Sycophants

Inspired by certain E-mail 'conversations', I'm sure you can all think of someone that this might refer to.

Oh, give me a home where the arse-lickers roam

And the sycophants all grow on trees.

Where the trousers are down and the tongues are all brown

While the crawlers go around on their knees.

"Oh, please, sir. Oh, please, sir. Why don't you pick me sir?"

They promise they won't let you down.

They'll press all your suits, and lick all your boots,

And grovel their way around town.

Valentines Day 2002

This started off as a few verses of silliness I put out on the John Otway Newsgroup on Valentines day. Any pairings are pure mischief on my part, but as the day wore on, I was getting E-mails asking "Where's my verse?", so I added a few more. Not knowing everyone that well caused some embarrassments, including almost changing someone's gender. But everyone seemed to take it in good part, and here's the final version.

WHEN ALI MET SALLY

When Ali met Sally

They sneaked down an Alley

And unravelled a ball of string.

Then out came the handcuffs

and some secondhand earmuffs.

Then Otway started to sing.

(chorus)
Heigh, ho. Here we go.

The newsgroup has come out to play.

The insults are flying to and fro.

So who is the victim today?

When Kev the Rev

Met Auntie Bev

And her nephews, each wearing a thong.

It was cold and chilly,

Which made them look silly

As Otway continued his song.

Heigh, ho. etc.

Then Patsy met Eddie.

They deny that they're steady.

And who will dare say that they're wrong.

But they both enjoy leather

And a roll in the heather

Whilst hearing that old Otway song.

Heigh, ho. etc.

Next, Duncan met Jane.

Then they met again,

But it's unlikely that bells are ringing.

'Cause the reason they meet

Isn't really that sweet.

They just want to hear Otway singing

Heigh, ho. etc.

Did I mention the cooking

Of Ruth who's been looking

For some long-lasting romance to start?

Is it the smell of her baking

Or the sound of her faking

That's the way to someone's heart?

Heigh, ho. etc.

And what about the kilted men?

(You'll meet them in Dunkerque again.)

They wandered into a gay men's lair.

Their hearts were slowly sinking

But that didn't stop them drinking

And singing Otway's air.

Heigh, ho. etc.

Then there's Catherine and Billy

Whose jokes are so silly.

And we've heard them again and again.

But what the hell,

We enjoy them as well.

So join in the next refrain.

Heigh, ho. etc.

We can't forget Roslyn

For whom suitors are jostling.

And wasn't she seen on a horse?

My belief was well shaken

For I was quite mistaken.

The rider was Louisa, of course!

Heigh, ho. etc.

Is it Nic or Andy Rudd?

It's all as clear as mud.

Either way, he wants to live forever.

I'll pair him off with Karen

So Bristol won't be barren.

While John & Seymour sing together.

Heigh, ho. Here we go.

The newsgroup has come out to play.

The insults are flying to and fro.

So who is the victim today?

Pretentious

I though I'd write a poem in German or in French.

Mais c'est trop difficile

Für ein unwissend Mensch.

The Committee

We've all seen them. The clipboard merchants who scurry around looking very busy in order to avoid actually doing something useful.

The Chairman. The Secretary. The P.R.O.s.

We've all seen how a committee grows.

A treasurer next to look after the cash.

A subcommittee's needed for the Christmas bash.

A titled vice-president, or two, or three,

or someone retired from the BBC.

First on the agenda? Now let me see ...

But "Before we do that, lets make some tea."

"Who brought the biscuits? Who brought the grub?"

"Don't look at me. That's not my job!"

Whoever's not here can carry the can,

unless we recruit a catering man.

OK, Right, now that's all sorted,

Maybe now we can all get started.

"Er, not quite." said the Secretary,

"My pencil's just broken. And I need a pee."

And while you're up, look over there

As I think we might need another chair.

Has anything happened since last we met?

Have we passed any resolutions yet?

"What are they? Does it matter?

I only came for a drink and a natter."

You look at your watch and give out a groan.

Nothing's achieved, and you want to go home.

Now on to finance. What's the Treasurer got?

And the Treasurer said: "To be frank, not a lot!"

"Where's it all gone?" You may ask reasonably.

Well most of it went on biscuits and tea.

"What else? What else?" You have to insist.

Well, the rest of it went on the night we got pissed.

You groan again and reach for your coat

But they won't let you go. They want your vote.

"Vote for what?" You head for the street.

"The date and time for our next meet!"

You pull up your collar against the rain

And think: "I'm buggered if I'm going there again!"

They watch the door as you depart.

