I wish I were Piers Morgan

I was trolled on Twitter yesterday and although I know I should take it with a pinch of salt and not really care what others think, just be true to myself, it really unsettled me.

I thought about a journalist cum presenter we have called Piers Morgan, who is fearless, and wished i could be like that too. Not give a shit about the naysayers. It inspired me to write this poem.

I try to be hard
But my marshmallow heart
Feels roasted
My integrity burnt
My tough façade
Graffiti bleeding through
A silk sheet
Peddling grime with the
Street crew
But missing the
Ferociousness of
The beat

And I wish I were
Piers Morgan
Bullshit detector
Extraordinaire
Pheromone eyes
Glinting with
The sting of satire
Tempestuous tweets
Cascading from a
An impetuous beak
With anarchic hair

I wish I had his
villainous, acid tongue
That seared scars
Into fuckwits and enemies
I wish my tongue
Dripped impertinence
A cutlass assassin
Slitting verbal throats
For an
Extortionate
BBC fee

I wish I were
Piers Morgan
I wish I could
Just say
Fuck you
And not
whimper like
Mary Poppins
Failing to have
A satisfactory cum
When she has
A polite and
Impeccable
Screw
And my dreams
Are filled with
The trolls
Painful, excruciating
Screams
As I curse
All their nightmares
With a twist
Of sacrificial voodoo

I wish I were
Piers Morgan
I wish

©2020 Sarah Drury
Image Source: Getty Images

Bake Off

well I know it’s half a year away, but I was inspired to write a send up of the Great British Bake Off

WARNING: the odd swear word

Bake Off

It’s getting to that time of year again
When our screens are invaded by a farm load of corn fed, field raised, free range eggs
A flamboyant flurry of organic, gluten free flour
A gaggle of garish, gluten intolerant gastronomes
A marquee of muddling men and worrisome women, coyly craving culinary competitiveness
And an alert audience of deluded Mary Berry wannabees
Planning their abysmal attempts at:
Pavlova perfection when they hate the sight of strawberries
New York Cheesecake when they haven’t even been to Cleethorpes, let alone the USA
And those delicate little macaroons when they’re 6ft tall and built like a brick sh*thouse!

I’m not by far the world’s best cook
I can’t even follow the recipes in a pre school child’s cook book
Without burning the brulee beyond acceptable boundaries
(I got offered a job at the crematorium with that one)
Massacring the merengue and associating salmonera with scone

I can’t whisk an egg white till its stiff and peaky
I can’t nurture rice pudding until it’s thick and creamy
I can’t cook suet pudding whilst its hot and steamy
I’m about as much use as a chocolate fireguard and if there was such a thing I’d probably eat it.

The cooks on the TV mesmerise me
How can they be so creative?
How can they bake a cake the size of an Oompah Loompah native?
They sweat under pressure, with falling Tiramisu tears and tempestuous tantrums.
My three year old could whip up a trifle with more emotional stability
But these prodigies onscreen are making me doubt my ability
With their creative prowess and supernatural culinary agility.

They never cook chocolate sponge and pink custard, like at school, do they?
Or cornflake tart with custard as lumpy as a teenager with raging acne?
They never cook rice pudding with skin so thick you could wear it as a raincoat when you were a kid cos it’s all you could afford
Or Hot Cross Buns you scoffed at Easter and offered up to the good Lord.

I want to switch off the telly in abject disgust
I want to knock off the smarmy presenter’s crown and his teeth with my fist to adjust
I want to throw away my cookbooks or burn them on an enormous fire
I want my cakes to caress hearts, I want my scones to inspire
But they’re dire, my toffee like a tyre, my meringues like barbed wire
All they are good for is a funeral pyre

So I’ll stick with my cake mix and add my eggs and flour
And leave the creative, innovative, stimulative contestants
To their magnificent, macaroon, f*cking towers.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Hello

Bit of fun about being plus sized:

Hello

Hello
It’s me in my plus size knickers
Nothing to do with my obsession with Mars Bars, Twix, Dairy Milk or Snickers

My plus size knickers
Black satin, double gusset, masquerading as sexy, toyboy pickers
Tailored for the Chinese takeaway, fish and chips, pepperoni lickers

Hello
It’s me in my plus size bra
Looks like two sturdy zeppelins, fighting for justice in the second world war
Nothing to do with my glasses of chardonnay, bottles of prosecco, Bacardi and more

My plus size bra
Come people, my milkshakes bring all the boys to the bar
With cups like these my rebellious bosoms will never spill out, will never go far

Hello
It’s me in my plus size dress
Nothing to do with my strawberry trifle, extravagant cheesecake, chocolate roulade or Eton mess

My plus size dress
Emulating a number made for the slick and svelt and thin
Makes me look like I’m fighting in Syria to confine my flesh and squash it all in

Hello
It’s me in my plus size body
Nothing to do with the fact that I am happy and don’t care what you think
That I’m not stick thin, that I love to eat, that I love to be free, that I love to drink

My plus size body
Big and beautiful and blossoming and resplendent and worthy
And I don’t need your pity and I don’t need your criticism and I don’t need a trophy

My plus size body
For me means love
I don’t need no judgement
From below or above.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Shit Mum

WARNING: SWEARING ALERT!

