Lady Gaga Ate My Madonna


"Where you wanna go, fanboy?"

Last night, Madonna gave me a lift from banner Cross Post Office to Psalter Lane art college. She had a sexy red chevrolet, and beeped me as she pulled up.

She knew the depths of my feelings for her, and could see I was no threat, so she invited me to hop in.

"This is Gaga, bitch!"

We make a sharp left off Ecclesall Road South, and head up Psalter lane. At the peak of the hill, the road is taken over by 5 women with Madonna’s True Blue-era hair, tight blonde corkscrew’s bouncing as they pounded the road.

But these clones all had a vermilion cape flowing behind them, with the pink emblem of a lobster’s claw on the back, raised like a Black Power salute. I instantly knew this was Lady Gaga’s gang symbol; and she was ruling this town with a fake lobster fist.

Embarrassing! I turned to Madge with red cheeks. Gaga was a style gyppo: nicking Madonna’s style then flaunting it as her own.

As we overtook the Gagas, I wanted to show my loyalty to Madge, and pictured flipping them the bird- too vulgar, I thought. The moment was gone. Arse.

We parked in front of the campus, and ducked down away from a nosy security guard. Madonna leaned in so close, I could smell the fruity tones of her posh hairspray. She passed over the most self-indulgent scrapbook I’ve ever seen: an orgasm of Pop Queen Propaganda. My hand shook as I turned the pages.

"Fruits of the Forest"

Then it was morning and it was all a fucking dream!!!!!!!!! I was so angry that I beat the pillow with my obsessive-fan hands. Until Esther told me to stop it.

I got up and made breakfast in bed and got on with my so-called life.

Dreams? Eat My Shorts


"Bollocks! Real life is gonna be rubbish after this!"

Dreams are complete dickheads. This morning I dreamt I was reunited with my bag, and I was marvelling at how everything was still there untouched. I felt frickin’ amazing, like when you can fly. That’s how much I love stuff.

I had to work at 9 for one hour (‘That’s not a job, that’s a hobby’), and then afterwards, I came home. Esther was still in bed.

“No!” she moaned, as I bounced in the doorway, invigorated by exercise, “I’ve only just got back to sleep. Go away!”

Resigning myself to either being bored or having a cheeky nap, I climbed in next to her.

The next thing I know, I was in Primark and was looking around for a nice cardy, when suddenly I could hear Rihanna singing on the next aisle. I couldn’t see her because the dressing gowns were in the way, but I knew it was her. She sounded amazing.

“WOW!” I though, I always miss these public appearances. She was singing ‘Love the Way You Lie’ but without Eminem. I was getting really into it, it was what people completely unlike me would call “Fierce”

But just as she was getting to the warbly bits that singers always do to ruin the song live, it went all wrong and out of tune, and I woke up and realised it was just a fat chav girl singing along to Primark.fm, and in fact I had fallen asleep standing up. Then I told Esther about it.

Then I woke up and told Esther about the dream and about telling her about it.

So not only was the dream annoying, the dream within the dream was a douchebag too. This wasn’t no 4 level Inception funhouse.

Yeah thanks a lot subconscious, you candy-snatching cretin.

"Ooh, your unconscious is schreckliche, baby"

I had a stroke, but you couldn’t reach


Here is a faithful record of the unfaithful dream that I had last night:

Our house was haunted. The sound of stiletto heels echoed down the hallway floorboards and I ran after them into the kitchen. But there was nothing.

"Oh Oh you're in trouble with Esther"

I became very scared, but then got distracted by finding a picture disc 12 inch by Shampoo from 2011. “Wow, they’ve reformed” I thought.

"How dare you surpass your 15 year love for me!"

Back to the goosepimples. I realised as I became more and more terrified that I was completely and utterly and clinically madly in love with a girl who wasn’t Esther. I felt a yearning like a koala for its favourite tree, or a chip’s desire to lie with mushy peas, or a sloth’s desperation for an extension on their essay. Intense.

Every atom of my being was involved in this sweaty lust and longing. Each pore became a mouth singing  ‘I love her I love her I love her’ like a million-strong microscopic boyband. Oh God, this feeling was worse than running out of pudding or some hellish comedown or even a year of Monday mornings lining up like happy slappers forever.

"Quick- she's falling in love"

I had the intellectual runs. Hot thoughts were spurting out of me like: She is the only person I’ve ever loved, the only person who makes me suffer a rapid succession of micro-strokes when I see her, starting in my eye and radiating down past my penis and into the ground.

But I can’t have her. I was mad with sadness, I started to melt like a microwaved snowman and I woke up with my face screwed into the pillow, tears mixing with the usual slobber in a pool that stuck my features into the expression of misery they felt.

Then I had to go to work and like with all dreams, the feeling faded and I found a packet of wine gums in my pocket and felt a bit better. Also my student told me about his visit to the Sistine chapel to see Leonardo Di Caprio’s paintings, which I greatly enjoyed. If only that was true.

But like my dream, it’s an impossible thing and I can’t waste my life wishing it into existence. And it’s a fatal mistake to take dreams as reality, as Marion Cotillard found in Inception

Bustard Child


I am very excited. We will soon be able to *almost* swear in public for legitimate reasons- the Great Bustard is being re-introduced into Britain. Unlike most of the uncouth youth, I am deeply embarrassed when naughty words escape my mouth. I accidentally shouted “You fucking shitstained cunt” at a pregnant woman the other day when she made me giver her my seat. Now I will be able to spit expletives and not fel guilty.

The bird itself looks pretty stupid, I can see why they all got butchered. Looks like Pat Butcher to me.

"Yes I frickin' do!"

"Ere. who you calling a bustard" etc

I had a terrible dream last night. My mum sent me her head in a box, I presume as an ornament of some sort. I opened it and my initial joy was replaced by dread. “But you can’t have a spare head” I said to Esther in horror. Next scene- at my parents house. I am sick with grief. “Where is she?” I ask my dad shakily.

“In the loft” he points up to the top of the house. That’s where her body is stashed, with the dank papers and dust laden webs.

I start to sob. It;s one of those dreams where you wake up and you’ve been crying in real life.

I should have rung her today to check it wasn’t true. I presume dad would have let me know at some point if it was.

"Dear Mother, as promised 'how to get ahead in the music biz'. Yours, Thom"

Just had a phonecall from BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are. Apparently, their research shows that I am not the God of Hellfire, as I had previously thought. I must have ice cream.

"I Know Who I Aren't. Thanks for nothing"