I'm a mental nurse, I 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,

I've got biscuits, coffee and a message here asking,

"What is it you want for the Christmas vittels?

Perhaps 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 thought I saw Becks 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 that points to the exit

and I'd soon be sinking into an early bath;

then I got to thinking- and I suppose you'll laugh-

but what if Elton John turned up with his piana'

and started singing that somg about Princess Diana?

Or maybe Andrew Motion's reciting a sonnet

that's best left unspoken and I'm needing to vomit

and I rush to the Gents and there's 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 email and text them,

I'd make it very clear that I didn't expect them!

A kind of 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 make no apology for counting them twice,

Scary ,Sporty, Baby and Ginger Spice!

It wouldn't be nice to see Brucie and Tarby,

Condoleeza Rice and 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 every TV cook,

that girl who never gave me back my favourite book.

George Bush and his cronies, the false, the 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.

The rich and their clients in alliance with the devil,

Alex Ferguson and Gary Neville. 

Bob Monkhouse-sorry, I forget that he's dead-

that ginger haired bastard in Simply Red.

 The Osbournes, for sure, and Simon Cowell,

him who came last year wearing 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 and any opera singer;

for there's nothing more certain to arouse my anguish

than a fat bloke singing in a foreign language.

Elizabeth Taylor and Germaine Greer,

Norman Mailer and Kilroy won't be here,

Andrew Lloyd-Webber and Elton John,

Arnold Schwarzenegger, 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 seeking out the elusive Osama,

my school headmaster, the weather forecaster,

her over the road with the ghetto blaster.

Paris Hilton and Andrew Morton,

Dale Winton and Graham Norton,

Janet Street-Porter, Mussolini's granddaughter,

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

The roads are so small it's impossible to cycle,

Michael Jackson and George Michael.

Bill Gates and Richard Branson,

I don't have mates who are rich and handsome.

Now between DJ's and chatshow hosts

it;s hard to say whom I hate the most

but Trisha, Vanessa and Jeremy Kyle

send my blood pressure soaring off the dial.

Middle class slummers, Heavy Metal drummers,

people who go on about english summers.

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,

airplane pilots who fly into towers, women in the toilets for several hours.

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

but please God deliver me from Jeremy Beadle

 

My prayers were 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 

and 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 starving whippet,

andshe 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;

it's not a starting class for the lost and lonely.

But it's the season of goodwill to all and sundry,

she could do with a meal but,"I'm not really hungry."

She says her name is Vicky and his name's David,

in a contest for thickest he'd be red hot favourite!

I'm explaining the game of Pass the Parcel,

 he keeps complaining 'bout his metatarsal.

Metatarsal! It started to click into shape,

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

Here comes Sting doing the Tantric Walk

hand in hand with The Duchess of York.

Jimmy Saville struts in, smoking a cigar,

Bono is auctioning his fifth best car.

Here's Tony and Cherie, all charm and teeth,

here comes Jerry and Omar Sharif.

"Oh no," I moaned as they gathered around.

"Oh yeeess," 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 are drawn to each other

and I'm stuck inside Celebrity Big Brother.

I begin to shout as 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.

Suddenly I find myself up on a stage

charged with the crime of Celebrity Rage.

Here come the jury with buttons to press,

is he guilty?Oh surely, they answer yes!

The audience howl and the judges adjourn,

it's Simon Cowell and Sharon Osbourne.

Here comes Suggs and here comes madness,

but where are the drugs to cure my madness?

Here comes a nurse carrying a needle,

but no, it's much worse, it's Jeremy Beadle.