DAVID BOWIE SUFFERS FROM LYRIST’S BLOCK

It’s late 1960’s and at No. 22 Clareville Grove, South Kensington, West London a frustrated David Bowie, in the company of his then young lover, budding actress Hermione Farthingale, is at his wits end struggling to complete the lyric for his new song, ‘Life on Mars’.

“What’s the problem Daveypoops? You’ve a face like Andy Warhol chewing a can of baked beans without his dentures in.”

“Oh, my little Hermit it’s all gone horribly wrong.”

“What has?”

“Well Hermlicalls, as you are well aware I’ve been engrossed attempting to knock out a swift one I’m dedicating to you yet I’m missing the crucial finishing touch.”

“Pardon?”

“A song, sweet Hermanology, a song. What did you think? Matters not. I have a song title, ‘Life on Mars’, I even have the music and all the other verses, it’s just this irksome conclusion to the first verse that’s holding me back.”

“Gosh and golly, Daveypoops perhaps I can be a help. Tell me where you’re stuck and I’ll have a go at easing your tension through my oral endeavours.”

“If I must. Right then, Hermiosity I’ve got, ‘It’s a godawful small affair, To the girl with the…’ The ‘what?’ I just cannot think of anything. Over to you.”

“Um…um…yes, I think I’ve got it…after all if the song’s about me it really ought to say something that sits comfortably with my divine persona. What about, ‘It’s a godawful small affair, To the girl with the…gorgeous BTM’. There, that’ll do nicely.”

“For pities sake Hermlicks, how on God’s earth can I have your BTM in my lyric? I have my standards you know! Common decency must prevail.”

“You don’t like my BTM then, Daveypoops? I am bereft and want to top myself. I shall cry and cry and cry and cry and cry.”

“Oh, Haemorrhoidious my darling do not drip on like a wet sponge in a fishnet stocking, your BTM is second only to mine. It’s just not right for this song. Try again.”

“Okay then. Let’s try, ‘It’s a godawful small affair, To the girl with the…the overwhelming need to get her legs waxed before she looks akin to a Northern buffed-cheeked gibbon’. 

“Still not doing it for me.”

“Well then, this one’s a belter. Oh yes, I believe you will love this. ‘It’s a godawful small affair, To the girl with the… all-consuming desire for a plate of Jellied Eels and a bucket of ale to wash it down with’. I simply can’t get enough of Jellied Eels, Daveypoops. My bestest meal is to have them first, then a good portion of Spotted Dick to nibble upon for afters.”

“For f***’s sake, Hermanella. This is hopeless. Let’s go down the pub. Maybe the walk and a few beers might inspire.”

“That’s a champion idea, Daveypoops. Can we go to the pub near the hairdressers? I’m sick and tired of my ‘mousey hair’ and thought I’d book an appointment to have my ‘mousey hair’ dyed red. I hate ‘mousey hair’, I’ve always hated ‘mousey hair’ with a ‘mousey hair’ vengeance.”

“Do put a sock in it, Hermatette. How the bloody hell are my creative juices going to flow again with you going on and on about ‘mousey hair’.”

Footnote: For any readers not heralding from the UK I feel compelled to point out that ‘Spotted Dick’…favoured by Winston Churchill himself…is, arguably, an English culinary delight. A pudding made with suet and dried fruit and often served with custard and thus not what you might have thought it was! As to a BTM, this is short for ‘bottom’.