Tag Archives: Johnny Clithero

National Poetry Writing Month : Poem 1



I’ve just heard about something called National Poetry Writing Month where you have to write a poem a day for all of April.  I don’t really know how this works so I’ll just shove some stuff in and see what happens.

I’m a day late starting and probably have no chance of keeping it up but here goes anyway.

We’ll kick off with a heart-rending little number called :

The Saddest Sound

I’ve heard the toll of a solitary bell
The cries of a kitten stuck down a well
My little girl with a poorly tummy
A baby whale that’s lost its mummy
The heart-breaking strains of someone sobbing
The screech when a cat got hold of a robin
The voice of a lover saying goodbye
The haunting howl of a lone wolf’s cry
A tearful toddler that’s over-tired
I’ve heard my boss tell me you’re fired
A favourite band’s new song with something lacking
The thin ice I’m walking on creaking and cracking
A drunk lamenting a wasted life
Silence from an angry wife
A wallflower weeping after the ball
But really the saddest sound of all
The one that stops me dead in my tracks
Is the sound of a pound in an auto vac

Well that’s the first one. Better get off and do another to try and catch up.


Post No. 7 : In which Johnny goes on a date with a super-model


Hello again. It seems like ages since I’ve posted anything  which is probably because it is ages. Must try and do better for my reader.

The best advice I’ve ever been given, is to always look for an unattractive girlfriend. There are two very good reasons for this:
1. She is unlikely to leave you
2. If she does leave you, you won’t be that bothered.

The worst piece of advice I’ve ever been given is to “Just be yourself”.

On with todays offering.
I was going to start with some rambling diatribe about good-looking people getting all the attention and breaks in life but it’s very late and I’m sure people don’t reckon much to that bit of the post anyway. So straight in with Johnny’s latest tale of woe in a cautionary story about:

Naomi Campbell

clithero 016

I once had an affair with Naomi Campbell
Well I say an affair it was more of a fumble
I think that I caught her in a bit of a lull
And just happened to be there when she was out on the pull

She was wearing a pendant made from a blood diamond
Said she had an apartment somewhere near Richmond
She gave me her number and we arranged a date
She said don’t turn up early and don’t turn up late

When I got there she said that she fancied some grub
So we set off to seek out a nice gastro pub
As we strode up the road it was just like a dream
I felt like the cat who had taken the cream
She was drawing admiring glances from men
And I wanted to snog with her right there and then
She had on these hot pants with white ankle socks
And I dragged her into a telephone box

She’d just had a cold and was still a bit phlegmish
I looked at her face and noticed a blemish
I said darling I think you have a teeny-weeny spot
She said how dare you, you bastard I fucking do not
She ripped the pay-phone off from the wall
Smashed it on my head then kicked in my balls

While I sat there waiting in A and E
I thought that just about fucking does it for me
And as the nurse wrapped a bandage around my noddle
I swore to keep clear of super-models

Well that’s it for this one pop-pickers but we’ll be back before you know it with some more rubbish in a similar vein

Post No. 6 (In which Johnny becomes annoyed by show off celebs collecting for charity)


Hello everybody.

A big thanks to the people who have read, liked and followed my stuff so far. 

I noticed many years ago when Thatcher sold off all the council houses, that the first thing that the people who bought them did, was to re-paint the front door in some bright gloss as far away on the colour wheel as it was possible to get from the councils drab tones. Maybe a gold letter-box, an ornate door knocker and a trendy, indecipherable number. This was to show the outside world that they were no longer council house plebs but bona fide property owners on the up with aspirations, kudos and money. So fuck you.
In a similar vein when someone makes a load of cash these days, the first thing they do is install a shiny new fifty grand (minimum) set of ultra-brite white teeth. You see them nearly every day on such as Dragons Den, X-Factor, The Apprentice etc, clicking away like a coked-up crocodile while bullying the fuck out of some hapless wannabee.
Do they have to be so big? Do they have to be so white? Do they have to be so menacing?
Little Red Riding Hood wouldn’t have a prayer.

