‘How To Philosophize With A Hammer’

(or down in the East End with Niezsche.)

Me and Phil Mitchell, you know the geezer, 

face like a boiled clam, lobster colour 

and steaming, were ‘aving a few jars down

the Queen Vic, chatting about this, chatting 

about that, when I notice his ‘ead starts

ballooning into some grotesquely pink 

bubble gum bauble all set to go: BANG! 

Laughably ‘e concludes it’s because          

‘e went to uni and ‘e needs to express

his ideas on Jean-Paul Sartre and Nietzsche. 

I thought Chelsea had splashed the cash again, 

got in some new lads for their pub quiz team,

so not to be out done I mouthed off 

untold praise for the West Ham Academy. 

Slurps on his lager, pulls gargoyle faces,

before going on about reinventing 

treason; claims there’s too much rhyming 

and too few metaphors in the world these days,

blames all our woes on lesbians and gays.

Just then his brother Grant pipes up, moaning, 

fed up, on the look out for a cheap thrill;

so we kicks the shit out of Ian Beale.

After the pub we get the eighty six 

to Stratford, me and Phil ‘ave another 

set to, all ‘cos ‘e reckons that was where 

Shakespeare came from, but I know ‘e were south 

of the river, so says I, that makes ‘im, 

bard or no bloody bard, Millwall and a bit pikey, 

and, let’s face it, for 'im to ‘ave  crossed 

the Thames; what for, it’s just so unlikely.

Now Grant’s getting very bored by all this 

old rabbit.  At the bus stop ‘e lays into

some fart-faced queue jumping hag.            

Her shopping hits the deck and there’s apples

and pears rolling about in the gutter,

‘er bag gets split, there’s claret and piss

all over the shop.  There’s even some talk

of the old bill coming, blue lights flashing.

And on top of all that, the bus driver 

gets all in a right ol’ strop.  Just ‘cos we 

ain’t got nufink smaller than an tenner.

So we legs it off up to the Boleyn.

Downs a portion of pie and mash with green 

liquor. Then we ‘ave a little sing song, 

a few choruses of:‘Bubbles’ sat around 

the World Cup statue of Hurst an’ Peters 

holding aloft the late great Bobby Moore.

Feeling all claret and blue, Grant reckons 

I’m blessed to be in the: ‘Twilight of the Idols’.

© 2006  P.A.Levy

first published Stub  2010