Geri, Geri, Geri...!

A Mum now! A chance to be normal
Real life! … not ego-fed fame
But you had to be a celebrity cliché
And give your child a ridiculous name

We always thought you were silly
A Media Twit, a flake
But now you’ve gone and done it
The icing's on your ludicrous cake

Everyone’s really laughing
Your credibility’s fully a-goner
What were you thinking Geri love?

Really?

Bluebell Madonna??!!

You think if stupid names are good for Posh
Then they’re good enough for you
But we’d like you so much better
If you’d named your girl Jane or Sue

The real Madonna must be cringing
She’ll be bristling in her leotard
It’s not that much of an honour
To have a cheap Halliwell homage

But aside from the celebrity circus
It’s your kid who’ll have to pay
You’ve made her a joke just like you are
Oh Geri.
Enough already.

Just go away.

Angie Had A little Lamb

Angie had a little lamb
He was a dish from head to toe
And everywhere that Angie went
The lamb was sure to go

He'd follow her to lands afar
To adopt kids for mankind’s sake
He carries them at airports
Trailing in her wake

She works as a UN Ambassador
He follows her on her mission
He follows her to live in Paris
For that urban-European frisson

He plays with her kids in grubby French streets
Cos' that’s what Angie desires
She wants to blend in with les peoples normale
Of Hollywood she tires

They both wear dirty black beanies
They both look smug and cool
Angie’s in front and Lamby’s behind
Trying not to drool

She’s dark and she’s mysterious
Her demeanour’s rather hauntin’
She’s got tattoos upon her body
That she got from Billy Bob Thornton

So Lamby can’t resist her
He left sweet Jennifer for this vamp
He’s giving her a baby to increase
The United Jolie camp

Lamb used to be a man, a Troy!
Over him women used to weep
He used to be a lion
Now he’s just Saint Angie’s sheep.

The Hoff

Oh Hoff
You tried to put us off
With your chicken legs, your pigeon torso
And your songs
That only a German would love
But we refuse to let you fade and mould
Your fame, like Kit
Is a wonder to behold
A spectacle of engineering and make-up
Don’t wake up!
And smell the coffee
In your Malibu beach home
We love the fact that you don’t know
Everyone laughs at you so

No telly fame since yesteryear
Yet an ego to admire, to worship, to fear
You escaped from rehab only to condone
The abuse of mini-bar gin and Toblerone

Your tan is orange as the Baywatch Floats
Your eyelashes twinkle
(Do you apply two coats?)
Your chest is hairy and your clothes are cack
I bet you have halitosis and a spotty back

Your dodgy spousal skills seem to know no bounds
So your wife is coming atcha like the Baskerville Hounds
The Hoff family jewels she wants to yank
She’ll be laughing all the way to the bottle bank

But who cares about all that hassle, Hoff?
It’s the fans who count, after all
The Germans think you’re wunderbar
You sold out at the Berlin Wall!
Michael Knight, Mitch Buchanan... we never ever will forget
The Hoff has staying power like a granny’s shampoo and set

So shake those cute old curls
Have another button come undone
We know you’ll have us smiling
For a good more years to come

Hoff! Hoff! Hoff! Hoff!

A Message To

A message to:

Kym Marsh
Duncan James
Lisa from Steps
Rachel Stevens
Mel C
Faye Tozer
Liz McLarnon
Lee Ryan
Jenny Frost
Dannii Minogue
Etc, etc.

Don’t flog that pop horse any more
Hearing your songs is a flippin’ chore
Please retire
Let your fame expire
We’ve had enough
Of your warbling guff

We know you were once a success real big
But leave it now, why can’t you twig
That you’re not wanted anymore?
Off you go love, there’s the door

We know you think “just one more try”
We’d rather watch our washing dry

Don’t satisfy that need to ‘give’
We’ll pass thanks, mate, I’m sure we’ll live

Don’t feel you have to purge, emote
Please bugger off, somewhere remote

Don’t release a song on your own label
Your disc will be used to un-wonk a table
Or provide a coaster for a glass of plonk
We won’t listen to songs that stink and honk

So leave the charts to those with class
Your songs are pants, they’re crap, they’re arse

Please don’t
Release
Any more records
We are REALLY NOT INTERESTED
(and keep your ruddy clothes on)

Ms Stone's Basic Instinct

Sharon Stone
Am I alone
In thinking doing Basic Instinct 2
Is embarrassing?