"That's shot of him. Now we can start."

The 'Holy of holies'. The 'Inner sanctum'.

You can stick all that stuff right up your rectum.

We all know that they're really saying:

"It's our ball. And you're not playing."

The Walnut and the Chimpanzee

Some absolute gibberish:

Said the walnut to the chimpanzee

'Will you have some soup with me?'

'Soup with croutons?' he replied.

'To make me nice and warm inside?'

'I don't know.' the walnut said.

'Have some crisp fried bread, instead!'

World Cup US-Style

A heartfelt plea written just before the games started:

How can they expect to put on the games

When they don't even know the proper names?

What they call football is played with the hand.

Real football is soccer (They don't understand!).

We invented the game. Our gift to the world.

Now they'll muck it all up with cheerleader girls.

There'll be time-outs for adverts. An organist too.

And all sorts of b*ll***s to irritate you.

Penalty shoot outs to humour the hosts.

They even want to widen the posts.

Defence becomes D-Fence. R-Fence was attack.

Oh please, won't you give us our football back?

Office Blues

I expect that this one speaks for a lot of people. In the original version, the word ‘Office’ was replaced by the initials of the company I worked for. But I made the change because I don’t want to get sued.

Woke up this morning -

Got dem ole Office blues.

I said Woke up this morning -

Got dem ole Office blues.

But my mama done tole me

You lucky you ain't Emlyn Hughes.

Got stuck in the traffic -

Got dem ole Office blues.

Yeah, Got stuck in the traffic -

Got dem ole Office blues.

But that ole Traffic Warden -

I done run over his shoes.

Walked into the office -

Got dem ole Office blues.

You know I Walked in the office -

I Got dem ole Office blues.

And they ain't gonna go away

No matter what way I choose.

Workin' all day -

Got dem ole Office blues.

Bin workin all day -

Wid dem ole Office blues.

You wait years for decisions

Or any other news

Went home in the Evenin'

Dem blues is gone.

Plebeians

Not as good as the Dilbert cartoons, but I think you will recognise a few of these characters. And it's all true! By now, you may have detected a common theme in the ‘Anyway’ part of this site

Listening to those who are mostly inarticulate.

Reading to you from the Sun.

Talking to those who are barely literate,

Whose reading is rarely done.

With peculiar diction that is stranger than fiction

And can drive you around the bend.

Do they do it for show, or do they really not know

That the only 'h' in 'aitch' is at the end?

If the gibberish that's heard became the written word

There'd be no hesitation to bin it

When phrases like 'aren't they', 'don't we', 'isn't he', 'doesn't she'

All come out as 'innit'!

Trying to sound clever, but as boring as ever,

With a collective I.Q. of four.

Week after week, turning around to speak.

What do they keep turning for?

And did I really hear 'forwards' coming out as 'frontwards'?

Is this all a very strange dream?

Have I really heard nonsensical words

Like the phrase: 'Ya nart a mean?'

And then, don't you know, they don't 'say'; they 'go'.

I find it all so very confusing

That they should want to hide any national pride.

After all, it's their own language that they are abusing.

Who else gets on your tits? There are those lazy-arsed gits,

Who cannot do anything more

Than get everyone miffed when they fill up the lift,

Then use it for only one floor.

And look at the scenes of crowds of drag queens

On fag-slag-corner each day.

The pavement looks awful, like some seventh-rate brothel.

There's not much more you can say!

We have come to expect their lack of respect

For their surroundings or for others.

While the rest of us choke on their secondhand smoke,

They couldn't care less who suffers.

And look at the mess; It doesn't impress.

Those fag-ends all over the floor.

Leaving the staff on Reception to do the litter collection

And clean up around the front door.

Others' hygiene is missing after shitting or pissing

Then not washing themselves when they're through.

They're not at all clean (if you know what I mean).

So we won't shake their hands. Well, would you?

What is there do do when the slobs around you

Are crude and lacking in gentility?

It's hard to find reason, whatever the season,

To endure their base mentality.

When your back is turned, a slagging-off is earned.

Nobody escapes unmentioned.

Where bullshitters roam and arse-lickers reign.

I'll be glad when I'm collecting my pension.

Who the piss-taking lands on is seemingly random.

Sometimes it is much more selective.

It never relents. There is no innocence.

Most often it's purely vindictive.

It gets worse and worse, like some terrible curse.

I wish that someone would take pity

If I am heard to say that I yearn for the day

I can join the escape committee.

Oh, well! What the heck? What can you expect?

The loonies are running the asylum.

Everything's arse about face. It's a total disgrace.

But if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

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