Yesterday was a tough day where I felt like a totally bad parent. I felt like rocking with a teddybear, sucking a dummy and banging my head on a wall!

I must defiantly admit it
I didn’t think as a mother I would be so shit
A northerner, a salt of the earth working class brit
But I’m about as patient as a toddler who’s been asked to sit
Through twenty episodes of Coronation Street with a lip that’s bruised and slit
But I’m building him up for a spell at her Majesty’s in the nick
When he’s fifteen years and a bit.

I think I’ve just had enough
I didn’t think as a mother it would be so tough
I didn’t think the days would be so dreary, nights so rough
I never knew CBeebies was such torture til I’d had enough
Of Mr fucking Tumble and his Makaton special stuff
I want to get the fucker into everlasting handcuffs
Let’s see him last five minutes in this ruff and tumble neighbourhood.

I think I need a fag
I didn’t think as a mother I would lose my rag
I didn’t think I’d turn into a bloody vicious nag
Thirty years ago I was a stunner, a looker, a stellar shag
And now I’m looking rougher, like a no fag, no shag, hag
And I slob around in PJ’s like a degenerate, depressed bag
With my Primark/Lidl/Aldi/Iceland cheap ass price tag.

I know I’m no Barbie doll
I didn’t think a mother’s life would seem so bland and droll
I didn’t think I’d end up with the amusement shortfall
Playing games of banging heads against a council concrete wall
Wishing I could stab a knife into my bleedin kid’s football
My kid acting like a gangsta when he’s only 5 foot tall.
Saying no she don’t live here when the hard debt collectors call.

I didn’t think that as a mother I would be so shit
I didn’t think that as a teacher I would be so bad at it
I always thought that I would be a Supernanny big hit
But now I’m slumming, tunes a hummin, leggings that my arse don’t fit
My kid’s a screaming, social worker’s looking at my home pit
And making snotty comments about the mess and bloody state of it.

But I try my best, each shitty day to be a better mum
But it’s hard when you’re bipolar and the moodswings always come.

©2019 Sarah Drury

The Birds and the Bees

How do you have sex mum?
How are babies made?

Then I glance at my phone
And see my son has been asking our friend Google Home
And our Google friend is no holds barred
He says the penis goes inside the vagina
And I gaze at these robotic, grown up words
And wonder if it isn’t a little bit absurd
That when I was twelve I was getting my sex education
From wanton fumblings in the toilets
At the local park
Stinky fingers behind the bikesheds
And ‘you look at mine, I’ll look at yours’ beneath the blankets on my bed
From the slutty porno Playboy centre spread
from the hormonal, spotty schoolboys I’d mislead
from the x-rated porno prose that I’d misread
from the 18 rated movies which I’d be dead
if me mam found me putting such filth in my innocent young head

And Google Home hasn’t done a bad job
If you’re thirty with a mortgage
And missed your sex education classes at your grammar school
Although google seems to think that it’s only same sex relationships that are cool
And lesbians, gays, and every queer in the nation
Are taking a sexual copulation vacation
And who knows, one day there will be negative ramifications
if Google stays straight

I pride myself on being a progressive mum
I have been letting my son be himself since the very first days I wiped the poop from his bum.
And I’m eager to see him become a young man
There’s been no puritan technology ban
No degrading Wonder Woman in favour of a testosterone fueled Batman
No forcing him to be less Autistic yet no forcing him to be in the disabled clan
I’ve always taught to hold up his little Autistic head and scream ‘I can’.

So I ask him
Son, how are babies made?
“The penis goes into the vagina and the man ejects sperm”
And I have to smile at the ejects bit
As though the word ejaculation isn’t a big hit
And I wonder if the sperm would miss their target
If they would be all redundant in the baby making market
And maybe this way it could be a new contraceptive
Maybe the men could be a little bit deceptive
And maybe the women could remind them
About condoms and STD’s
Hey Google, maybe you could just
Add a little bit about popping a little condom cap
On artful todger’s tinkling tete
To prevent the global baby threat
And keep the nasty diseases
To be the property of the dirtbag whose teaser pleases.

My son got the nuts and bolts main bits right
And I praised him for his knowledgeable prowess
At twelve he would have wiped the sex ed floor with this progressive lioness
He can bandy around the word penis like a consultant gynaecologist
But still pisses all over the toilet floor
and I wonder if that’s a kid thing
or will I still be mopping up the pee when he’s twenty-six or more?

I know what comes next
And I hear him talking in whispers to his friends in the next room
Oh son, you’re only 12 but you’re growing up way too bloody soon
I don’t mind you asking Google as long as you always ask me
I will tell you the important little things that Google doesn’t choose to see
Like how girls might fancy girls and boys might fancy boys
And some might fancy both and some might just want relationships with sex toys
And the world is a spectrum and we don’t fit in relationship shaped boxes
And diversity is the wonderful thing that makes the sexual world spin on its unpredictable axis.

