Saturday Live

Elvis McGonagall

• Becky Vincent
• 16 Mar 07, 12:34 PM

Elvis McGonagall - poet, twit and armchair revolutionary does the rhyming this week.

Find out more about him on his website.

It¹s A Holy, Holy Day

It's an everlasting pint of the black stuff It's a Cheltenham Gold Cup hat-trick It's the craic in the bar, it's whiskey in the jar It's Happy Birthday to Saint Patrick.

She¹s Waiting For Her Man

Postman Pat’s her pusher
(He’s no parcelforce flunkey)
She’s loitering by her letterbox
She’s the catalogue junky
She mainlines Lakeland lifestyle
Boden booty blows her mind
The thud on the floor is a Class A score
And her joy is unconfined
As she puts her – feet up, kettle on and cares away
Flicking through her glossy narcotic
Lost in her perfect Doris Day world
Full of products so exotic
A shiny thing for sculpting apple art
Mail-order bridesmaids’ frocks (in green)
Ben Elton novelty fondue sets
A radio-controlled mahogany tureen
Voluminous, comfy Chinese pants
Hand-stitched up the Yangtze
Anarchist grafitti tea-towels
Autographed by Banksy
Yes she’s tripping with her Catalogue Man
Off the High Street’s beaten tracks
As he points over there with a glassy stare
In his pastel, crimplene slacks
She’s hooked on sofa shopping
Kit-Kats and cups of tea
Squirreling all her stash away
One day she will OD
‘Cos her cupboards are full, she’s gone too far
Shrink-wrapped in plastic despair
So listen boys and girls to the catalogue tsar
Just say “nyet!” to Tupperware

Never Mind The Jackson Pollocks

I don’t know much about art
And I feel a proper Charlie
The lobster phone that I gave to Oxfam
Was a goddam original Dali
And the statue of the lassie with the broken off arms
That I chucked onto the skip
Was apparently the Venus de Milo
Which has given me considerable gyp
I put Picasso’s painting in the village tombola
‘Cos I thought it was a doodle by a kid
I sold the Mona Lisa to a pretty dodgy geezer
At a car-boot sale for a quid
I lit a bonfire with Lowry’s matchstick men
Recycled Warhol’s cans of soup
Van Gogh’s sunflowers are in the compost heap
Good Lord I’m a nincompoop
If I was Brian Sewell it’d all be cool
I’d be filthy rich, obscene
I could jet to the Maldives with Kate Moss
Like Topshop’s Philip Green
But I don’t know my Monet from my Manet or Gilbert from George
Consequently I am skint
But I am eco-friendly (‘cos I can’t afford to fly)
I’ve got a tiny wee carbon footprint
And though I know I’ll never recognise the value
Of a pickled shark or a Tracy Emin bed
I’d like to make a plea to Mr Banksy
Please oh please – could you paint my garden shed?

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