There was I, a few minutes ago, minding my own business, awaiting the announcement of my platform at King’s Cross, when over the PA came the voice of Michael Portillo wishing the station a happy birthday.
So, might I just point out that …
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I’d rather rest my head on a vomit-scented pillow
Or rub my sorest body parts with a pad that’s made by Brillo
Undo my coat in a raging storm and watch my knickers billow
I’d rather listen to a feline choir than to Michael Portillo
I’d rather gargle gasoline then smoke a cigarillo
Or go to hell for a lengthy spell for a minor peccadillo
Come face to face in a spooky place with an angry armadillo
I’d rather listen to a chilling scream than to Michael Portillo
I’d rather break my ankle with a trip over a bordillo
Or spend the day with Peter Kay on the way to Amarillo
Hang upside down for hours like the branches of a willow
Yes, I’d rather listen to Coldplay than to Michael bloody Portillo
