This was inspired by a BetVictor TV advert that got right up my nose.

I thought I’d see if I could do better by doing worse. Hum along as you read it.

Brown shoes with black belts

And cufflinks like kittens,

Black shoes with brown belts,

Laces broken, 

Or missing.

Brown ale in pint pots

Or Guinness not sitting,

Whisky with water,

No bar stool

To sit in.

Waistcoats with buttons

Done up to the bottom,

Bow ties not hand-tied

That look 

Frankly rotten.

Piles that are painful

And hang from your bottom,

Loose stools

That plague you

When paper forgotten.

Dog farts and pop tarts

And rats that like nipping,

Open sandals with sports socks,

Where urinals are dripping.

Half measures in posh pubs

That smell of old dripping,

Bad trips and small ships,

But not Friggin’ In The Riggin’.

Bollocks to Bezos

And the rest of his tech bros,

Same for his algorithm

That tried selling me girls’ clothes.

Matte-polished jackboots

And coppers that wear ’em.

Bananas, of course,

And just being near ’em.

Gasping for breath in traffic fumes smelly,

Cancelling old cult shows

Right off the telly,

Hot jalapenos,

That do hurt my belly.

Self-assessment tax forms,

That send my head spinning,

People who use the word “chilling,”

Not having enough money

For open-plan living…

Lottery tickets 

That insist on not winning

Old jeans when perfect

That end their days splitting.

Smug cunts 

Or rich cunts

And cunts who still 

keep on spitting.

Curry on whiteshirts

Brownshirts and nazis, 

Cabbies who won’t go south,

And all far-right rallies.

Which all brings me neatly

to Nigel Farage,

And the broken keys

to my garage.

Drinking snakebites, 

forgotten pub fights, 

stepping in old sick.

These are a few of my least favourite things…

Sadly, Nigel Farage, 

only rhymes with garage, 

and not fascist prick as I’d hoped.