Anyway on with today’s topic… Charity
Or rich people  showing off by publicly giving ridiculous amounts on radio or television, dwarfing the efforts of those who have to actually do something to raise a bit of cash.
The adoration and veneration of the obscenely rich, mainly by each other, is quite prevalent these days and it seems to be gaining popularity in the world of the charity-a-thon. First you hear of terrible poverty and deprivation, in England of all places, and by the way didn’t Mr Gladstone put a stop to all that in the 1800s, then they play a record, then some chirpy fucker from the Home Counties comes on the phone who just happens to have £140,000! to spare to play a game of golf with a D-list dickhead.

Here’s Johnny with…

Children in Need

I’ve been priced right out of children in need
I heard it on the wireless
It’s not for the likes of you and me
In fact they couldn’t care less
About the ordinary Joe with his pound or two
To boost the target figure
They’re just interested in the rich folks who
Will offer something bigger
I’ve ran fun runs dressed up like a clown
And carrying a bucket
But the BBC has let me down
So now I just say fuck it

There’s Wogan and Evans going on
About themselves and their wealthy mates
Thousands for a session with Gok Wan
So why should I donate
No Mr Evans I don’t have the means
To drive in your Ferrari
So I’ll just sit in a bath of beans
While you bathe yourself in glory

One forty K for a round of golf
It’s staggering. It’s crackers
Now there’s not much point in German Rolf
Waxing his chest and knackers
The forty-two pounds from the local brass band
Starts to look a little shabby
When someone else pays thirty grand
To walk round Downton Abbey

The kids on the street have been baking cakes
They’ve been selling them for ages
But what difference will their pittance make
When what for most is three years wages
Is laid down on a whim by Tony from Tring
He’s a hedge fund bloke or a banker
He gets to hear Sir Tom Jones sing
And drink champagne with a wanker

I may be being expedient
But would it do me any good
To claim tax relief on ingredients
For the world’s biggest yorkshire pud

Many of you will see this rant
As laced with spite and envy
And to be honest I don’t understand
What brought about this frenzy
Was I annoyed by Chris Evans
Being in my vicinity
Where others saw benevolence
I could only see obscenity
Perhaps the crowing ginger nut
Put my nose right out of joint
And he’s raised a lot of money but
Have we somehow missed the point
So Britain’s no longer a super power
I think on that we’re agreed
But surely a country as rich as ours
Shouldn’t have children in need

Well it’s been very nice to have this talk
But now I have to leave you
I’m off to do a sponsored walk
Done up like a fucking Emu


Blimey is that the time!

Post No. 5 (in which Johnny misunderstands a policeman)


Hello Peeps.

No preamble or disjointed ramble today.

Just a shorty called….

Stopped by a Cop


I got stopped by a cop the other day
He said I’d driven through a red
He said where are you going anyway
I said I’m going home to bed
He said I haven’t got my breathalyzer gear
It’s at the station with my stab proof vest
But I suspect that you have had a beer
So you can do a little test
Walk down the road as far as those lights
And keep to a straight line
I reckon you’ve had at least five pints
You’ll get a ban and a fuck-off fine
I set off he said what’s your name
I said John, what’s yours he said Ralph
He shouted out You’re staggering
I said thanks… you’re quite handsome yourself

Back soon with some more stuff


Post No. 4 (in which Johnny joins the audience for a psychic show)


Hello and welcome to the imaginatively titled post no. 4.

Once again a big thanks to our few, our happy few, band of readers and likers.

