Wash your mouth out with soap, young Mr Dillon.
As an appendix to my forty years on piece about, amongst other things, John Cooper Clarke’s 1982 visit to Keele:
…I am delighted to report that Frank Dillon has managed to recreate most of his John Cooper Clarke poem from memory. Just as well, as I do not have a copy of it in my Ringroad scripts collection.
Frank wasn’t even in the country when John Cooper Clarke played that gig at Keele. Frank however writes:
As for John Cooper Clarke, I don’t have a copy of it, but I offer the following recreation, honed (or harmed) by the sands of time (i.e. 40 years).
It’s vitally important to read it in the voice of the great man, and with a hint of hysteria.
(And I do mean the great man – for this was a homage, nay, a pastiche, rather than an attack on JCC, for whom I retain an enduring fondness).
I hope it brings back fond memories. Anyway, here goes:
He runs the whole gamut of feelings, from A right through to B. At school he wore a cone-shaped hat that bore the letter D. He’s the first one, but he’s useless, Just like the word Aardvark, John Cooper Clarke. Where he came from is a mystery indeed. His mam and dad, they must have been too bloody thick to breed. If he’s half the age his jokes are, Then he came from Noah’s Ark, John Cooper Clarke. His so-called style is dissolute, his muse, the commonplace. The burden of banality is etched upon his face. He’s told more boring stories Than a bloody copper’s nark, John Cooper Clarke He’s the new enfant terrible of the trendy literati. His mordant wit is de rigueur at all the coolest parties. But like a puppy, laryngectomised, His bite’s worse than his bark, John Cooper Clarke He’s a Wimpy-bar philosopher, his lines are full of glee. He can find the secret of existence in a cup of tea. But like a wanker with his eyes poked out, He’s shooting in the dark, John Cooper Clarke He thinks he’s T S Eliot, or Keats, or Wilfred Owen And literary publishers will clamour for his poems He’s got more front and chutzpah Than a flasher in the park, John Cooper Clarke John Cooper Clarke John Cooper Clarke
I must say that I don’t remember that last couplet. My recollection of the closing couplet was:
But like a masturbating eunuch,
He’ll never make a mark,
John Cooper Clarke, John Cooper F*****G Clarke, John Cooper F*****G B*****D Clarke…
Still, a pretty impressive bit of brain archaeology from Frank there.
Respect.