I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Basra
" Right " said the boss, " we need some ideas
The ratings are tumbling, or so it appears
We need something different, intellectually enhancing
No jungles or love islands, no singing or dancing
No self-satisfied high-trousered judges and panels
A show that can smash those other bastard channels "
He eyeballs his lessers from behind his cigar
They squirm in their seats muttering "erm" and "uh"
Racking their brains and frozen with fear
Seeking the lightbulb that saves their career
Til a young skinny hand rises in gingerly fashion
It's Quentin with his thin hair and strong Brut splash-on
" Er, here's an idea, now just hear me out
The public crave reality, but it needs extra clout
So assemble some celebs, who each get voted off "
Groans of derision, " It's been done " they all scoff
The boss blows smoke, this is what he desired
A chance to point and say the words "You're fired!"
" Ah, but this one is different, it's no walk in the park
Stick 'em on a plane and send 'em out to Iraq
They can man all the checkpoints whilst on the phone to their agents
Dodge all the bullets and dodge the insurgents
It would test their resilience to far greater heights
Take lunch with the Sunni's and tea with the Shiites
A day trip to Baghdad to take in the sights
Even switch on the Basra christmas lights "
The Boss stares at Quentin, wide-eyed and in shock
As he tries to imagine Barrymore at a Mosul Road-block
" You're completely off yer rocker! You must have lost the plot
And yet I can't deny that it might be worth a shot
But who would be in it, who would possibly agree?
They'd have to be desperate, or totally out of their tree "
" Well Boss " said Quentin " I'm sure I can find
Some washed-up celebs who've got comebacks in mind
The types who bemoan their bad luck and oh-so-nears
Will do pretty much anything to boost their flagging careers "
" We'll get...er wotsisname off that... er thingymajig
And that one who likes Beckham and molested a pig
Disgraced comedians and ageing grey rockers
And how about the weather girl with the gigantic knockers
And the second cousin of the sister of some guy in a Soap
I'm still waiting on the Vatican for a reply about the Pope
Some pop singer bloke whose record sales are on the slide
And that ex-Russian spy who.... oh no sorry, he died
A Tory MP and an ex-Labour Peer
And presented by Davina in full battle-gear "
The boss spits out his pungent Cuban, breaks into a smile
Beckons Quentin closer whilst dismissing others rank and file
" Well bonk my bulging bank balance and take it out for dinner!
I do believe you've cracked it, I think this one's a winner
Of course we'll need our own man there to co-ordinate it all
I'll book you on the first flight out and give 'Hotel Saddam' a call "
Quentin starts to back away, holding up a hand
" N-no sir, if you n-need me here I'd f-fully understand "
" Nonsense boy, you'll be the genius behind this work of wonder
I'd hate to see some other jerk go out and steal your thunder "
" But boss I... I d-don't want to go... "
" Of course you do, you're desperate I know "
" No boss, honest! "
" Oh you're far too modest
But I can see you can't resist
So I really must insist "
Quentin stands in silent shock, his senses in a rut
And tells himself in future to keep his big mouth shut
" Now run along and pack your bags, let's get this thing in motion
And please try not to get caught up in some suicide explosion! "
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