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The Orange Peel Riots By COUTTSY And as the riots off the M6 in Cumbria grew There were screams of ‘this is justified as the kids have nothing to do’ And as Jason tipped his final cow of the day And kicked a chicken in the face, before looting some hay, He turned to look for some TV cameras To come his way but all he could find Was some passing sheep passing With his arms stretched wide he said “my Dad once took me to London Where there are Nando‘s un all sorts” He wished to join the adventure playground That the adults knew of and the Prime Minister was keeping a secret. ‘Dick on that’ he said as he stabbed at Sunflower stalks. He booted his way into the farmers milk supply and Greedily guzzled on several pales that came his way. The next day the farmer asked Jason to replace everything, And denounced his entire family to being slaves like Russian serfs.


Jeremy Kyle Has A Bee In His Bonnet by COUTTSY “Is this your idea of maritial bliss!?” Said Jeremy Kyle without an ounce of taking the piss. Levi and Cher have turned up in their best gear and vest To discuss how to turn their shite marriage into the best. And Dr Graham is on the show! HALLELUJAH Dr Graham is on the show! The blue whitewash lions den where they’ll rip up Levi’s limbs make him squeal for his mum And he’ll never be the same again He’ll never be a Gladiator or Maximus Decimus Meridius But he’s just admitted hes Maximusly Ridilus with Syphilis As millions watch cos that’s just The tv biz. The audience take this information with a light titter, And Levi continues cos Kyle’s eyes look bitter, And he says ‘Jer.. before you pry any further… please think on this The more you lay in, more chance she’ll go back to Chris And that’ll be a bigger mess than we all fucking wish Cos ill be without her and she’ll be without me And on our child’s birthday my boy’ll be on Chris’s knee, And not with the rightful father of the fuckin family…’ But Kyle doesn’t care. He shouts HOW MANY SLUTS HAVE YOU FUCKING KISSED? …Zero. Scum. One. Six! Six? SIX FUCKING SLUTS THIS MAN’S KISSED? And Cher’s in tears, but Kyle isn’t done, Like an embarrassing Uncle that’s had too rum Kyle’s on to morals. A subject he brings up for fun. He says Grow Up!, which Levi agrees to do, But he only has three weeks to do that, before aftercare in series two And rightfully Levi tells Kyle to Fuck off. But Kyle summons the devil himself with one cough Forgetting Jeremy’s a high roller of the occult Levi must face the underworld and say Bye to his child, his mother, his wife Cher


The lot.

The Sneeze That Reached Number One by COUTTSY Today I heard a lyric that went ‘Cos baby you’re a firework, Make them go uh uh uh, As you shoot across the sky, sky, sky’ And it occurred to me that this wasn’t even a rhyme. It was an insult, a grunt, A lyric sneezed out by some coked up, record exec cunt. And it made me think. Don’t’ get it right, just get it written, Eventually all the vampires will get bitten, It’s not like you’re competing with Dickens, Cos eventually the good will override the bad And people will listen. All things change except the motion, In which you write. And there’ll be no day for shuffling, Other than when Peter Andre begins his shifts At the local graveyard with his spade,


burying one of the Beddingfield’s back catalogue. The time will come when all the 9-5 napkin novel supremos, And bedroom Mozarts (certainly not Daniel Beddingfield) Can take off their headphones and vibe at the right time to one music, Defecate at the sight of mp3’s by Atomic Kitten, make music have a hole again and a cover and a cloth to polish them Like prize jewels. So get the records on. Make them sticky and tattered And leave in the wrong sleeves after parties. Gala Day by COUTTSY It’s the annual gala day, So bring along the family, Cos every fuckers on their way, To celebrate the place you stay. That wino from down the street is Running this year’s pool comp meet, With top prize being he won’t down his gin neat And spew on your new shoes On this proud gala day. And Trish that lives along the lane She’s gone and made home bakes again, Which no one is touchin‘, As she has BS which means regular bowel combustions, And no one knows if she’s washed her hand in the cake mix Prior to others consumption. And Terry the local convict, He’s been given the job to drum, To stop him stealing inflatable hammers, For another a hit and run. And after being banned from last year’s fiasco, Melanie’s counting down the hour, When she can enter the karaoke, With another erotic version of relight my fire. Even old Mr Andrews has came to show his face, To the little boys and little girls, That he’d like to dress up in lace. Yes this is Gala day, It’s supergalalistic day, When the community comes together. The neighbourhood watch, Come out in their droves,


