In Britain, competition for the number one record for the Xmas week music charts is extremely fierce, and tends to get a record a great deal of hype. In the year 2000, Eminem was hotly tipped to win, with a bleak depressing record about a deranged Eminem fan, called Stan, who kills his wife when Eminmen fails to reply to his fan mail.  The record was just beaten to the Number One slot by a cheery ditty by a TV puppet show hero called Bob The Builder, with his silly catch phrase, ‘Can We Fix it – yes we can”.  This poem was my response to that  as I imagined Eminem might have written it when he learned that his assault on the 2000 chart had failed.

CHRISTMAS RAPPING

 OI! Toy Boy! Bob!
 Shut Your gob!
 Kids today don’t need your crap.
 Christmas is a time for giving rap.
 You do cute and commercial
 But we want rude, crude and controversial.
I’m hip! I’m hot!
 But you’re not.
 Who cares about construction?
 Sings songs of violence and corruption.
 Make rhymes on death and destruction,
 But don’t take my number one slot,
 Or my reputation’s shot.
 I’ll never live it down.
 I’ll look like some kind’a clown.
 Hey Bob! Shut your gob!
 It isn’t funny!
 I need the money.
 My mum’s suing me.
 I failed at matrimony
 So I have to pay alimony.
 I nicked my name from some confectionery
 So I expect their lawyers will soon be after me,
 But your average listener is only three.
 Can’t you see, I need to be
 Number one .. Number one.
 Oh, please, Builder Bob, go on.
 Let me be Christmas number one.
 Isn’t number two
 Good enough for you?
 Why should I go under
 For a one hit wonder?
 You’re not so fantastic.
 You’re just a bit of plastic
 But there’s been a nasty theory,
 A viscous little conspiracy
 Spreading rumours you are me
 Aiming to win either way.
 That’ll be the day.
 The number one slot’s mine
 You stupid little swine!
 Give it Back! Give it back!
 Do I have to buy a stack
 Of my records myself
 To knock you off the record shop-shelf?
 You won’t feel glad;
 You’ll just feel sad,
 When I invade your territory
 And do some children’s TV.
 Postman Pat, Henry’s Cat,
 Fireman Sam – so easy. Damn! I could do that!
 But I won’t do Top Of The Pops
 Until someone stops
 Me going to second base
 By putting you in your place
 With a punch in the face
 And you disappear without trace
 In some tower block foundations.
 I’m bringing together rappers from all nations
 To sing your stupid songs with me.
 We’re going ‘Wombling Free with Puff Daddy
 While Ice T. does the best of Mister Blobby
 And I’ll murder out a mean Tellytubby.
 Don’t you see? Don’t you see
 What you’ll get if you mess with me?
 Last warning Bob,
 Time to shut your Gob, Bob!
 Don’t mess with Eminem
 Or he’ll sing at your requiem
 And the only (w)rap
 Will be on the little chap
 In the little shroud
 While the happy crowd
 Gets my autograph
 That’ll be a laugh.
 And I’ll have won,
 Coz I’m number one
 Number one,
 Number One
 Number one