9 Reasons Elton John Won't Write a Song About You When You Die

1. You're no way pretty enough

2. There's too many syllables in your name
3. You haven't saved any third world kids from land mines

4. You'll never screw anyone famous

5. You once made a joke about the song 'Daniel' being about a kid he bummed
6. You once made a joke about the song 'Crocodile Rock' being about a crocodile he bummed
7. He'd know you'd be quietly miffed at the fact he'd probably just change the words to an existing
song to make it about you, and call it a cop out.

8. Having read number 7, you then tried to think about celebrities that he could amend the words
to 'Candle in the Wind' for should they die. Your best one was for Peter Mandleson: 'Mandle in the Wind'.
9. You are no one.

The Folly of Humanity

Don't hold your heroes in too higher regard; they look like dicks sometimes too.

Pheasant Violence

Words by Fent

It was the still-dark part of the Sunday morning when local police stormed the sprawling country estate like a Chechnya firing squad crazy-drunk on a bloody cocktail of guns and rape and keen to make a showman’s entrance.

The moon refused to set, and the first glistening droplets of morning dew, reflecting back the stars, had barely begun to settle.

The grass whispered. And the wind replied.

Then all hell broke loose.

And as rapid-fire snub-nosed uzi’s were being unloaded in seemingly random directions, and the flash of stun grenades filled the sky like an uncomfortably bright holy light, this sleepy little town could finally leave the painful memories of little Bobby Mann firmly behind.

Mann, the son of a local Butcher, had been attacked and killed by a group of eight ring-necked pheasants, driven berserk by the close proximity of a 150ft radiation-emitting phone mast, whilst passing woodland on his walk home from school less than 3 days ago.

So vicious was the attack, that it took nearly three hours for neighbours to fight the last of the birds away from the twelve year olds by-then unrecognizable remains.

It’s said that the alarm was raised by local camera-enthusiast Dwight Ramsay, who claims to have stumbled upon the feeding frenzy at around 3.40pm last Friday.

And as the dust now settles on the necessary repercussions, and the bullet riddled corpses of fowl stock litter the fields and the alleyways like gruesome KFC flashbacks, the silence of despair hangs heavy over this small Scottish town.

A twelve foot squared digitized version of the photograph, as taken by Ramsay towards the end of the ordeal, depicting the attackers forgoing the face in favour of the meatier internal organs, will appear at Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Art Gallery, in Surround Sound and High Definition 3D, from Wednesday onwards.

Tickets are now on sale.

Perfect Morning : A Poem by Ben Q

PERFECT MORNING

I wake up in a hotel room

A prostitute, or even better

A new girlfriend, no name

Is tracing lines on my back with her nails

As her twin sister blows me

The warmth of the sun is on my face

A happy place

The babes leave. No charge

Because of the large

Experience, they say

What a nice day

My phone rings. Work has been

Burned to the ground

Everyone is fine. Better

I go to the kitchen

And find a letter

Anonymous

“We've been watching you

Because you're the Chosen One

We were going to assassinate

We had to procrastinate

We had a meeting, discussed your fate

And we want you to be our Leader instead.

The President is Dead.”

Pull on my favourite jeans

They smell of cinnamon

White socks, fresh white shirt

In the pocket, a mysterious card

With an inscription from the Bard:

“Is all we see or seem

A dream within a dream”

Leaving the room I meet the maid

She smiles like we know something

Remains unsaid, game faintly played

I don't know this place

I get to the lobby. Posh. A reporter

Offers me her mineral water

“I doubt you remember, but last night's show

Was incredible. And today, you know...

The world is different because of you

The fighting has stopped.

The dream came true.

It was you, only you

What you say, what you do.

It got through.

Can I buy you breakfast?”

Grapefruit, coffee, pancakes, toast

Her friend arrives

Spit roast

Quick shower- High Power

My bike is outside with a new chain

Perfect sky, tranquil brain

I take a ride alone

And as I climb the hill

I can feel it inside

And outside too, last night cried

Redemption, rapture, across the world

The mighty snake beneath uncurled

Burst through the earth

Opened them all

Tanks ground to a halt

Guns jammed, children rose up

Gates came down, glass broke

Authorities

All crumbled as one, wept on bloody knees, were forgiven

We survived it, we keep living

And I got a blow job

Because it was me

I found the Door

I used my Key

The People heard, they laughed, all free

Realized it was our destiny

After-show party, drugs, dance, sex

I busted the funk out, got on the decks

Max adulation, all my friends came

Family got a penthouse suite, my sister got fame

The aliens revealed themselves; Universal Dawning

That's how I'd describe my perfect morning.

After nine long years of shoving jiffy bags filled with heroin up his arse for a living, Ian was finding still life to be a piece of piss

Convinced that the Harry Potter invisibility cloak he'd bought off Ebay would allow them acces to hardcore pornography paysites un-noticed, Colin believed he had outdone himself.

The mathmatical formula that demonstrates the certainty that Mark Wahlberg can only appear in shit films

*where CH = The Happening PH = Max Payne SE= The Perfect Storm SP= Boogie Nights