Fern Britton - An open letter

Well you big fat lying lard arsed cow! We believed in you Fern and you shit up our backs, in fact you shat on the doorstep of all of your fans, fat and thin.

So you used surgery to shift your considerable bulk whilst hoodwinking us, your adoring public, into believing you shed the pounds with eating less, cycling and walking the family dog. It’s all well and good you giving it the big one by saying that you owed no cunt an explanation about your helping hand from under the knife. I spent a small fortune on those wafer biscuits you were advertising. The fuckers stuck in my throat every fucking day, once for breakfast, once for tea, and all because I thought you were with me. “If Fern can eat these, I can eat these,”- I thought to myself.

Meanwhile that effeminate wee husband of yours, Vickery, was filling your restricted heinous fucking gut with all manner of goodies.

The strange thing is I’d have rode the hole clean off you Fern when you were a big un. You had an air of confidence about you Fern, the air of a women who was at ease with herself physically, spiritually and sexually. I bet you put a great turn on as well. I can imagine you looking at me over your shoulder, eyes wide and innocent, with index finger seductively placed between your lips.

But no, that wasn’t enough for you was it Fern, you had to keep pushing it didn’t you? I blame that cunt John Leslie, a poisoned chalice that bastard. You play with fire and you’ll end up getting burnt and from where I’m sat I can smell the pork crackling away

Go on Fern, get to fuck away from me whilst I decide where we go from here.

First Published in The Mudhutter 16, July 2008

Let it fry

The planet’s over heating
and I couldn’t give a shit
I’m sick of "don’t do that",
fed up of "must do this".

I’m tired of recycling
and your different fucking bins
"Don’t put it in that one,
separate the glass from tins".

"Turn your heating down",
fuck you I’ve turned mine up
and I’ve left on all my lighting
just to piss you off.

So save your fucking preaching
cause I’ve bigger fish to fry
The planets fine and so am I
fuck off, curl up and die.

Time gentlemen please

I’m trying lord I really am
I’m giving it my all,
giving it the best I can
determined not to fall.

Don’t know if I will make it,
or if my best is good enough
I can’t see the way forward
but behind is looking rough.

So I’m gonna keep on moving
gonna keep on moving on
Lord, oh just believe me
this time I’m really done.

The dark days I’ve discarded
the misery I’ve stopped
no more my love will see me
at this lonely bar I prop.

I’m trying lord I really am
I’m giving it my all,
giving it the best I can
please catch me if I fall.

Richard Madeley - An Open Letter

I’ve always hated you Madeley, right from the fucking word go. You sit there with that smug fucking grin on your face don’t you? Sitting there as if you think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you Madeley?

It was a black day on the 13th May 1956, wasn’t it Madeley? The day you entered the world. There was no need for forceps when you were delivered, I bet you fucking shot out you slimy wanker. I never could and never will be able to stomach Shakin’ Stevens, but how I applauded him when he had you in that headlock on the telly all those years ago. That was Shaky’s big chance if you ask me. If only he’d gone a step further and given you a proper fucking hiding he could have been a national treasure.

But he didn’t and you’re still here aren’t you Madeley? You and that gibbering wreck of a wife of yours, is it any wonder she shakes like a shitting dog living with you?

Fuck off Madeley, you make me fucking sick.

First Published in The Mudhutter 15, May 2008

7/7

Threw a lucky 7
and it blew you off your feet
who would have guessed two 7’s
wins a prize to God, to meet.

Such a fucking waste
such a fucking crime
such a pointless way to die
away ahead of time.

Just on the way to work
to earn an honest crust
now just a mere statistic
of politically spun dust.

Whatever happened to Johnny Look-Back?

Johnny paced the Earlestown streets
from the Vulcan to the Muckies,
through the Wargrave to the Common
never seen in pubs or bookies.

A long grey mac with shoulders slumped
and hands behind his back,
the kids he passed would scream his name
“Hey Johnny just look back!”

See Johnny Look-Back liked to look
he looked most everyday,
but poor old Johnny’s looking back
for his dog that ran away.

To all the kids it was a laugh
as Johnny crooked his neck,
a broken hearted lonely man
without his man’s best friend.

And then one day we realised
that Johnny had gone too,
but was old Johnny melted down
like his poor old dog for glue?