They filled the little darling up with pop and sticky sweets

Who daubed his sticky fingers on my ipod and my seat

And so threw up the contents of his stomach down my top

So to quieten him they filled him up with sticky sweets and pop.

 

Don’t get me wrong I’ve never held a grudge against West Ham

But find that I’ve been seated amongst returning fans

Drunken and abusive after Extra Strength and doubles

Who intersperse their swearing with “Forever Blowing Bubbles”.

 

I should have guessed my torment from the reek of beer and bacci

Bit got enlightened soon enough about the Pole and Paki

“They’re terrorists and take our jobs and only want our dole”

And other gems of insight on the Paki and the Pole.

 

I’m with a bunch of hens who have been partying all week

The rowdiest is swilling gin in my adjoining seat

She keeps getting both her tits out and keeps offering them to me

(I should have said that she’s the gran and that she’s 83).

 

And then there come two Likely Lads; with them I know ‘m stuck

Enhancing every sentence with “fucking”, “fucking”, “fuck”;

To maxi-fucking-mise this skill each sentence they would break

With indi-fucking-vidual “fucks” to stress the point they’d make.

 

Now this one looks the quiet type who’s studying Carl Jung

But then he hoiks a snooker from the basement of his lungs

And 20 seconds later re-subjects me to this plight

And every 20 seconds for the 5 hours of the flight.

 

This isn’t how they show things on the adverts on TV

With stewardess pampering their guests in luxury

I hoped to travel like James Bond in soft reclining chairs

But cruelly I’ve been disabused when flying Ryan Air.