If it’s any comfort Lance
I couldn’t do the Tour de France
(If ever I had felt the need)
On Red Bull, ecstasy and speed!

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Channel hopping – Jeremy Kyle!
Wife swapping? Made me smile
Family nagging? Not so much
Cousin shagging? In-ces-tuo-us!
Infidelity? Carnal lust?
Nice one Jez but I don’t trust
Your motivation for this stuff
This utter televisual guff.

To illustrate how low you’ve sank
Today I heard you tell a Yank
“You are my favourite guest by far
In four months in America!”

She’s damned I think, with this faint praise
Could not your bar be slightly raised?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

On catching the merest hint of this dreadful drivel
broadcast from the USA.

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When the big dog of fate sniffs the crotch of infinity
And pees on the lamp post of time
You may well consider the light of divinity
But not whilst you’re still in your prime.

The clergy foretell of the love of a deity
And preach that we’ve nothing to fear
Then they pass the collection plate round to the laity
To pay for their whisky and beer.

And good pious monks who ferment and distil it
Will sell you some hooch for a fee
But a priest with a plate will demand that you fill it
Cos you don’t get salvation for free!

Some clergymen lack any sense of vocation
And most of them like to imbibe
They could all buy their own so withhold your donation
For God has no need of the bribe!

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I have an abscess on me tooth
(Well underneath me fillin’)
It throbs like buggery forsooth
They gave me penicillin.

I’m taking whisky for the pain
(My favourite analgesia)
It dulls the senses of the brain
And causes mild amnesia.

Take whisky for a fearsome ache
Take whisky for the pleasure
But take it neat for goodness sake
And never, ever measure!

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Lord Sewel, Lord Sewel
You imprudent fool
I heard you took coke with a tart
I won’t knock it (or try it)
It sounds like a diet
Which prob’bly ain’t good for the heart.

I once drank some whisky
With a girl who was frisky
But she didn’t expect any dosh
I’d find it off putting
Sex bills that need footing
And that tingly permanganate wash.

But the moon’s a balloon
And you know, very soon
We will all have forgotten your name
Except for those sellers
Who serve naughty fellas
Drug pushers, and girls on the game.

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(To Any Government Department Or Daft Think Tank / Research Buffoon Who Wants To Interfere With The Drinking Habits Of The Elderly).

With apologies to Jenny Joseph.

When I am an old man I shall drink cider
With Calvados chasers to intensify the taste of apple
And I shall spend my pension (or wages) on tequila shots
And fine Bordeaux, and say bollocks to the government
And the Director of the Substance Misuse and Ageing Research Team
At the University of GET A PROPER FUCKING JOB!

When I am old I shall
Visit every distillery in the country using my free bus pass
Guzzling gratis samples until they chuck me out
Whereupon I will seek out the local breweries and vineyards
And do the same, until the purity of spirit in my veins
Is at least seventy per cent proof.

I may start smoking marijuana in those large Rizzlas
Or scoring “E”s and Whizz” from the local youf
Or chase the dragon, or go completely whacko
And once more enjoy the perils of tobacco.

When I am an old man, if I feel lonely
Cold or miserable, or just a little crappy
I may choose to drink myself to death
If that’s what makes me happy!

A new poem for any “non-doms” out there. In our family that means anyone who is not my eldest brother Dom, who coincidentally is domiciled overseas on account of him not living in this country, as opposed to those who live here but pretend they don’t.

Tax Evadance

Lord Evelyn Dance of Anywhere,
You’re neither here and rarely there.
Your property portfolio’s healthy,
A house in Mayfair; two in Chelsea.

And overseas you are the owner
Of villas close to Barcelona,
A vineyard somewhere near Bordeaux,
And in Provence a small chateau.

Your yacht is moored in Monaco,
Though truthfully you seldom go,
(For business keeps you here at home),
Despite your wealth and right to roam.

You mix with movers and with shakers,
Invite them to your Highland acres,
For shooting deer and grouse and pheasant.
Your life is tolerably pleasant.

But I don’t envy you one bit,
(As you don’t envy me my wit),
For it must drive you fearful wild,
Not knowing where you’re domiciled.

Your vagueness as to your location,
Minimizes your taxation.
The taxman seems to lack the will to
Ask which house to send your bill to.