Snog Marry Avoid

The Greek God Zeus, all powerful and mighty,

Bestowed beauty upon Goddess  Aphrodite.

Men fell at her feet, they worshipped in awe,

They couldn’t believe the beauty they saw.

These days Aphrodite might be somewhat annoyed,

If her looks lands her on Snog Marry Avoid.

In front of a graphic that’s comically snooty,

And Jenny Frost, the supposed face of natural beauty.

The premise is simple, they take overdone slappers,

And change their whole look to make them more dapper.

POD, the talking computer contestants take on,

Is like Trinny and Susannah mixed in with Tron.

The state of the mingers is often absurd,

POD’s basically challenged to polish a turd.

She points out their fakeness and the time that it takes up

And then without warning sandblasts off their make up.

No, they wash off their own slap, this parts takes the mick,

Some faces need more cleaning than BP’s oil slick.

POD makes them over, gives them new threads,

And yanks out the extensions glued onto their head.

Some love their new look, it’s a fresh start,

But most of them dont and revert back to tarts.

And so Jenny Frost’s beaten and must face defeat,

The show, much like POD, hits control.Alt.Delete.

X Factor Tour 2011

What happens after X-Factor, do the rejects just go poor?

No Simon rounds the losers up and sends them out on tour.

They play arenas round the land, they move from place to place,

You get to see ‘thingymabob’, and cheer on ‘whats-her-face’.

There’s no easy way of saying it, the truth cannot be softened,

Once the show goes off the air, the rejects are forgotten.

So before you buy your tickets here’s a quick refresher course,

To save you spending 50 quid and dealing with remorse.

There’s Irish mama Mary, her big voice sounding grand,

If Subo is the real thing, then Marys Tesco brand.

Having to sing live every night, Mary is a mess,

She’s used to only coping with ten items or less.

Then there’s Gansta Cher Lloyd, who likes to get her swag on,

And pulls these awful faces that you’d put a paper bag on.

Once the tour is over, Will.I.am may still harangue her

He couldn’t get in Cheryl’s pants, so he’ll try her doppelganger.

Simons made a boyband, 4 small Bieber clones,

(plus a little asian kid, so nobody moans).

He’s got them suited booted, and named them One Direction,

He did it just so Louie’d squirm and stifle an erection.

But when the tour is over, and each lads got their pay,

All of One Direction will go 5 separate ways.

No they’ll land a record deal these boys will all be set,

Their already sitting dreaming of the pussy they will get.

There was Aiden Grimshaw whose style did not make sense,

Had a jokey Jedward haircut but his face was so intense.

He claims that he is purely straight, but I’m a non believer,

You’ll find him on the tour bus knuckle deep in diva fever.

And who could possibly forget the scarecrow Katie Waissel,

Her style just plain annoying, her voice was shrew and nasal,

But once the tour is over she’s giving up on fame,

She’s gonna join her granny by going on the game.

Then of course there’s Wagner, which label suits him best?

Tone death creepy crooner, or samba moved sex pest?

There’s rumours that he’s bonking Mary, what image could be scarier?

He’s put an unexpected item in her bagging area.

Matt Cardle finishes the show, his singing can’t be slicker,

Housewives up and down the land are wringing out their knickers.

And once the tour is over and they’ve finished their last gig,

Simon throws them in the bin, on top of Eggnog Quigg.

Beckham Baby Names

Vicky Beckham’s up the duff, one more to their brood,

But what name will they call it? This oughta be good...

There’ll be speculation; it will make the evening news,

What name could be dafter than Brookyln, Romeo or Cruz?

Her band mate Geri Halliwell called hers Bluebell Madonna,

The kids half weed half pop whore, quite the fucking honour.

Celebs do like the crazy names, something outrageous or just silly,

It’s a laugh to everyone, except Heavely Hirana Tiger Lily.

Becks may open it to sponsorship to see what they can get,

They could call the little baby Coke, or Tesco, or Gillette.

Gwenth Paltrow did the same thing, boasted at the christening chapel,

She dont like fruit she loves iPads, that’s why her kids called Apple.

Brad and Ange did have a laugh, their kids called Shiloh Pitt,

If you rearrange the letters that names a total pile o’shit.

