Living in a Greasebox

After the torrid nights

of the big heat

the bed sheets

were rendered transparent,

like the finest filo pastry.

If you held them up to the light,

you could read The Beano

on the other side.

Madras-hot and steaming,

the walls running wet.

The Hairy Bikers reduced

to two pools of sweat.

One-twenty a minute:

the creamiest beats.

Taken to the limit

and whipped to stiff peaks.

Come the morning,

we used brooms of stale brioche

to mop up John Torode's

big buttery tears.

While across the border

Jamie Oliver's mariachi combo

(Los Wankeros)

sang of yearning in their loins.

Who's gonna throw

that lisping boy a coin?

Epilog:

In the cos lettuce green dawn,

I held a buttercup

under James Martin's chin.

His fat Zardoz head

exploded into flame.

B.R. 12.05.2021

James Martin just moments before his big ol' face ignited