So, son
Come to me
I will tell you the story of the birds and the bees
I will tell you what you should know, what is real, not nonsense whispers polluting the summer breeze
I’m not embarrassed
Don’t you bleedin’ well be.

©2019 Sarah Drury

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa
I know I haven’t always been a good girl
But please give me a bleedin’ break
I don’t ask for much, but every woman has her desires
For goodness sake.
I run myself ragged, day in, day out
Autism mum first and foremost
Harassed bitchface, mardy cow
There are days when I don’t even know how
The women in Syria even survive
When I can’t even deal with a meltdown
When the depression dances and the anxiety thrives.
But I have been good most of the time
Even if I have overdone the chocolate treats.
My ass would plead to be freed from the deed
Of ride a cock horse and demolish your steed
And my belly which rhymes with jelly and looks like
A sugar laden simile.
I know I am not the smallest
But Santa, let’s be having none of that bloody
Weight loss guilt trip stuff on the telly.

And don’t be bringing me
Sex toys
Toy boys
Boy toys
Vibrators made of metal alloys.
Or tinsel nipple tassles
As the latter will be more like toenail ticklers
And it’s not even worth the hassle.
And let’s leave the pretentious cook books out of the picture
The only things getting cooked around here
Are microwave chips, ready meals from Iceland
And pie in the sky dreams of winning the lotto and getting richer.
Mary Berry’s probably a nice lady
But baking Tirimasu isn’t part of my criteria
So she can piss right off and peddle her fancy treats in fucking Siberia.
Maybe the polar bears have a penchant for pavlova
And maybe the Great British Bake Off’s just a load of middle class hysteria.

Santa, I don’t get much time to myself
So if you have a supernanny in your sack
Not your sack in a nanny
Then please release my lack of peace
And grant me the odd night with my fabulosa friends
To feast, to go ‘on the piste’
To be a woman on a mission with a glass full of brandy
And a nice plate of veggie curry would come in handy
And a bit of pissed up karaoke would be fine and dandy.
I like a bit of mic
I like to hog the limelight.

And I don’t want to be a selfish bitch, Santa
But I don’t suppose you have a spare MacBook or iPhone?
I know I shouldn’t ask
But when you’re a single mum and on your own
And you spend the nights surfing the web
Drinking in the likes on Facebook
Like a hungry dog licks on a bone.
Nights dripping in poetry, weaving wise words,
Reaching out to the world yet feeling fucking alone
You like to fiddle and twiddle and let your fingers skadiddle
You like to build with your words a metaphoric home

So, Santa,
I’ll leave it up to decide if I’ve made your good girl list.
But
Leave out the mistletoe or you’ll be kissed with my fist!

©2019 Sarah Drury

Holiday Time in the Land of the Curvy

Holiday Time in the Land of the Curvy

Its holiday time in the land of the curvy
It’s big girls’ vacation to Benidorm
Me and Janet and Brenda and Mabel
Are sunning it, keeping our bazookas warm.
Our lady bits hiding behind pink bikinis
Designed to hold nuclear weapons in tow
The spillage is starting to pillage a village
Four twenty stone women with tans in full throw.

We’re living the high life, an all inclusive
Including the men that we’re planning to shag
Laviciously drooling o’er pert Spanish butts
Whilst knocking back cocktails and puffing a fag,
Four twenty stone women, that’s eighty in total
Planning to shag some poor, young ten stone bloke
He’ll need to upgrade his medical insurance
And knock back ten whiskies and five lines of coke.

Its cocktails all round as we top up our tans
All smothered in lotion like pilchards in oil
Poor Janet is sizzling like sausages frying
Her tits are well done and her butt’s on the boil.
I remember a time when my boobs fit in B cups
My bum was a peach and my figure alight
Now my boobs are two missiles, my bum is a planet
And when the boys snigger, I put up a fight.

The buffet’s all free and we fill up our plates
As we pile up paella and omelette and chips
As we down several jugs of inclusive sangria
A moment on lips means a life on the hips
The hygiene is dodgy, the cleaning is splodgy
The cleaners do nothing, sod all gets done
We’ll be hogging the toilets with germ fucked tummies
And popping the pills for our poor old sore bums.

Nightime we strut like a pack of proud peacocks
Crammed into wee garments as small as a condom
Butts bursting out, boobies packing some clout
G strings so long they’re mapping tube tracks in London.
And I feel like I’ll score in my hot Chanel perfume
And the guys will fall dead at my je ne sais quoi
And perhaps if I’m lucky I’ll lure in two guys
And the three of us will have a menage-a-trois

But the holiday’s gone, at the airport we are
And we’re packing our butts into Barbie sized chairs
And the stewardess offers a packet of peanuts
And a shitty sandwich made of boiled egg and cress
The plane is so heavy its stutters and splutters
The pilot announces we’ll have to get off
So we’re left on the runway in shit Benidorm
Hungover and deep fried and had enough.
Fucking Easyjet!

© Sarah Drury 2019