Max Scratchmann's Blog, page 2

In My Head I’m Still Nineteen Years Old, So Why Am I Stuck in This Old Man’s Body

Help! In my head I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

I can’t stretch, I can’t bend, oh where will it end? I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

My pace I revoke, my reflexes a joke. I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And my feet they both hurt, my balance desert. I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And I’d still like to chase women, but eyes they are dimming. I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And my muscles I tear, what’s happened to my hair? I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

And I shake and I shiver, my wrists all a quiver and who’s that old fuck that I can see in the mirror? I’m still nineteen years old, so why am I stuck in this old man’s body?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Careers Day

When I went to meet the careers advisor,

I told him that I wanted to be

Superman,

Not Batman or Catman,

Or any other miscellaneous caped crusader,

But the Big Enchilada of men in tights,

The blue and red hero who puts the world to rights,

Mild-mannered Clerk Kent by day,

By night…

Well, let me put this another way,

Insurance executives have to wear suits and fly a lot,

Pretty boring,

But when you do it as Superman, it becomes really hot.

And are you qualified for this profession, the long-suffering advisor asks,

Can you fulfil the promise, complete the tasks?

And, looking at him witheringly, I reply,

Well my biological father,

Was a ruling member of Krypton’s hi-

erarchy and my mother put me in a spaceship

And sent me to Earth before our home planet went splat,

How’s that?

And can you produce references to that effect, he sighs,

Yes, I say, laying them on the table like a tissue of lies,

But…

These are gibberish, he exclaims, his breath redolent of Menthol Tunes,

No they’re not, I say defensively, they’re written in Kryptonian runes.

Well, I don’t know… he begins, getting irate,

I say, don’t be stroppy, just use Google translate.

So he writes me a chit to take back to school,

This lad is unemployable, he’s just acting the fool,

There is no place in this life, I have found,

For people able to leap tall buildings at a single bound,

And his blind determination, well, it makes me quite nervous,

I really think this boy should settle down,

And train for a career in the Civil Service.

Yay! We loved it!

We loved your show!

Happy audience at Beattie & Scratchmann Get Put Down at the Cortado Cafe at the Fringe!

Meanwhile, at the Fringe

Tonight at the Fringe

Tonight and all week (not Monday) – 9pm at Fingers Piano Bar, North Fredrick Street

Breakfast With Ian Duncan-Smith

I normally eat cereal or, maybe, a boiled egg,

But today I’m having caviar, and ham, carved from the leg,

There’s gold cutlery and linen cloth, and spreads brought from the deli,

And candied fruits and plovers’ eggs, to tempt and fill my belly.

And I said to Ian Duncan-Smith, how can we eat this spread?

When people are going hungry, it’s messing with my head,

But he smiled a smile of smug content, said, don’t listing to that braying,

And have another roasted quail, it’s all for free, the plebs are paying.

Father’s Day

I’m glad I don’t have children and don’t celebrate Father’s Day,

So I don’t have to say I like the gifts that come along my way,

The starchy shirts, the puke-green socks, that stuff for cleaning cars,

And all the eager faces saying, we’ve bought you land on Mars.

 

I never have to feign delight at books about Top Gear,

Or have to eat what kids have cooked, a parent’s greatest fear,

I don’t get jars of after shave that smell of cat urine,

Oh have to tell my eager brood that I like the tie just fine.

 

So, keep your tins of toffee bits and lotions to make me tingle,

For when you mention Father’s Day, I can safely say, I’m single.

The Tragic Passing of Undead Augustus

There once lived a boy called Augustus Fred,

Who wouldn’t get up and just lay in his bed,

He slept all day and slept all night,

A disgrace to his father, to his mother a blight.

 

One day they decided to open his curtains,

The sun would surely him out for a Burton,

But Augustus had nailed them tightly shut tight,

So the light in his room was always night.

 

So they opened the door and wheeled out his bed,

And though he lay dormant as if he was dead,

They pushed his bed to the sun so bright,

Said, look my son, this is daylight.

But he just went all a-quiver and turned to ash,

And Mum said, Blimey, we’ve settled his hash!

A Vampire’s Prayer for the Demise of Stephenie Meyer

Oh Stephenie Meyer

On your funeral pyre,

What have you done to the poor vampire?

You’ve capped his fangs,

You’ve staked his heart,

Cut off his head,

Oh, you think you’re smart.

You’ve dwarfed old Drac,

And his werewolf kin,

Oh, pity the day they invited you in.

But Stephenie Meyer

With your financial fire,

I really don’t care that your books are dire,

But by the ghosts of Lugosi,

Langella and Schreck,

We humbly curse

Your royalty cheque.

For you’ve left the vampire

Bankrupt and blutered,

And though Pattinson’s beautiful,

Nosferatu’s neutered.

The Curmudgeon’s Valentine

I’m a man of scant enjoyment, a regular gloomy git,

A perpetual complainer, a really mis’rable shit,

I think chocolates are for losers and I spurn your red, red, rose,

For it makes me sneezy anyways and gets right up my nose.

I don’t care for soppy greetings card or flowers made of silk,

I don’t want to get toy animals or have a bath in milk,

Posh rest’rants make me nauseous, and red wine makes me boak,

And to suggest I go and dine with you, is, well, just a stupid joke.

So, please, don’t send me valentines, don’t say that you’ll be mine,

I live in isolation here and, yes, I’m doing fine,

I have no pets or partners, not e’en a goldfish in a bowl,

But I have to say I like it here, it’s therapeutic for the soul.

So, serve me soup and Kit Kat bars on a cloth of purest white,

And go celebrate some other place and spare me from your shite.