BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

While I get cracking on the rest of the Riot Grrrl Revival series, I thought I'd enrich this ridiculously low brow blog with some poetry. No, not more asinine, contrived pseudo-punk band lyrics, but some genuine verse. Poetry's acquired a bad name, and I suspect a few of you will exit immediately, but hey, at least I never joined the SWP. This one's untitled but it's dedicated to the prat who runs a shop called 'Fromagerie' on Highbury Grove. This clown sells tiny quiches to morons for three quid a pop, and also stocks a load of weird ciders and wines that you can't buy anywhere else - because most off-licenses don't tend to factor in pretentious Islington booge-wah blatherers who want to pass themselves off as 'gourmets' when they're working out their sales strategies. This poem will be printed off and put through said proprietor's door.

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Hey! Mr Fromagerie proprietor
In your apron ; nostrils accustomed to the scents
Of the world's rarest, most treasured and fawned over cheeses

You think you're running some exclusive cheese club
Where supermodels and city gents
Stroll in, bedecked in £10,000 clothes
Air kiss, and whip out designer bags
To transport caramelised onion, foie gras and shrimp quiche
Back to Club Tropicana

But I'll tell you this, sunshine
You're just a deluded old fool
Who never realised the bitter truth, more pungent than any cheeseblock
You care to stock

What your brazen strumpet of an assistant
Neglected to tell you, and hides from your comprehension
Is that cheese went downmarket years ago
Bavarian Smoked in the Paxton Road end
The street kids, scooter girls, and their homemade apple jam
Illicit pheasant pie factories in Barking lock-ups

Oh, you bloody fool! To place such pride
In yesterday's culinary burberry
While the world flocks to your window, Nose nestling against the glass,
And laughs and mocks you ; you're in RABBIT SOUP DENIAL HELL