As they say, the nights are drawing in, winter’s on its way and it’s nearly time to wrap up tight.
Wrap up tight against the coming onslaught of the winter marketeers, out to bleed you dry and leave your lifeless corpse strewn on the carpet as a tasty snack for Santa and his reindeers. Wrap up tight against the greedy, profiteering energy companies who might as well hold a big magnet over your house and suck every last cent up through the flue.
From Halloween to New Years Day, it’s no time for the faint of heart or the light of pocket. In fact Halloween itself is so big nowadays it ought to have its own eve like Christmas and New Year. Halloween’een, the eve of battle. The battle against merciless commercialism.

Which in a round-about way brings us to today’s topic… The Undead!
Or to put it in a less scary or sensational way, spiritualists, mediums and such- like and the existence of the afterlife.
Can these psychic Sallys or mystic Malcolms really converse with the dust biters? I mean, from what I’ve seen, they are all a bit vague until they get some poor sap drawn in, by which time they’re so mesmerised under the spotlight that they will agree that their grandad was called Mussolini and the Queen Mother used to help their late aunty pick coal off the local slag heap.
And another thing. Don’t you find it a bit discomforting that the dearly departed are sat on a cloud somewhere, monitoring your every move like some spectral Trueman Show?  I know they reckon that they look away when you’re in the toilet or having a crafty wank, but I’m not sure I would. Or indeed will.
I must admit I’m a bit sceptical about it all. Although, having said that, I recall many years ago on a day trip to Blackpool, that a fortune teller prophesied to my missus that I’d never amount to much. Spooky or what?

This week Johnny plants himself in the audience of one of these spiritualist séance events. There is the now the almost customary profanity warning  as Johnny lifts the lid on the hereafter, with a more or less verbatim account of proceedings in….

Is There Anybody Here Called Dave


Is there anybody here called Dave
I’ve got a message from beyond the grave
It’s coming through now… yes..ok.. fair enough…
It’s from Bonzo, he says woof woof woof woof.

Is there someone whose name begins with an A
Your granny is here and she’s something to say
She tells me the legacy is under the floor
But it’s not very much because she was poor

Is there someone called Margaret or is it Gordon or Fred
Your dad says it’s not all that bad being dead
The food’s ok the weather is fine
And there’s bingo every night around nine.

Here’s one for James from your late aunty Mabel
She says that you’ve stolen her Chippendale table
You know it was left to your first cousin Pete
And she saw you hiding it under a sheet
So give it back you thieving louse
Or her and her mates will be haunting your house.

Is there a Julie? Can you come up to the stage
It’s your mum, tell your father to please act his age
She’s spent some time floating round at his place
And she says his behaviour’s a total disgrace
He’s bothering young women, he’s neglecting the lawn
And he’s spending all day watching internet porn

And finally as we’ve only got minutes to spare
A message from someone called Colin to Claire
He says I’ve thought about us quite a lot since I died
And I don’t want to see you when you pass to this side
You’ve always been a stroppy cow
And I’m knocking about with some new people now.

Hold on I’ve got Jimmy Savile on line three
He wants to speak to the boss of the BBC
He says now then, now then, goodness gracious
These allegations are a bit salacious
About me and my sleazy showbiz pals
Messing with under-age guys and gals
If you don’t stop giving me all the blame
I’ll be back next week and I’ll start naming names
It wasn’t just me there’s a least another ten
So hows about fucking that there then.

Well that’s it for now. We’ll be back soon with more of this senseless drivel riveting stuff.

Post No. 3 (in which Johnny comes across Ricky Gervais in Pizza Hut)


Is it post No.3 already? Doesn’t time fly when you’re sat around in your underpants all day blogging.

We still haven’t got many readers but a big thanks to our followers and likers so far. I’m not sure how to get more readers but one thing that was mentioned was to put a lot of stuff out , so over the next week or so we will probably be going all in as they say in poker. And why not? If nobody likes it after that at least I won’t have to write any more of this shite enlightening doggerel.
Before we start a word of warning there may be some language or terms that some people may find offensive in today’s post but we hope that you will take it in the context that it is written.

