See Johnny run.

See Blair dead.

Good boy Johnny.

Well done Johnny.

 

(It wouldn’t be right to use the c word

given how often you bandied it round,

but the let-down is mighty when it

comes to the stamps, anniversary

album and beetled brogues).

 

Mick is invited to a party.

He doesn’t tell his mummy.

She is cross with him.

Mick isn’t given any supper.

He must always obey Mummy.

 

(A lot of hoo-ha

about a wheel and some

butterflies and a pissed-on wall.

Is there now an ear-marked

Lords loo when nature is a-calling

and you spend twenty pounds?)

 

Nick is happy in the bath.

He always wears his jeans.

Nick is ever so clean.

Good boy Nick.

(If you whimpered

about the water,

you had the grace to stay schtum

and not attend an

evening talk show with Robert Runcie

and Rod Hull).

 

Johnny is English.

His parents are from Ireland.

Fela never ran.

Well… done Johnny.

 

(Am a Seventies baby

who was aware of the

kickings and the

slashings, not the

killings though. You

weren’t the correct colour).

I hate Johnny.

He let us down.

Go away Johnny.

Go away Mick.