Nicole Kidman called hers Sunday Rose, sounds like a meal almost,

It’s based on things she cannot eat, it should be ‘Sunday Roast’.

Jermaine Jackson’s kid Jermajesty should really just let rip,

In later life he’ll tell his dad Jer-wanna-get-a-grip?

George Foreman called all his boys George, he has at least 5 sons,

He’s so proud he put his name on every single one.

So who knows what Posh could call it, she wont let it spill,

I’m guessing ‘Johns’ an outside bet down at William Hill.

The Beckham’s will only tell Ok! They’ll exclusively sell it.

They have to keep the name quite short so David can still spell it.

Lily Allen: Riches to Rags

Once there was a London girl, Pop music was her passion,

But that became too much hard work, so now her love is fashion.

She’s claiming clothes are now her dream, Lily’s inconsistent,

One minute a huge pop star, the next a shop assistant.

Lily Allen chav princess wants to open a boutique,

And she’s invited channel 4 round it so we can have a peek.

But Lily’s wishy washy and her interests levels dropping,

She doesn’t want to run the store, she just wants to go shopping.

Lily wants to wear the stock, that’s how her shop may well fail,

A bit like Amy Winehouse trying to run an off sales.

Her plan to start a dress up shop wont impress on Dragons Den,

Does she want to run a business or just be Mr Benn?

Perhaps go back to singing, a fashion career she cannot forge.

She could always just design some clothes to sell at Asda George.

Jamie Oliver

At first glance he looks like a chef, but I assure that he aint,

See the light shine out his arse, a chubby lisping saint.

Jamie’s walked on water since he beat the war on junk,

He’s more reviled than the Pope’s piss, purer than Bono’s spunk.

He didn’t like school dinners, turkey twizzlers he torpedoed,

He stalked the kids at lunchtime like a culinary paedo.

He’s opened up his own school to help bad kids go far,

But what’s Jamie’s achievement? Where’s his Michelin Star?

Jamie’s forgot his naked roots; his campaigns are a ploy,

Less like a TV Saviour, more Channel 4’s rent boy.

I liked him way more in his youth as he Pukka’d round inanely,

He spends far too much of his time these days 69ing Sainsburys.

He even went to the U.S, obesity he tried to rid,

They promptly told him fuck off home to his flower bed of kids.

 But it’s hard to dislike Jamie, he’s good natured and he’s pleasant,

but best of all his stupid books make easy Christmas presents.

Louie Spence

I’ve seen an apple turnover; I’ve seen an Orange squash,

But to see a pineapple dancing, is really Oh. My. Gosh.

Louie Spence, the dancing fruit, he spins and he sashays,

He’s pirouetted into place as Britain’s favourite gay.

He’s camper than a row of tents, his dance moves over zealous,

He’s left other gay celebrities feeling deathly jealous.

Which famous gay will kill Louie, give him his final breath?

It’s thought that John Barrowman will jazz hands him to death.

It seems like that wont stop him, Louie’s fame will thrive,

So George Michaels gonna pick him up and take him for a drive.

But Louie will not fall for that, he’s quite a clever smarty,

Michael Barrymore will have him round for one of his pool parties.

It’s said that Boy George would do the job, there’s just one tiny snag,

The police can tell his whereabouts from his electronic tag.

Someone’s gotta step it up, put Louie 6 foot beneath,

There gonna try and slash his throat with Alan Carr’s huge teeth.

They have to end his gallant reign; it’s time for his good bye,

There gonna bore poor Louie to death by getting Stephen Fry.

Dale Wintons got a Temple of Doom, he will release those balls,

He’ll put Louie in a hole in the ground, or perhaps just a hole in the wall.

It’s time to get the big guns out, to ensure that Louie’s gone,

They’ll hissy fit him to death by getting Elton John.

Thus they’ll succeed in Louie’s death, and we’ll all miss him greatly,

He’s gone to the great G-A-Y up in the sky, to dance with Stephen Gately.

So we can only speculate who next will take the throne?

Perhaps Britain’s biggest closet case, Louie Walsh or Andrew Stone.

Peaches Geldof

Way back in the eighties, to save African babies,

 Band Aid made the grey skies look sunny.

