This lion once lay by Britannia’s side –
on a ten pence I wore the crown with pride.
But now that’s the only place I’m complete;
on the two pence – I’ve got no feet.
The twenty pence is even worse –
all you can see of me is my arse!
On the five I’m just a head and a tail –
the whole design is an epic fail.
(A coin without a number in sight?
Even the euro could get that right.)
Oh, sometimes you’ll see me, rampant, alone
or with the unicorn, guarding the throne,
and (rarely) a trio of lions, couchant –
but most days a dragon is easier to spot.
Across the currency we’re scattered;
Britannia’s lions, her pride, in tatters.
It’s like another land inside the telly!
So far, in every ad I’ve seen for booze,
there’s never been a man with a beer belly
and not a single one of them has moobs.
In Advertland, the roads are always empty.
Nobody in McDonald’s ads is fat,
and everyone in ads for Match is pretty –
in Facebook ads, nobody’s handicapped.
The women trying to lose weight all look healthy
(though some of them shave legs that have no hair)
and when it’s time for them to do their laundry
you’ll find no sign of dirty underwear.
In Advertland, the houses are enormous.
The bathrooms are all spotless (unlike mine) –
except for in the ads for cleaning products,
where women wipe away CGI grime.
Here, constipated ladies dance with yoghurt –
yet never do you see them near a loo!
A ghostly Audrey Hepburn’s eating chocolate,
in Advertland, where nothing shown is true.
Have you ever sat at that table,
at a wedding? You know the one –
full of people without partners,
with traits nobody wants.
The independent women,
who persist in being single,
are never seated with couples
for fear that they might mingle.
The nun who, even in plain clothes,
exudes a faith too strong,
her chastity embarrassing
to those whose faith has gone.
And the widow who strives to be merry,
invited because she’s a friend
but not really wanted at weddings
for she’s living proof – love always ends.
I’ve got no time for Superdry
(that phoney Japanese!)
or brands of sportswear favoured by
the clinically obese.
When you choose some trendy labels
there’s just one guarantee –
that logo will increase the cost
but not the quality.
Hard-earned cash is handed over
by label-loving hordes,
then companies exploit them as
free advertising boards!
I don’t need ‘Juicy’ on my chest,
or ‘Bench’ across my butt,
for fashion’s fleeting – style endures!
Why be a label slut?
I’ve been buying Bic Cristal for years now
(love the smooth flowing, quick drying ink),
but after seeing Bic Cristal ‘for her’
I might have to have a rethink.
Packaged like a lady’s razor – and
oh look, the barrel’s thinner.
(Like normal pens have too much girth
for fragile female fingers!)
And so what if they’re coloured
pastel shades, of purple, pink?
Inside it’s still the very same –
plain, black, swarthy ink.
I don’t suffer from pens envy.
I don’t need a ‘feminine’ pen.
It’s what I write that matters –
not the means, but the end.
Standing in the chilly aisle, I’m overwhelmed by cheese
(the sheer amount of choice, I mean – not literally).
There’s Camembert and Wensleydale, Gorgonzola, Brie,
Edam, Gouda, Emmental, Feta and Haloumi.
Cheese in wax, and cheese in oil, cheese in brine and plastic,
rounds and squares and triangles, and strings that look elastic.
All these cheesy choices just take too long for me,
so I’ll play it safe with that old faithful – Cheddar, strength 3.
Pockets on clothes for women –
so rare, they’re mythological
and if by chance you find some,
they’re decorative, not functional.
Now really, what woman, I ask you
wants pockets on buttocks or breasts?
No woman on earth looks better
with odd bulges on her chest.
And so we all carry handbags
then aren’t taken seriously
by men, who refuse to use man-bags,
but who hand over wallets and keys,
weigh us down with phones and gadgets
they can’t be bothered to hold –
despite having plenty of pockets!
Is this how men rule the world?
Cashiers look at me as if I’m dumb
when I say “No, thanks” to two-for-one.
They explain it’s buy one, get one free –
but one is quite enough for me.
I know, it sounds like it’s a bargain
but, oh, those sneaky supermarkets
know most folk have no self-control –
if we buy two, we’ll just eat both,
and then trot right back to the store
stocking up on more and more.
And even those who try to wait
are foiled by short ‘use by’ dates
and end up guzzling extra down,
saving money, but piling on pounds.
“Bog off!” I say, to this deviousness –
just sell us what we need, for less.
Don’t tell me that I’m fat,
then give me recipes for cake.
Don’t tell me which celebrities
I ought to emulate.
Don’t tell me to wear make-up
that gives a ‘natural’ look.
Don’t tell me that I have to read
another chick-lit book.
Don’t tell me ‘be unique’,
then show me this year’s ‘must have’ style.
Don’t tell me about STDs,
then ‘How to drive men wild!’
I’m sick of these mixed messages –
men wouldn’t stand for it.
So, goodbye, women’s magazines –
I won’t miss you one bit.