Neil Armstrong is the definitive moon man. Buzz gets his rightful place in history but only because he was there as well, and because he is called Buzz. Poor old Mike Collins was like the designated driver who couldn’t find a parking space and had to keep going round the inner ring road while his mates were getting off their tits on moon dust.
But who were the others? The third, the fourth, the tenth?
Nobody knows, unless they are swotting up to go on The Chase, and nobody cares because their journeys were pointless. Some might say money wasting vanity. In this instance the first is the only one that matters and the only one that was necessary.
Somebody had to get there to prove it could be done. When they did get there they found, much like Eastbourne, that there was fuck all to do apart from kick a few stones about. Because they’d bought an eight-hour ticket for the Eagle they had to hang around longer than they wanted to get their money’s-worth.
The flag was planted, the feat accomplished. No one could better Armstrong, not even the guy sat next to him could equal him. Nothing more to do, nothing much to see. Leave it now. It’s done. Next stop Mars, though God only knows why.

Which brings us in a very round-about way to today’s topic…

Just as keenly contested as the race to be the first man on the moon, was that to be the first comedian to say cunt on prime time television.
Step forward Larry David.
I don’t know if Larry was the first but, like Armstrong, his was the definitive one.  Larry David took the c-word and smashed it out of the ground in his brilliant Obituary Typo episode. That showed ’em. Can’t be bettered, can’t be equalled, leave it now. It’s done.
 Disconnected profanity has been sent to bed, it’s no longer shocking or funny, if it ever was. The heroic comedians now have to take things even further in their quest to reach the final frontier of taste, to break down the barriers on our behalf and of most importance to them, to impress their mates. But I can’t help thinking that a lot of them are picking their opponents / victims with the skill of  Don King plotting a no-hoper’s path to a world title bout.  Only difference is for them there’s no final showdown where they get left on their arse while someone else skidaddles with the purse. They’re not that stupid and certainly not that brave.

Blimey, that was a bit of a long-winded prelude to today’s proceedings.

Anyway you can all relax now because here’s Johnny with….

Ricky Gervais

What is it with Ricky Gervais
Him who does the comedy and movies and plays
I saw him out the other night
In Pizza Hut with some acolytes
The tall one with glasses said something funny
And Rick made that face like a speed freaking bunny
He looked a bit scruffy in an old black t-shirt
When they came in I was on my dessert
I was having some of those Chill Company chocs
And I thought put that bunny back in the box

I watched as the waitress arrived with their pizzas
They got three chicken sizzlers and one margherita
Oh and one of them had ordered a supreme veggie
Then Ricky said Wossy loves me when I’m edgy
He does that smirk when I’m controversial
But it fucks up my chances of doing commercials

They ate half their pizzas then stopped for a rest
And Ricky sat back and he puffed out his chest
It’s all about free speech I’m righting a wrong
Then I heard him say retard and spazzer and mong

Well Rick’s little gang they just fell about laughing
The Pizza Hut manager brought all his staff in
He stood them arranged like some heavenly throng
To hear Ricky say retard and spazzer and mong

I swear soon there were fifty around his table
While he searched for more words to mock the disabled
And as they clapped their hands and egged him on
Louder came retard and spazzer and mong

There were people with camera phones wedged in the door
One girl laughed so much that she pissed on the floor
There’s only one Ricky! They’d started a song
As he screamed at them retard and spazzer and mong

He was stood on the table now giving his best
Some of the fuckers were shouting requests
It was then that I saw this geezer approach
Shaven head and a crombie coat
He was carrying a bottle of Peroni beer
And he whispered something in Ricky’s ear
Ricky’s chubby face turned red
And he held two fingers like a gun to his head

As this fellow walked away
I pulled him and said to him what did you say
To make Ricky so visibly nervous and pensive
He said it was something no more and no less offensive
I said if you’re such an outspoken and fearless bloke
Then fuck it why don’t you just go for broke
Then I asked him to say chinky and paki and nigger
But he wouldn’t because some of those guys are much bigger
Bigger and stronger and tougher than him
And he’s shitting himself about getting filled in
And I said your disabled stuff’s good but if you’re wanting to top it
What about having a pop at the Prophet

He said as far as requests go mine got rejected
But it proves beyond doubt that just as I suspected
Ricky’s campaign for the freedom to speak
Is just an excuse to make fun of the weak.