The first one made me cringe
Now we have to see your minge
Again
At 47 shouldn’t you know better?

Honestly! You and Madonna!
Put it away dears.

Katie Melua Really Really Irritates Me

There are nine million bicycles in Beijing
That’s a fact
It’s a thing you can’t deny
Like the fact that song annoys me till I cry

Katie

Katie Holmes
What have you done?
You used to be sweet
Now you have a bun
In the oven. With Tom Cruise!

What were you thinking?
You once had him on your wall
Now you're preggers with him at premieres
Looking hilariously tall

You’re up Dawson’s Creek, pet
Without much of a paddle
There’s no going back
Since you rode Tom in the saddle

He slipped you his Top Gun
Made you his Minority Report
Kept your Eyes Wide Shut, love
Showed you the money, and bought

Now it’s Mission Impossible
You aint in for no treat
You have to keep it schtum, dear
In the delivery suite

No shouting, no screams;
Nothing wailed, girl, nor blubbered
You can’t possibly upset
The late L. Ron Hubbard

But with luck you’ll then get married
In the Church of Bonkers Crap
It’ll be Tom and Katie forever
And you’ll be firmly on the map

We wish you luck, dear Katie
For the times you have ahead
When the sofa leaping’s over
When the romance is all dead
You should have stuck with Pacey
Or someone your own age
Not a Cruise control-freak weirdo
Who’ll lock you in a cage
Of Scientology rubbish
Get out ‘fore it’s too late
And take your baby with you
Dump him! Dump him!
Kate

Geri's Baby

Rock-a-bye baby in Geri’s tum
When you come out you’ll meet your new Mum
As you lie there in safe oblivion and grow
There’s some things about Mum you really should know

She’s a little bit ginger
A little bit mad
She’s a little bit famous
'Cos of the career that she’s had

She sang with the Spice Girls
They were cool for a while
Though her voice was quite awful
And she had no bloody style

She wore union jacks
Platform boots like breeze blocks
When she got skinny later
She just wore knickers and socks

Her solo career crashed
Through both fatter and thinner
A voice like sandpaper
Is never a winner

But your Mum did branch out
U.N Ambassador! How gritty!
And she once did some knitting on Sex and the City

She’s been known to use men
To promote a new record
Chris Evans for one,
Robbie Williams, a second

Her track record with boys
Has not been that great
But at least she got sprogged up
Before ‘twas too late

Her age has remained
Most hard to define
Though to all of her school friends
She’s at least thirty-nine

But you’ll have a great life!
Mummy won’t be mean
She’ll get a fat packet
From OK Magazine

We’ll soon see you there in a full colour spread
Smiling with Mummy on a silk-covered bed
‘Meet Geri and New Baby in Their Luxury Home!’
Don’t worry about making a mess
It’s on loan

From some gay designer: “so chic, dear! So novel!”
You’ll be returning straight after
To Mum’s slovenly hovel

Don’t fret though my baby
Life will never be dull
With your fabulous Mummy
No boredom, no lull

She’ll be in the papers
She’ll be in the mags
The Spice Girls may come back
As five ageing hags

She’ll be a great Mummy
You two will go far
Just cover your ears
When she sings ‘zig-a-zig ah’

Davina

Davina I've always liked you
I've admired you through the years
But I never realised 'till your chat show
That you have such giant ears

And your guests have been beyond Z-list,
Sorry

Paris and Nicole

Paris and Nicole
You used to be pals
You milked some cows

You snogged some rednecks
On the Simple Life
They wanted you as their wife

You said no

Now you’ve fallen out
No-one knows why
Was it over some hot guy?

Or a lip gloss

You’ve been doing other things
Apart

Nicole looks weird
Her Dad sang All Night Long
Now half her body weight has gone

She looks like a strange doll

Paris loves herself
So much
She got engaged to a boy
Called Paris
Until his Mum and Dad found out

Now she’s recorded an album
She said so at the Brits
She might perform next year
If we’re, like, lucky

Girls, it’s tragic!
What went wrong?
Please get back together!

We want to see you
Down The Mines
Or Up A Chimney
Or working in an Undertakers Together
It’d be fun

Stalking Robbie

We’re planning a trip to La La Land
My younger sis and me
We’re saving for our airfares
We’re excited ‘bout what we’ll see

We won’t see swanky Rodeo Drive
The Star Maps of Bel Air
We won’t see Mann’s Chinese Theatre
The handprints of Fred Astaire

We won’t go skating down Venice Beach
Sunset Boulevard aint for us
We won’t bother with the Studios
Hollywood? Oh, what’s the fuss?

