The Ladies of Greggs (poem)

If you’re reading this outside the UK I should explain Greggs are a nationwide chain of bakers who originate from the city I live in Newcastle. I’ve heard several locals refer to them as a good employer. I can’t vouch that 100% you’d have to ask the staff. But the notion of employers treating staff well is a dwindling standard across the globe with some large areas being shoved back to slavery. I think that’s what the deliver us from evil line is about at the end…

 

THE LADIES OF GREGGS.

The ladies of Greggs work hard on their legs.
To bring us those pasties that keep us all fed.
The ladies of Greggs rise early from bed.
They’re the best of all mothers Ive oft heard it said.

With a smile and a cheery, “There ye gan pet.”
To say they seem happy is a fairly safe bet.
But why do they bother to bring us good service.
Most workers these days of their jobs they are nervous.

Because Greggs are an employer of decent repute.
Thats why you dont find them in industrial dispute.

For the cakes that they bake pay a good hourly rate so happiness at work is these ladies fate.

So we’d like to show thanks to the people at Greggs.
Deliver us from evil with our daily bread.

DAVID BOWIE ONE OF US.

 

From Brixton streets of black and Blues and working class of stock
A messianic boy named Jones was born the future king of rock.
The eyes didn’t match, the teeth needed capped, the complexion white and snowey
Yet behind those eyes lay a visionary later know as David Bowie.

David Bowie let them boogie, let the children play
David Bowie such a tease wasn’t really gay.
But it mattered not. He knew the plot. The suggestion was enough.
And a million forbiden lovers cried that there Bowie’s one of us.

He turned a planet feeling blue into a spinning glitter ball
And it wasn’t just the platform shoes that made us all feel tall
Because he blew away conformity. Made the rule book look quite petty
When he told a generation you’re beautiful, you’re changing and you’re pretty.

David Bowie let them boogie, let the children play
A million suburban heroes he birthed if only for a day
He screamed, he bawled, he was outrageous kicking up a fuss.
And from our factory production lines he screamed Rebel! Rebel!
For he was one of us.

He then shot off to Germany to escape that juggernaut called fame.
Ig and Zig and Eno stood watching lovers by a wall
The music did unite them from East and West they came
And a people reunited danced as that wall it took a fall.

David Bowie let them boogie, let the children play
A new Queen Birch named Thatcher tried to take all we had away.
But Davy boy he never flinched as he lifted us from dread
Put on your shoes, you know the ones, they’re revolution and they’re red.
OK the came some albums we’d rather not discuss
But that just proved he’s fallible because Bowie’s one of us

How many days have we left? With Hours you told us Seven
Then on a morning cold in January Look up here I’m in Heaven
From Stardust to Blackstar the circle was complete
To celebrate your legend we went Outside, did some dancing, tears fell upon the street

David Bowie let them boogie, let the children play
Your legacy is like diamond forever here to stay
Your songs will ring forever on the streets where they’ll be busked
And in a million years when they ask why we’ll say because he was one of us

The Dissenting comedian…

I am descending
To do some dissenting
Newcastle Stand
Is the room I am renting.
5 star reviewed
Jokes outa the hood
No lazy observations
An attack on the nation
The audience get on their feet
Standing ovation.

Undermining elites
Talkin shit from the streets
Comedy that blows the doors
Offa those mocking the week

Will never be asked to Apollo stage
To much truth in the jokes that I rage.
Be there tonight.
Join in the fight
Errr…something,something, something
Jack Whitehall is shite.

A Sleaford Mods outlook on Modern Comedy.

To celebrate the release of a fantastically vitriolic new Sleaford Mods LP this week I’ve written this little ditty as to what I imagine their outlook on modern comedy would be. Please understand no opinions here are mine, they are that of an imaginary Sleaford Mods song….

PANELLED TO DEATH.

How much corporate cock do I suck?

To get on that fucking week that you mock?

How much corporate cock can I take?

My banter can’t get scanter but there’s money there to rake.

Mediocrity prevails.

They’re laughing in the aisles.

The open spot he’s bailed.

Time to fuck of back to Wales.

All artistries set sail.

It’s all gone Daily Mail.

The Booker he’s in jail.

Your wages they have failed.

Some cunt pockets all gross sales.

I’ve got a great idea for a pilot with those Radio 4 celebs.

Really? Here’s my old school tie. Fucking hang yourself you pleb.

But I’ve got observations about shopping centres and bedsit renters, I’m not a dissenter!

Would make a really good presenter.

Jimmy Tarbuck he’s delighted he’s got the final laugh.

