Duvet Song

Check out the video on Youtube!

Duvet Song

Here at Chilcot, we work to a very simple plan

To keep the English people as toasty as we can

It’s an ancient technology, brought on the long boats

When the Vikings invaded, in their pink duffel coats

With their snuggly pillows and fluffy eiderdowns

We became so warm to dream, and soothe our Saxon frowns

If we leave one sorrow writ upon History’s final page

‘Twill be that duvets were unknown till after the Ice Age

We let the dinosaurs take power, ceded them the light

While we huddled in our caves, too freezin’ cold to fight

You’ve got me started now, on my high pet hobby horse

I should be in the here and now, not reminiscing with the Norse

We’re in the twenty tens now, the Chilcot clan is keen

We have a new appointment from Her Majesty the Queen

To keep our leaders cosy, this is our commission

To cover their arses in the chill wind of rendition

Special thinking was required, and specialist advice

For duck and goose and derry down no longer would suffice

To heat the blood of Englishmen with murderous chilblains

And frozen hearts, and madness and slush throughout their veins

And Chilcot made a duvet, and according to the logs

We soon achieved a factor of seven million togs

By working in secret and total obedience

And using the finest human ingredients

Our donors are raised in the desert and mountain air

Which explains the high quality of the harvest of hair

And the skin so elastic, the bonemeal so plump

And the flesh so succulent cut from the rump

And the blood and saliva we turn into dyes

And the buttons and poppers we make out of eyes

And zippers constructed from fragments of teeth

And pockets excised from dark corners beneath

On this urgent mission we send our armed forces

To collect these precious human resources

In the Afghan passes, on the dunes of Iraq

The peasants give their lives for the warmth upon our back

They give their wives and children, they give their final breath

All for the Chilcot miracle, the duvet of death

Round here, people like their music in seventeen four

Mostly

© Nick Weldon March 2010

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous

Tyger Song

Check out the video on Youtube!

Tyger Song

Tiger Tiger in the rough

How many holes will be enough?

What immortal bunker shot

Could stop your gonads getting hot?

How many eagles lifted high

Could distract your roving eye?

How many birdies on green sward

Could make you sheath the old pork sword?

No flag exists you cannot find

Is this done by power of mind?

Or does each pulsing hammer blow

Issue from a realm below?

Tiger Tiger in the rough

Your face is made to polish muff

Thence your cheeks most holy shine

Your perfect round of sixty-nine

You're the one the girls all like

Driven as the balls you strike

Men feel you enrich their lives

Unless by chance you shag their wives

You're the best we've ever seen

Straight and true from tee to green

Your message must not be denied

By second comings multiplied

Tiger Tiger in the rough

You cannot be a powder puff

Your place is in the mad abyss

Not in cosy household bliss

In our ordered neighbourhoods

Your are the monster in the woods

Shred the captain's tidy coat

Eat his nuts, rip out his throat

We watch you, we who are so chaste

With mix of envy and distaste

With horror we admire the beast

But all wouldst gaily share the feast

Drives approaches chips and putts

Merge into the lips and butts

Of women you would some day woo

Hence your aim so straight and true

And many trophies on your shelf

Symbols of your inner self

Of tournaments of sexual fun

Objects once pursued and won

Tiger Tiger under par

Whom you do is what you are

No skill you'd have, or wondrous craft

But for the hands around your shaft

Tiger Tiger in the rough

How many holes will be enough?

What immortal bunker shot

Could stop your gonads getting hot?

© Nick Weldon February 2010

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous

Onion Song - a poem from Oedipus Interruptus, the Jazz Cook

Check out the video on Youtube!

Onion Song

My mother spoke her love, but not without contradiction

For she was a writer, surrounded by her own fiction

When I was a nipper, imprisoned in my local school

One fine spring day, I was made to appear a fool

It was the time of the daffodil competition

In which I had the hopeful and tender ambition

To have a tall strong yellow flower, to be the best

But my shoot was very tiny, when compared with all the rest

The judges nicely do not laugh, instead they bite their lip

They say "that is an onion bulb, we recognise the tip"

My mother lives in many worlds, and all inside her head

She lost my daffodil, and planted onion in its stead

I left my manhood in the earth, it is such a shame

My shoot is dwarf and shrivelled, my mother is to blame

I have discovered since, my Ma is not so silly

For like the daffodil, the onion is a lily

Asparagus and garlic, and also the shallot

Are also family members, and this explains a lot

Narcissus, the daffodil, stared much into a lake

Obsessed with his appearance, and this was a mistake

For men do not need mirrors, they must find themselves in action

When my mother killed my daffodil, this was a benefaction

For when I found the onion, I also found the route

To be a man, shape the world, however small my shoot

Now I have my restaurant, with its four Michelin stars

My mother has a chateau, and I have thirteen cars

"Don't remain a child", my therapist gave me warning

Now I love onions, and I chop them every morning

All because a little bulb my mother once mistook

I'm Oedipus Interruptus, they call me the Jazz Cook!

