Explanatory note: I used to drink in the same pub as this man, the Stamford Arms in SE1, as it happens, and his obsequious crowd of stubbled wannabes and girly girls, when the magazine publishers, IPC, were near my office. Sky sports on the big screen, lager, blokeiness – cool Britannia had become cruel Britannia. See the dead look in his zombie eyes. The poem is my first attempt at that old favourite, terza rima.
Yeh him – he's the coolest guy alive
With his fags, booze and vulgarity
At least until the next one arrives
His acolytes laugh at his jokes
And the “birds” gaze into his brown eyes
He is the king of the uber-blokes –
The Loaded crew, post-ironic
There is no sexism for them, folks
Perhaps it is merely moronic
But, for now, watch the man with the quiff
For his cruelty is iconic
Being a crude bully is his riff
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