Cardboard Mummy GO LA LA in PoundLand!

 
First, get Cardboard Mummy

outta there. Just doesn't sit right.
After the diagnosis. 
There are market forces at play

with the kids on the estate. 

The writing's been on the wall for sometime.
NO BALL GAMES ALLOWED. 
The sign makes a good goalpost.
It got weird when she took Cardboard Mummy to school 
for Show 'n' Tell.
A fraud. A deception. 
Economics is a magic trick.
Having gone to Eton gave him carte blanche,
a la carte and cordon bleu.
Bloody immigrants! Coming over ‘ere 
with the Normans.
No wonder my sister-in-law
can’t get a council house.
I just love your British accent. R U Skarrish?

The arm and the dead dog in the cesspit under
the garage were too gruesome to be included in the final edition. 
Everyone loved Boris, the dog, not the toff.

The box represented motherhood.
Trapped. Contained. Medicated.
Cardboard Mummy came second
to a rocking horse with pubic hair 
made from scouring pads. 
Conceptual domestic economics. 
Social care under low wage slavery.

Is it my job to know who this fackin’ teacher is?
I’d swear to God if he gave a shit. 

The sensation of being born 
halfway through the trailers.

The memory of the millionaire entrepreneur

who attempted to form a sentence.
My Dad learned me, I mean, teached me
the trick of selling everything for a pound.
There are market forces at work.
My friend he come from Poundland!

Cardboard Mummy liked Iceland,
where naughty bankers get sent down
and fish fingers are cheap and cheerful. 

General ignorance frightened her 
more than the cancer.
Film star teeth. Hollywood smiles. 
Rank odour. Stench of perfection 
and automatic entitlement.
It doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. 
It just looks that way. 
 
Cardboard Mummy, 
who is General Ignorance?
There are market forces at work, Sherlock.
Elementary shit, my dear Corbyn.
Who sat beardy weirdy 
and demonised in the corner. 

She’s going to win Best Acting PM! for sure
She's already got a gong for The Iron Lady. 
It’s inevitable. Like the Roman Empire. 
The New World Order.
The Sun rises. 
There's a purple haze over Cumbria.
Let's cheer lead 
the largely illusory Tory masses to victory!!
There is a nuclear-powered Trudy in the sky with blood diamonds.
Though that Tristan 
is a right C U Next Tuesday, it's true.

Can anyone cure the economy, 
Cardboard Mummy?
It is the toxic cancer that kills all eventually.

Trapped. Contained. Medicated.
The poor bugger hanged himself in the end.
She legged it out of Poundland.
Then we lost the plot for a while. 

She turned up in the biggest fuck-off
Wetherspoon’s this side of Mecca.  
Off her bastard trolley!
The bouncer reckoned she looked 
a bit chunky as it goes. 

Irritation has eroded the liberal core.
System breakdown. Unfettered by detail.
A simple clear arc remains. 
Backstory simplified.
The slaughterwoman’s dream.
Equal ops for black ops. Bullets unleashed.
An absolute knock-it-outta-the-park performance 
by Emma, Emily or whatever the hell her name is. 

There are market forces at play.
Failure is only the road to success.
Especially if you own the road.
NO BALL GAMES ALLOWED.
They gonna write it on the wall in Mexican.
A pasty-faced pasty-eater made front page news.

Made a pleasant change.
It was a beautiful Remainers' Radio 4 Spring 
for about a minute. Till she unleashed fury.

Cocaethanol-addled beer-bellied 
self-hating misogynists

splattered their intestines 
and tripe down the aisles.
Still there’s a lot to be positive about.
 
 #BANG!
 Off goes the passive aggressive pacificism 
and out comes the hardware.
It’s gender conditioning, but not as we know it.
She’s two-dimensional 
with no interiority to speak of.
In fact, she hardly says a word. 

 
#BANG! 
Big shout goes out to the White Helmets,
watching at a safe distance from Hollywood 
in Aleppo,  war being preferable to musicals 
for some: Istanbul/ Constantinople/ Istanbul/ Constantinople…

The imaginary terrorist routine cheered up 
Cardboard Mummy, no end, 
I should Coco Chanel. Hugo Boss, 
fashion designer to the Nazis,
the actual Holocaust, not the movie,
is conspicuous on the High Street.
 
Commiserations on your Oscar nomination!
Congratulations! 

You’re in Republican heaven. Hell, yes!
Orlando, how will you use your 45 seconds? 

Take out the trash?
Take out Reese Witherspoon?
TAKE OUT TRUMP!

 Take out a subscription to NetFlix.

The Best Terrorist Award  
is one of the harder categories to predict...