The Man and his fake tan(c)
von Jasmine Maddock (Copyright)
Mahogany, teak stain, gravy or oak
This man’s face is a bloody joke
The colour of tea left too long in a pot
His mug is 1980’s California not
from a sunbed does he burn crisp
But from a bottle of furniture wax
Fake tan products just no good
for the burnished teak tan they lack
He’s tried Bisto, Oxo, marmite spread
But the sticky mess comes off in bed
and reveals a ghostly white pallor
A white sheet faced pasty fella
Pale go to jail and never released
Cos he only wants to be a tanned beast
A darker shade of brown is his aim
A permanent marker is to blame
He covered his face with this ink
because he didn’t want to be pink
To be mistaken for a sideboard
must be his main desire and dream
To be baked like a loaf of bread
must be his main aim and goal
Or to be coloured like a burrowing mole
He did try holidays in sunny spots
and he went brown in a few dots
Sun a peeling is not v. appealing
So bugger the sun and rub on the browning
a roasted turkey is pale next to Tan the man
Who is now coloured the shade of All Bran
and he is as crap as All Bran makes you crap
Brown boy in the ring tra la la la la
He’s tan hide Mr Bootman shade noir
If he tanned any more he’d be a horses’ tack
Tacky tanned tosser the shade of a sack.
The Mediocre Abilities of Teenage Wannabees (c) Maddock
She’s called Sharon and she reads The Stage
Answers adverts for singing girls on the pages
You can join a new all original 5 piece band
In fact like all the other groups in the land
The advertisers try to make it sound fresh
So they can get their short -skirted flesh
And shag a plenty with slags young bags
Then dump them when their bits begin to sag
Sharons’ not sagging so she digs out a CV
The lie document for all aspiring wannabees
Packs up her cheap demo that she cut for 10 quid
Of Britney Spears covers that she unfortunately did
In goes a stage photo all gloss and cheese
Big fake grins and no double chins please
In a top so low cut it makes a ribbon look wide
And in a bra so tight she almost fainted and died
Greg was also reading the ad in The Stage
The same request for singers on the same page
An all new 5 piece to rival Steps and Five
Held in an audition room bound to be a dive
Greg was boy band, Greg was all earrings
A wonky blond dyed moppet all young thing
Worked in Top Shop to afford his singing demo
Scribbled down love lyrics on Post It Memos
Sharon and Greg went to the arena
Of baiting producers and waiting Garys and Tinas
On one minute and off with a ‘Next!’
Their squawking shrill tones left them vexed
The audition was in a back street old pub
That was smelly and damp and filled with grubs
Not just the management spotting star potential
And willingness to sleep with them was essential
Sharon was nearly late for her 2.00 call
Because of a tourist who misdirected her to a church hall
She would ask a tourist, that’s just her luck
And after a 10 hour delayed journey life sure sucked
Greg nearly got run over in the mad dash
His clean shirt got splattered in mud splash
Nearly lost his return ticket to Wolverhampton
When he stopped at a café for a coffee and scone.
Greg burst in as the management called ‘Greg!’
But he was relieved when it was another Greg
And dashed to the toilet to clean up his shirt
Wiped off the mud and stray bits of dirt
Sharon went on next in her 1 inch skirt
The management man in check shirt was dirt
And no scrubbing him in the toilet would clean
This letchy mans’ leerings were quite obscene
His name was Gerry and he had a pacemaker
A crap baseball cap and a face like a Quaker
All red and jolly but a very unholy man
For the next 5 minutes he was a Sharon fan
He salivered and drooled as she squeaked
And watched her blouse and the twin peaks
Scratched his balls through combat pants
With Sharon he thought he’d have a chance
Her voice was that irritating modern whine
So in a teeny band she’d do just fine
All fake come hither looks and promise of f****
But in secret they skit at their fans’looks
On their turgid plop a long brain damaging toss
Sugar saccharine flavoured all a like dross
No better than New Kids who should be on a block
Or Bros dross candyfloss ripped trouser Goss
Nowadays it’s Five who can’t count any further along
Billie the Kid and Westlife half life cover songs
Steps the Schweppes fizzy dizzy troupe group
One wishes dearly they would all develop croup
Sharons mind was just on her songs
Not on pre baked boy bands the ready meal in thongs
She squealed and strutted through pop
Britney baby Hit me one more time slop
‘Wonderful, marvellous give her the job’
Said sleazy check shirt whose pants throb
Sharon whooped and screamed in delight
But she wouldn’t be so happy later tonight…
Greg could sing he had a reasonable sound
But sleaze man was jealous of muscle bound
So he told him he was chronic and to p*** off
‘You shouldn’t even sing in the bath’, he coughed
The other management agreed in fear
That if they accepted Greg he’d slice their rears
So Greg slunk back depressed to Wolverhampton
On his found ticket and cried and wished he’d not gone
Sharon though was full of girly cheer
And was sent to meet the other pop five here
There’s David and Shelley and Paul and Tori
All bouncy happy people with no life story
They all giggled and welcomed young Sharon
And warned her of the sleazy pop baron
Who would expect sex tonight in his mansion
And sexy exploits for the sleazy man of passion
Sharon squirmed in disgust at this idea
She was hoping that he merely just leered
But he was after a little more than looking
This manager went through the band f******!
He rotated the band on a daily routine
David one night and Paul and Tori the teen
Now it was Sharon’s turn to romp and play
Or it would be bye bye dear if no hey hey hey!
Sharon wouldn’t couldn’t entertain sleaze
She imagined that he would likely wheeze
And grunt with all the élan of a boar
In the mating season how he’d roar
So Sharon had a cunning plan
To ward off the sleazy chunk of ham
She substituted herself for a blow up doll
In his bedroom he knew no different, how droll!
So she could sing in his stupid group
But she would never have to grope.
‘Men on the Transport’(c) Maddock
The man is a tragic squashed lumpy bunion, oozing stale fake charm, stink of onion
As much hair on his head as Asda over Christmas had fresh bread; grease wisps
Lurched sidewards on the train, rattling half brain, flesh creepy corpse carrion
Blinked staring, looking, cooking up nefarious schemes in his dreams, he lisps
The blue quilt and crumply haired creepo plays legs ahoy and glances west
But his name might not be John. Dressed to ill, sickening bilious monster pest
Like all the rest. I hope some flesh eating scabs from hell-pits invade your bits
And chew-chomp maggot style until you are screaming and passing loose shit
The head over there bulbous seems to stare though his eyes are at front
Grotesque vegetable shape it pulsates and grossly reddly folds into rubber tyres of neck
Villainous filth, he screws up his odorous shape over a cheap tabloid rag
Smearing his oily mitts over Page 3 tits bitch this alcoholic fuelled wreck
Hoodlum Harry and his vile pal Al always irritatingly gurgle and laugh croak
Talk of the team, balk at things not obviously seen, footie f****** footie
I’d love to burn a thousand stadiums down into one little charred black pile
And muffle into pallid silence death the football talk and their chips ‘n’ buttie
Inspirationless pale mouse nothings try to take up no space stare into one place
My face. Where can I look that’s not their cheese reminding eek eek style?
No where as everywhere has ‘of mice are men’ wet ‘n’ wimpy beige coat brigade
Scared to breathe, blink, think; these ghost men should be flayed I preyed.