© Nick Weldon February 2010

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous

Piggy Song - a poem from your MP

Check out the video on Youtube!

Piggy Song

I am the MP for Northampton South

My existence is mainly hand to mouth

All the fruits of this wonderful land

Go into my mouth, out of your hand

You scrimp and you save, I know what that means

I use your moolah to butter my beans

I thank the Lord for this garden of earth

I thank him again for the gift of your birth

Too lazy to think, or bother your heads

You just want to drink, and stay safe in your beds

Begrudge me my castle, my KitKats, my moat?

You lurk in allotments, too sluggish to vote

I get to banter and barter and preach

While you dream of futures beyond your reach

I have the power, the glory, the will

You have your leisure, and my hefty bill

I have expenses, they're part of my life

I have horses, and children, and a greedy wife

Her club is Harrods, her tits are divine

As long as there's cash, they will always be mine

She runs the office, employed by the state

To type, make tea, and copulate

She's my PA, my harlot, my friend, and my nurse

Her undies are silk, from the people's purse

I often get lonely, so far from my home

The castle near Scunthorpe, apartment in Rome

Town house in Mayfair, flat in South Ken

I tire of my travels, and now and again

Ski-ing in Verbier, on the beach in Peru

I lay down my snorkel, and I think about you

I'd like to be poor, and hang up my socks

Down by the arches, in my own cardboard box

But my job description is to speak for you plebs

While pounding the flesh of grimy celebs

And cruising the Strand in a luxury car

With cocaine dispensers, and caviar

And boys in white satin, champagne on tap

And cabinet documents deep in my lap

I've read the outlines, no time to read more

Tomorrow is Thursday, we're going to war

Tommy is off on a mission to Hell

He's English and barmy, he does it so well

National Pride has been slipping of late

Soon we must pay him a half decent rate

But this is a cost we shall quickly recoup

By halving his kit, and feeding him soup

The comfort of Tommy is high in our thoughts

We'll send him to battle in T shirt and shorts

As the gunfire rumbles, my belly rumbles too

I wave the people's chequebook, I know just what to do

Hungry little piggy, snozzle in the trough

Snuffle in the truffle, just can't get enough

It's an arrangement of culture and class

You pay for the pleasure of wiping my arse

I salute the Nation, it's you I have to thank

Cos I'm a little piggy, and you're my piggy bank

© Nick Weldon February 2010

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous

Sperm Song - a poem for John Terry

Check out the video on YouTube!

Sperm Song

Brawl in a Phone Box

On the way to some work in Cardiff last week, and dropped in at Bristol's WelshBack Club to catch some of the encounter between BristolPro Build and TWP St Georges Hill in the Premier Squash League. The second string match was fascinating - Mohamed El Shorbagy was brilliant, erratic and loopy, while Tom Richards was organised, efficient and deliberate. Shorbagy has been active at a high level on the International Tournament circuit and seemed a bit stiff and tired, but nevertheless has new reserves of pace and quality to fall back on, and this just turned the match in his favour in an entertaining 5-setter. Some of his shots were breathtaking, and one in particular - a topspin backhand volley kill that simply skidded out of the nick!

The final match of the evening, the first string match between Adrian Grant and Daryl Selby, was full of superb squash. There was also, initially at least, humorous banter from Daryl as he teased the officials over their decisions. But Adrian Grant was moving so smoothly, retrieving so well, and applying such consistent pressure, that Selby quickly became tired and frustrated, and began a rather ugly campaign of disruptive let-seeking. Grant was playing well within himself, and should really have won the game in three, but weak refereeing allowed Selby's ridiculous claims of interference to succeed, and he managed to spin it out to four. Time after time, when the ball was buried in the back, Selby contrived to wrap his racquet arm around Grant rather than just going to get the ball. It was blatant gamesmanship, born of fatigue and despair, and only made possible by the indulgence of the referee. Amazingly, Grant kept his cool, and his sense of humour, only once popping out of the court to ask the referee "Haven't you worked it out yet? You're being mugged!". Anyway, he always knew he was going to win.

Normally we're keen for the matches to go on a bit longer, in the PSL seats, but in this case we were all eager to see it over, as it was a depressing and faintly disgusting spectacle. Perhaps that's one of the reasons we'll never get to the Olympics. Yes, squash is not the most televisable spectator sport for those who don't know the game, and that may be one factor working against us. But I suspect that there may be a more compelling argument against us, which is that too many squash matches lack the nobility, dignity and morally uplifting quality demanded by the Olympic ideal, and resemble nothing so much as a brawl in a phone box.

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous

Idristan

My dark and hilarious novel Idristan is still for sale on Amazon.  Here are some free excerpts.  Happy reading!