The Basildon Blogger Strikes Again

I use my i Pod to screen out the voices

I put it on shuffle with multiple choices

It stops me being interviewed by Jonathan Ross

What he thinks of my new novel I don’t give a toss

The trouble is I can’t hear my phone

Not even with the loudest annoying ringtone

So I select the function, set it to vibrate

I can feel my texts coming isn’t technology great

Now locked in my world I travel alone

We are all in our bubble we call it the zone

Now I have a soundtrack to the film of my life

But can it stop that mad bastard with a Poundland knife

Dreamy Ibiza for travel to my work place

The phones in my ears the book in my face

What was that Melvyn, Booker prize or Orange for fiction

So you see it as a symbol of interclass friction

Now I have waterproofed my i Pod to wear in the shower

The voices in there seem to have amplified power

rumours about me and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

and a script for a film to be made by Guy Richie

I give my opinion concerning a notorious legal case

Now I plead with the paparazzi to be just given some space

My boss says he can’t say it aloud but my work it is cool

I shake my head and smile go fuck yourself tool

I turn up the volume to stop the shouting

Tony at work is okay he just needs outing

Karen she rings me, it’s all been a big mistake

I say I understand but how much more could I take

Stay calm look at my badge I am a doctor

As well as the pilot of this Air Ambulance helicopter

I’m also heavily armed and trained by MI5

And on Sunday I have my first formula one drive

The batteries are dead it was up too loud

I pull out my earphones and face the crowd

I know I was talking aloud but it isn’t a sin

It doesn’t matter they’ve all got their earphones in

In Basildon I’ve suffered from a hurt and broken heart

Suffered like the painter Van Gogh who suffered for his art

He cut off his ear and ate his paints I know the feeling well

When Sally Etheridge fucks you around you’re in a living hell

I met her first on Pitsea station she was dressed in vivid red

I met her again the very next day and we did it in a shed

I wandered the world like a zombie for days and days and days

People thought I’d taken a punch I was in such a deep, deep daze

The world seen in slow motion through a soft and gentle haze

I only woke up and felt real when upon her made up face I could gaze

She told me she loved me so much she’d even have me in her bed

I loved her more than cider but up the garden path I was led

It ended badly one day when on Pitsea station she appeared

She was hand in hand with a soldier which I thought was fucking weird

We never spoke again her feelings had obviously changed

But I’ll never forget feeling short of breath, mad and wildly deranged

His dogs are called Tyson and Arnie

His kids Harley, Bronson and Kylie

He says his dogs are as good as gold

Even when their eyes go black and cold

He lives on an estate in Pitsea

With his wife nick named Gypsy

His house is called Chez Auschwitz

His neighbours laughed and were thrilled to bits

He works as a scaffolder when he needs the money

otherwise he’s into anything funny

His music heavy metal Axel Rose

Around here late at night everyone knows

He has a tattoo on his left arm

The words have a certain unintentional charm

A picture of a little blue flower

With the word violence and BNP power

He rides a bike a chopped Harley

He was on the A13 with his mate Charlie

He did a ton the filth were cool

They were looking for scooters to have a dual

This bloke hit his bike from behind