hearing voices
by Si Philbrook
i was in the park when michael jackson told me not to bet on west ham staying up next year. odd, ‘cos with blackpool a shoe-in for relegation and avram grant being no mug i thought the hammers stood a good chance. still, i didn’t want to argue with the king of pop.
i was in the bath when mother teresa started ranting about how U2 hadn’t done a good album since rattle and hum. it was a bit embarassing as she clearly didn’t get achtung baby so i covered myself with a flannel and smiled politely.
it was the fruit section at sainsburys when elvis whispered in my ear that he didn’t like post-modern poetry. of course he couldn’t define it when i challenged him, just mumbled something about bukowski clones, never even mentioned creeley.
sylvia plath was a surprise. caught me wanking in the afternoon when i thought everyone was out. she was very critical of ken livingstons transport policy. i told her just to wait till old boris got his teeth into the job. red ken ‘ll be missed then.
joe stalin was the last. i was at my gran’s but she was asleep in the other room. i wanted to tell him i was grateful about the war, us losing 500,000 men, his lot 20 million. i said i knew he’d had a bad press but the west have never understood the peoples of the steppes. he didn’t understand a word so we ended up playing snap. i won of course, him not having a body an’ all.