Well that’s it for this one. Tune in next time so see what our pessimistic poet has been up to this week.

Post No. 2 (in which Johnny’s friend tries to get the economy going)


Any new readers, which is virtually everybody, may want to check out the first post before reading this one and if that doesn’t put you off  feel free to continue.

Well here we are again with post No.2 from the chronicles of our languid lyricist Johnny Clithero.

The stats so far are very bad in that hardly anyone has looked at the first post. I see there is a section called Freshly Pressed for the most popular blogs so what about one called Freshly Depressed for those that no fucker is interested in. 

Having said that, special thanks go to Patrick from Canada and Brice from the US of A for being our only viewers up to now. I hope some of the English colloquw  colloquil  lingo doesn’t phase you too much and can assure you that when the hits hit the millions and the books and TV series are out, you won’t be forgotten and will be lauded as heroes of the Clithero Corporation.
Alternatively you may be the only people who ever see this crap work of literary and artistic genius.
Either way we go on. This country and it’s people did not get where we are today by refusing to blindly and enthusiastically follow a failing strategy.

So here’s today’s topic..

Don’t you find it funny that politicians, bankers and other disparate glitterati can get away with all sorts of stuff while if the ordinary bloke tries to do exactly the same, the full weight of the law comes crashing down on his sorry bonce.
This anomaly first occurred to me many years ago when I asked my dad how come Freddie Laker was driving away from the bankruptcy court in a brand new Rolls Royce. For this I got a sharp clip round the ear. I don’t know why, it’s just how things were back then.
Anyway, enough of the chit-chat, here Johnny relates how his friend came unstuck by trying to ape his betters when attempting to add some impetus to the flagging economy in…

Quantitative Easing

My mate got done for forgery
He printed twenties tens and fives
He spread them round the pubs of Leeds
The nice ones and the dives
He says he’d have got away with it
But his picture of the Queen
Was taken from the internet
And looked more like Mr Bean

He’d look for places full of folks
Loud and dimly lit
Then he and a pair of other blokes
Would pass the counterfeit
It was in one such place last friday night
While he was waiting for his change
The barman caught a tenner in the light
And noticed something strange

Here he said see this Queen’s head
It looks like him from off  Blackadder
And that’s not a hummingbird on the back
It’s a budgie on a ladder

Well my mate he turned round on his feet
And he legged it good and proper
He’d hardly made it to the street
When he was tackled by a copper
His head was spinning from the blows
He heard the handcuffs click
With blood and snot running from his nose
He was carted to the nick

In these parts they won’t let things lie
And in less than just a week
He was standing in his suit and tie
Up before the beak
The judge addressed his solicitor
Who was cheap and quite unkempt
He looked at him for ten seconds or more
Then he spat out with contempt

There’s too much of this type of thing of late
It’s disruptive and displeasing

But m’lud my client merely states
He was quantitative easing.

Five years said the Judge as he banged his hammer
With some off for good behaviour
The brief looked up and he said with a stammer
S-s-sorry I couldn’t s-s-save yer

I’m getting out of this bloody game
Said my mate as he wiped his eyes
The judge said you’ve only yourself to blame
You should be more precise.


Well that’s it for this one boys and girls, I’m going to hit the publish button and see what happens.

Coming Next on The Chronicles of Clithero

Read what happens when Johnny encounters a gobshite celebrity in Pizza Hut

This will be out as soon as we get a drawing done (could do with resurrecting William Hogarth for this one) and as soon as I learn how to work this blogging a bit better.