The nation was telt off by an angry Bob Geldof,

 that he wanted our fuckin money.

So it seems fair to paint this man as a saint,

Brought joy to the whole of the third world,

Knighted by royal appointment, his one disappointment,

was spawning a spoilt little rich girl.

in the vein of Sir Bob, with his filthy gob,

It’s best just to say this blunt,

though her father has held off, it’s clear Peaches Geldoff,

Is a vacuous celebrity cunt.

So she has a famous dad, but it’s just plain old mad,

That this suddenly makes her enlightening,

Itv have sank that low, they’ve gave her a chatshow,

A guff fest thats so bad it’s frightening.

She presides over us minions with her brilliant opinions,

But it’s easy to silence this skank,

Start a discussion, of why Michael Hutchence

Was choking for a wank

And since it’s his daughter, Sir Bob really oughta,

Have a word with poor Peaches some day,

There’s no need to be freakin, do it this weekend,

 ‘cause we know that he’s not keen on Mondays.

X-Factor USA Host

Simon Cowell holds more say than most,

So no doubt he’ll choose the host,

If he’s already picked,

Then the lucky prick,

Has resisted temptation to boast.

Odds on it’s Dermot O’Leary,

He’s smart and upbeat and cheery,

But what Yankees like best,

Is Ryan Seacrest,

A man so bland that he’s eerie.

But if he still want one of our own,

Then why not try lovely Steve Jones,

But if they can’t make out Cheryl,

His chance is in peril,

Then this welsh cunts chances are blown.

Simon may be thinking Cat Deely,

But Anne Robinson should host ideally,

She’ll weed out weakest links,

With her frosty winks,

And there’s no chance she’ll get touch feely.

Anne Robinson would simply rock,

She’d know how to handle deadlock,

She’ll silence the place

With her poker face,

Which she can’t move due to botox,

If Simon wasn’t being too snobby,

Then Noel Edmonds chances I would lobby,

It’s plain Konnie Huq,

Quite clearly sucks,

Xtra factor hosted by Mr Blobby?

There’s no chance it could be Kate Thornton,

There’s more chance of it being Grahame Norton,

Opens his camp mouth,

Somewhere too deep south,

Then boot camp will be renamed post mortem.

Though he may be at the end of his life,

Why not try out Brucie Forsyth,

One brief procedure,

He yells ‘nice to see ya’

And be dead before ‘see you nice’.

It doesn’t matter who wins or loses,

It’s a poisoned chalice, whoever Simon chooses,

They will feel the toll,

When on his pay roll,

Join the long list of folk he abuses.

Charlie Sheen

Cocaine aint so cool no more, Heroines passé

There’s something on the market trumping all other class A’s.

One designer drug of choice has got the smack heads keen,

A drug on which we all are hooked, a drug called Charlie Sheen.

Claims that he has tiger blood, what does he mean by that?

Does he carry out his binges like a coked up Thundercat?

He only has one speed, one gear, and that is simply ‘go’.

He’s sniffed his gear at top speed, fatigues starting to show.

He claims that he has done more drugs than one man could survive,

He’s rolling up a massive spliff from his P45.

Charlie aint exactly sad that his shows came to an end,

gets to be at home more with his two and a half girlfriends,

A nanny and a pornstar, he’s so pleased he could burst,

Jude Laws fucking raging, he had the idea first.

‘I am not bipolar’ He shrieks manically grinning,

Wild eyed rants aimed at the press are signs that he’s Bi-winning.

Charlie is convinced he’s right, he won’t get all defeatist,

We dont care if he burns out fast, so long as he still tweets it.

Britney

Once a clean teen icon, way back in 99,

A fuck storm hit poor Britney, and more than just one time.

Oops! her life went tits up , she fell on her coccyx,

Her career down the shit hole, her lifestyle became toxic.

Once so pure and virginal, Britney’s first mistake,

She went all Steven Irwin, and milked a trousersnake.

Her move into the film world flopped, her debut not impacting,

We all knew that her singing stunk, but she’s also shite at acting.

Then she locked lips with Madonna, like a big wet trout,

It could have been more sexy If Madge took her false teeth out.

