming whose presence would dismay 

and I’d have to do something to keep them away. 

I’d have words in ears, I’d e-mail and text them!

I’d make it very clear that I didn’t expect them.

A non-military pre-emptive strike

aimed at everybody that I don’t like. 

So I began to review who I wouldn’t invite

to the Christmas do and I started to write

down the names of the famous and the lesser celebs,

the charlatans, the shameless, the ordinary plebs.

I perceived it might be endless, my Christmas list,

and I could become friendless, for even when I’m pissed

there are so many people who wouldn’t be missed…. 

 

Queen Elizabeth of course, Charles and Camilla,

anyone who’s scored against Aston Villa.

All the Dicks and Doms and Ants and Decs,

flag wavers at the Proms, Posh and Becks.

I makes no apology for counting them twice.

Scary, Sporty, Baby and Ginger Spice.

It wouldn’t be nice to see Brucie and Tarbie,

Condoleeza Rice or Robert Mugabe, 

Tony Parsons and Julie Burchill,

Jeremy Clarkson, that dog called Churchill,

Princess Anne and the Duchess of York,

performers with one name like Madonna and Bjork,

Suggs and Sting and Prince and Bono,

Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono.

All well beyond their sell-by stage,

can I help but respond with Celebrity Rage?

There's Gordon and Jamie and each TV cook,

the girl who never gave me back my favourite book.

George Bush and his cronies, the false and phoneys,

don’t bother to phone me, Cherie and Tony.

Silvio Berlusconi and Conrad Black,

Nicholas Sarkozy and Jacques Chirac.

All those supporting the Religious Right,

anyone purporting to be Jesus Christ.

Bob Monkhouse – sorry, I forgot he's dead,

that ginger haired bastard in Simply Red.

The Osbournes, for sure, and Simon Cowell,

him who came last year in only a towel.

John Prescott and the rest of New Labour,

Rupert Murdoch and my next- door neighbour. 

There's no means of entry for Jerry Springer,

Oprah Winfrey or any opera singer,

for there’s nothing more certain to arouse my anguish

than a fat bloke singing in a foreign language.

Anne Robinson and Germaine Greer,

Boris Johnson and Kilroy won’t be here.

Andrew Lloyd-Webber and Elton John,

Arnold Schwarzenegger and Simon le Bon.

Omar Sharif, anyone named Keith,

that geezer in The Bill that they all call Chief!

Patsy Palmer and The Dalai Lama,

I won’t be looking for the elusive Osama.

My school headmaster, the weather forecaster,

her over the road with the ghetto blaster.

Paris Hilton, Peter and Jordan,

Dale Winton and Graham Norton,

Janet Street-Porter, Mussolini’s great grand-daughter,

the designer of the village in Bourton-upon-Water,

the roads are so small it’s impossible to cycle.

Michael Barrymore and George Michael. 

Bill Gates and Richard Branson,

I won’t have mates who are rich and handsome.

Between DJ’s and chat-show hosts

it’s hard to say which I hate the most:

Chris Moyles? Chris Evans? Chris Tarrant?

All of the judges on Britain’s Got Talent?

Trisha, Vanessa and Jeremy Kyle

send my blood pressure off the dial.

Messrs. B.P., Shell and Exxon,

fucked up this world and looking for the next one.

Gangsta rappers and happy slappers, 

computer hackers, celebrity snappers. 

Airline pilots who fly into towers, 

women who use toilets for several hours.

There are so many enemies, the world’s full of evil, 

but please God deliver me from Jeremy Beadle.

Oh, I’ve heard he’s dead, still I have my doubts –

you never can be sure whether Beadle’s about.   

 

My prayer was answered by the Lord above us,

there’s no Blair or Branson or any of the others. 

There’s just mental nurses at the Christmas feast,

I’ve forgotten these verses, my fears are decreased. 

I’m opening my third or fourth bottle of wine

when in walks this bird-I’m glad she ain’t mine-

She’s been spending too much time in the gym

or she’s on a never-ending sponsored slim.

I’ve seen more meat on a hungry whippet;

she takes a seat and puts her skinny ass in it!

She’s with this feller who limps in behind her,

I was about to tell her, give a gentle reminder

that this Christmas bash is for nurses only,

not a starting class for the lost and lonely.

But it’s the season of good will to all and sundry,

she could do with a meal but, “I’m not really hungry”.

She says her name’s Vicky and his name’s David;

in a contest for thickest he’d be red-hot favourite.

I’m explaining how to play Pass the Parcel,

he’s concerned that he’ll strain his metatarsal.

Metatarsal! It started to click into shape.

Posh and Becks at the party and there’s no escape! 

Here comes Sting and the Tantric Walk,

doing his thing with The Duchess of York.

Jimmy Saville struts in, puffing a cigar. 

Bono is auctioning his fifth best car.

Here’s Tony and Cherie, all smarm and teeth.

followed by Jerry and Omar Sharif.

“Oh no,”I moaned as they gathered around.   

“Oh yeeesss,” intoned the Churchillian hound.

All the stars are out from A to Z,

even Bob Monkhouse has risen from the dead.

From far and wide they’re drawn to each other,

and I'm stuck inside Celebrity Big Brother. 

I begin to shout and I start to sweat,

but I can’t get out, it isn’t over yet.

Vanessa and Jeremy are offering advice.   

Believe in me! says an imitation Christ. 

Then suddenly I find I’m up on a stage

charged with the crime of Celebrity Rage,

in front of an audience with buttons to press –

the verdict’s unanimous, they answer yes!

He’s guilty of course and they whoop and howl

for Louie Walsh and Simon Cowell.

Here’s Chris Tarrant urging repentance

or Britain’s Got Talent will be my life sentence. 

Here comes Suggs and here comes Madness,

but where are the drugs to cure my badness?

Here comes a nurse carrying a needle,

it's worse, it's worse, it’s Jeremy Beadle!