No, we’ve set our sights much higher than
The thrills of Tinsel Town
We’re off to Robbie Williams’ House
And we’re going to stake him down

Rob, we hope you don’t mind too much
If we sit outside your place
We’ll bring our own packed lunches
We just want to see your face

We’ll watch your windows for a week
With a home-made cardboard lens
We might see you
Get into a car
Or out again
With friends

We’ll head to the local Starbucks
Where you’re known to have a brew
We’ll wander the woods where you walk your dogs
(We’ll borrow a shitzu)

We’ll try and climb your perimeter fence
(We’ll hold each other’s shins)
We’ll lurk amongst your neighbours’ plants
We might go through your bins

Ditch those L.A. airheads, Robs!
British talent is the best
If you want to Feel Real Love, Rob
Just put us to the test

We’ll give you Sister Act-ion
We’ll soothe your troubled mind
We’ll rid you of your demons
We’ll stroke your warm behind

Let us in your house Rob
Just for a cup of tea?
We promise to end the stalking
Don’t call the L.A.P.D.

Oh well, don’t then, it’s OK
We’ll just sit behind this shed

Or perhaps we’ll go back to England
And stalk Jonathan Wilkes instead.

Support for Clay Aiken

Clay
We don’t care if you’re gay
You’re OK.

Girls don’t fancy you much anyway.

You look like an elf.

Owen Wilson

Owen's got a wonky nose

But don't let your view be hasty

For look at him a few more times

And you'll find him rather tasty

Oh Carol

Vorderman darling
Please stop wearing
Roland Mouret dresses,
Warlock tresses
And glam-witch outfits on ‘Countdown’.

It really isn’t the catwalk, dear
And you aint no Jodie Kidd
So get rid.

The grannies preferred you frumpy.

Kerry

When Mum Kerry goes to Iceland
She brings back loads of crap
Dodgy one pound pizzas
And frozen Arctic pap.
She shoves it in the freezer
Then stomps out on the town
With rough new boyfriend number 4
Who’s got a dazzling chav gold crown.
With boobs higher and rounder than two planet Mars,
Fashion sense as nutty as Snickers
She wears silly boots
And skirts so short
You can almost see her knickers.
She has a column in OK mag
She used to once mime in a group
She opens supermarkets in Bolton
She once chomped Aussie cockroach soup.
She is scouse and proud
Mad and loud
Her language comes straight from the lav
Kerry we love you dearly
But you’re just a Northern chav.

Britney

Britney Spears
It's queer
How your legs are too short for your body.

And now you're fat too.

And you drive with your baby on your lap
Without a seat belt on.

You doughnut.

Robbie (1)

We had a conversation
My sister and I, in Spain
About Robbie Williams
Again
“I just love him”, I said
(Me with a baby, a husband, a bed
From Ikea and a life that goes with it. The whole kit and caboodle. But would I give it all up for a canoodle with Robbie?)
“Well I love him more”, my sister said
Pouring another tiny tonic into a large vodka, in The Dome in Feurteventura
We both sighed, and sighed again.
“Notting Hill was good”, I said
“But didn’t explore if you would, you know, shag a celeb if you were already wed, and happy and sorted, and….and…

My married sister said “God, yes!
I would!”

And so would I.

Sigh.

Oh Robbie.

Brad (pre-Angelina)

I love my husband dearly
But he’s not nearly
Half as good looking as Brad Pitt.
Which is good really
As you’d worry
All the time
About stuff
Like your husband being fancied by every woman on earth.

And you wouldn’t want him to see you
Looking rough
Or giving birth
Or cooking sausage sandwiches in your dressing gown
In case he thought
“I’m too good looking for you”
And buggered off.

Katherine

Katherine Zeta Jones
Let's make no bones
About it. You are beautiful (if slightly annoying).
They joke your husband's old
But I've always been quite sold
On his wavy coiff, his teeth and his Streets of San Francisco
Days.
A bunny boiled. A Wall Street walked.
A Jewel. In the Nile.
Forget the jealous ones
Who say he's got a wrinkly bum.
You know he's cool (apart from that v-neck jumper in Basic Instinct).

You must cause quite a stir in Mumbles.