John Cooper Clarke's Flogging Oven Chips
I was watching telly. ITV
When a familiar voice jumped out at me
A Mancunian accent from the past
A cigarette-induced breathless rasp
The name of the poet was on my lips
John Cooper Clarke was flogging oven chips
I couldn't believe it. I listened again
The sponsor of the sacrilege was Mr McCain
Not the US politician from the Christian right
But the frozen chipped potato man. It gave me a fright
Was it the acid? Too many trips?
No, it was John Cooper Clarke flogging oven chips
The monotone was unmistakeable
The Manchester moan was quite unfakeable
There was no doubt it was JCC
It was one of my heroes talking to me
But it wasn't quirky questioning quips
John Cooper Clarke was flogging oven chips
It just wasn't right. It just wasn't fair
The emaciated man with the coiffured hair
And the irremovable red-lens shades
The machine gun delivered tetchy tirades
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't get to grips
With John Cooper Clarke flogging oven chips
It wasn't funny. It wasn't droll
I reached right over for the remote control
I turned off the set. It was all out of place
And I remembered the monster from outer space
So I picked up one of me thin felt tips
And wrote "John Cooper Clarke's Flogging Oven Chips"