Jack Whitehall’s king of comedy to a soulless demograph.

Back in clubland stags and hens ignore an embittered Jock

Hitting air with edgy punchlines all told to an inflatable cock.

How much corporate cock do I suck?

To get on that fucking week that you mock?

How much corporate cock can I take?

My banter can’t get scanter but there’s money there to rake.

Ooh do you get food? Does it come with drinks as well?

Yeah whatever cunt, enjoy yourself. As the staff wish you on to hell.

I’m trying to find the answer.

Not be seen as just a chancer.

Why am I further down the bill

Than some fucking Polish dancer.

Royal variety.

Punchlines of piety.

An attack of anxiety.

Try not upset society.

ROYAL VARIETY.

ROYAL VARIETY.

ROYAL VARIETY.

How much corporate cock do I suck?

To get on that fucking week that you mock?

How much corporate cock can I take?

My banter can’t get scanter but there’s money there to rake.

Poem from our forthcoming Fringe show

I’m embarking on my first foray into kids entertainment at the Edinburgh Festival this year. I’m working alongside the excellent comedians Martin Mor and Paul Curie. Despite a fair bit trepidation I’m sure it will be a great experience. Here’s a wee poem that will feature in the show…

KALED THE LONELY DALEK.

Kaled the Dalek was a sad death machine.

You daren’t beat him at football cos he’d death ray the team.

At scholl they were terrified of his weird Dalek voice.

Extermination to death was his number one choice.

 

I am supreme he quite likes to gloat.

But shouting death threats gives him a sore throat.

 

Kaled the Dalek was rubbish at Rounders.

Catching balls with a plunger meant he did flounder.

With the other hand a ray gun he was no good at drumming.

But if you had a blocked sink he was a dab hand at plumbing.

 

I am supreme he quite likes to gloat.

But shouting death threats gives him a sore throat.

What Kaled yearned for was to meet one like himself.

Who looked like a pepper pot and was a threat to your health.

So he put up an advert with an online dating website.

Elegant glider, diligent worker good in a fight.

For love I could change, for that I could warm.

A wee bit short tempered, typical Capricorn.

 

I am supreme he quite likes to gloat.

But shouting death threats gives him a sore throat.

 

But no one answered this Daleks plea for love.

And from his single telescopic eye a tear he did blub.

But how do you help a Dalek feel loved good and proper?

He nearly wiped out a planet when they said see the Doctor.

 

Poem…The Hurly Burly Hymn Book O The Presbytarian Minister.

I wrote this for a character I do now and again called Rubber Burns poet, sadomasochist and Scottish nationalist. I spotted there was a poetry page following me on here so I thought I’d pop it up. It’s all about the importance of good song lyrics…..

The Hurly Burly Hymn Book O the Presbyterian Minister.

 

There was a minister fair radical of the Presbyterian kirk

Whose services had them Voguing in the isles, for tradition he did shirk

He realised to hold short attention spans of the Twitter generation

He should let them sing modern top 40 hits for spiritual foundation

For old classics like How Great Thou Art and go on for far too long

So let’s all sing the sentiments of Bob Marley’s more modern songs

 

The hurly burly hymn book o the Presbyterian minister caused a spiritual sensation

He was seen as the greatest moderniser since the Scottish reformation

Although the lyrics o the Dead Kennedys to some might seem quite shocking

A full Kirk belting punk rock tunes sets your baptism a rocking

 

In his church non-sectarian you couldn’t sing The Sash

For he was a man of the peoples plight who much preferred The Clash

The Assembly tried to make him stick to the tune of Abide With Me

But our minister saw the spiritual worth of Paul McCartney’s Let It Be

Although Lennon is more popular among the lefty brethren

The kirk elders didn’t like the words of “Imagine there’s no Heaven”

 

O the hurly burly hymn book o the Presbyterian minister caused a spiritual sensation

He was seen as the greatest moderniser since the Scottish reformation

His congregation were among the happiest of flocks

Because there are great lyricists in modern rock and pop

 

Eventually it came to pass his methods spread far and wide

Catholics, Muslims and Mormons all pogoed by his side

It was only Bono of the group U2 that got our minister down

Because there just isn’t room for two messiahs in one spiritual town

Bombastic worthy do-gooders we all as one deride

For U2 really lost their way after the release of Pride

 

O the hurly burly hymn book o the Presbyterian minister caused a spiritual sensation

He was seen as the greatest moderniser since the Scottish reformation

So when you’re dancing at a do pay heed to lyrical words

There’s more than just funky beats to Public Enemy and The Byrds