And mingle with ‘the scum‘, Whilst putting on a marvellous show. W’sappenin? by COUTTSY And it’s in these streets That you begin to think That the Devil might even care, A triple homicide Over a KFC tear and share. It’s a bloodbath out there, A non sensical cycle, A Tour De France, Of broke romance, Over a social network typo. And the young lads and young girlies, No longer snog but devour, Jabba the huts of casual sex, Discover a new oraface to insert Every hour. All the underage blowjob givers, Take off their hokey kokey bra’s. Knees together, mouth stretched wide, Ra ra ra. The family sex clinic’s are booked up For their morning ‘meat and greet’ Where lads whip out their infested cocks And girls cry “they dinna ken why they dee it” And the shops and bank proprietors, Become the nightclubs pissing spot, Folk shiting on all doorsteps, In the face of the telly they bought. The clubs ring out with their MTV dreams, The club owners rub their cash ridden mittens. A guided tour of the vodka stream, Ideal for drowning kittens. The home owner and the homeless, Wonder the street as one, A chucking out time Marxist Utopia, Clouded by chundered covered gums. Where the policy is to get more fucked or fuck off. The infastructure of an entire city Drowned in the amount of drink scoffed. The vodka redbull, the jagerbomb, Disabling the drive to read, To write, to be emotive,


Socially incomplete. The tenth pint of the evening, An ode to the insecure and dumb, A bubbly, hop tasting showerm Ending in the loss of ability to get it up Or cum. Amphetaminem, Cocaine, heroine, All standard in these parts, The vein of choice to inject into, Straight throught the fucking heart. Fast forward through the decade, An unchaged ten year plan, No hope for the happy go lucky, Just mortgage repayments, an overdose, A pram.

Hey I’m Propery Developing Here! by COUTTSY They say New York now has five real safe Burroughs I must say the suspicion I felt on hearing this was thorough. That there were no longer filthy New York dreams on these streets Just Bohemian nancy’s concerned With the works of Keats. Concerned about the spread on their bagel And the fact I asked for pickle, And all I really longed for was a sighting of Travis Bickle, Million dollar loft conversions Nothing for a nickel. And I’m happy that tourists can now stroll Danger free in this place In a city where muggers tip their hat, And spray their own face with mace, and the pigeons Are accustomed to clipping their own wings, As they sit in Central park discussing what the financial sector downturn brings.


Tribeca used to be a rundown Industrial Styx, But now if you Tribeca, You’d better be prepared to pay For her jewellery and drinks

Bedroom Chronicles by COUTTSY He wasn’t one to go out at nights His room was aligned with crusty boxers Trophies of battles from wrist straining fights. He was confronted by a transparent image It revealed his patchy face like an old piece of spinach And he decided that his penis was just as unforgiving as the mirror That in the end there was no real winner, And that all he could do was stand And get thinner Or a fat fucking bastard… A curtain call beginner.

Granite by COUTTSY Where your fish supper is swooped on by big bastard seagulls as soon as you’ve bought it . Where twelve glasses of T branded bubbly lager, Move grown men to tears and gives them black eyes. A place where reckless behaviour runs in the family, In the same manner that a crooked nose or fishing would. Where there’s so many men in the pub midweek That it makes you question if it’s the weekend. Half day, holiday, home away from home. Mothers buying shopping, Sunrise through till dawn, And walking these streets can make a man feel nude. Waiting to be pounced on For leaving the place he once stood. Where chalky dreams are rolled up In the spit of industrial tires. Where you meet your sweetheart in ‘the laney’ Where your sparks first fired And it’s the exact same laney where you Had your first kiss, The same ‘laney’


Where all the neighbours dogs come to piss. And its off to the land where you’re lucky to get change For your bus fare, Where the restaurants ring out soft bellied grumbles. Where the sun shining is not cause for concern, but cause for celebration. Where wheelchairs leave ghostly trails of young men in their prime. They wobble over cobbles being pushed by broods of Polish carers. Careful not to roll over Any mines of emotional baggage.

The Nightclub Stamp Lovers by COUTTSY The nightclub stamp lovers are virile and young, They stand in doorways with punctured lungs, And rub vigorously gasping for air, At their never fading ink. Ailed up to the eyeballs, In fear of chasing sleep, Up when it’s bright To lose dreams others would keep. The nightclub stamp lovers, They all wake with a start, Start the day with destruction And a tissue to clean up, The greasy breakfast denial of a tart.


Misanthropic Mortar by COUTTSY At the bottom of a cupboard, In an empty biscuit tin, Hollow, With no crumbs left; Next to an anonymous body bag And a sack of unused fairy lights Lies the death of music. Hendrix’s ghost stoops bent double, Picking at the lock. Bo Diddley’s just offered him a cup of tea. His reply? “Dr Timothy Leary once stated that every note of music was lost in time and space, So why are we fucking with that process with this autotune race, And I’ll have two sugars by the way Bo Diddley.” They’re having their annual committee meeting this Wednesday


To discuss the cupboard keys whereabouts. Rumour has it some cunt from the Black Eyed Peas has nicked it, And welded it into a laser shooting cufflink, For his $50 million dollar half time show At this years superbowl.


A litter of poems