And then she married K-Fed, A money grabbing jackal,

He wasn’t quite so gangsta rap but more a jizzy rascal.

Shockingly it didn’t last, her life got wrenched apart,

Her kids have spent more time in care, than shes spent in the charts.

A downward spiral hit her, she sank into despair,

At first she lost her innocence and then she lost her hair.

In the flash of the paparazzi Britney went on show

With nipples just like dinner plates and raging camel toe.

Then she flashed her shaven minge, and regretted it thereafter,

A Brazilian more upsetting than Wagner off X-Factor.

Her bald head marked her breakdown, an image like no other,

Like 2 weeks on chemo or the missing Mitchell Brother.

With her big bald napper on the plus side her agent gleaned,

They could polish up her image with a can of Mr Sheen.

Perhaps she’ll make a comeback for what seems the millionth time,

Take her out to pasture, this fat cows past her prime.

She doesn’t ever sing live, she mimes to our relief,

The only sound you’ll hear from her is a non too subtle queef.

But Britney was always trash, so it figures why not fuck it?

Less dinner at the ivy, more nando’s bargain bucket.

To end things on a positive one final thought we’ll spare her,

She’s always been more watchable than that mad bitch Aguilera.

Ashley Cole shooting

Could Ashley Cole redeem himself? his name is less than mud

No, he got himself an air rifle and went all Elmer Fudd.

He shot the work place student, with an airgun pellet,

Who hobbled to the Daily star to see if he could sell it.

When it comes to guns and own goals checkout Ashley’s boot,

With that sexting nonsense he shot himself in the foot.

Xbox have approached him, their idea is a beauty,

They’ve made a shoot em up game and called it Cole of Duty.

He’s the UK’s biggest villain, this stunt he will equal,

He’s gonna play the bad guy in the next Batman sequel.

Ashley, get a real gun, the nations love you can still gain,

Get out your fancy iphone, Google ‘death’ & ‘Kurt Cobain’.

Davina

There was once a young gal called Davina,

Who once had a wild child demeanour,

As many will know,

She used to do blo,

Her career took off when she got cleaner.

Things started to look up for Davina,

Bosses at channel 4 must have seen her,

She became host of Big Brother,

Then three times a mother,

Reality tv redeemed her.

Big Brother brought her success and pleasure,

And fame chucked in for good measure,

The show came to a peak,

Much like Div’s massive beak,

and confirmed her a national treasure.

For her past sins we’ll have to excuse her,

She’s no longer a smackhead or boozer,

She helps tone our thighs,

And sells us hair dye,

And helps fatties on the biggest loser.

Last Year Big Bro finally stopped,

So Davina now does the Million Pound Drop,

You gamble the cash,

It’s gone in a flash,

Faster than her chat show that flopped.

Take Me Out

Shakespeare wrote soliloquies that told of burning love,

And sonnets of such beauty they charmed angels from above.

He penned the tale of Romeo’s doomed love for Juliet,

The standard of great romances Shakespeare simply set.

But if he were alive today would his words still be so mighty?

Or would he simply yell aloud ‘no likey no lighty’.

 Paddy McGuiness is now cupid, on date show Take Me Out,

Teaching us all exactly what modern courtships all about.

It’s not about real bonding; depth is not its mission,

It’s judging people by their looks and making snap decisions.

He’s rounded up some ladies, and he’s gonna find them dates,

But judging by these single gals a tough time lies in wait.

Paddy’s got a task in hand to marry off these Cinderella’s

There’s more chance he’ll find Maddy McCann than find this lot a fella.

Set loose is the single guy, who bounds round unabashed,

Leaving 30 desperados frothing at the gash.

 Part entertainment &  part game show, it’s an odd concoction,

They should change the name to Paddys Saturday cock auction.

It’s really just like Blind Date, but with a new century slight twinge,

Proving dating shows haven’t greyed (unlike Cilla’s minge)

And once a date is set up, the prize is a real corker,

A gob job and a fingering somewhere in Majorca.

But what it all boils down to is a bit of silly fun,

and Paddy is on cue with the bad jokes and bad puns.

So if Shakespeare doesn’t like it, the solution isn’t hard,

Chuck him out the studio and tell him that he’s Bard (!)