He was a good little chavver and listened to his mother,
Spent his holidays in Ireland, his mates thought he was very grand.
One summer he got sick, it was touch and go for a bit.
His schools taught him self reliance, he’d’ve run away given half a chance.
He was a non- conformer, a brave little soldier, a reluctant defender.
He got a greasy quiff and a shed load of lip,
Knew his Blake from his Titian and received some recognition,
Took a wife and kiddies, was always short of readies,
Tried his luck as a teacher, ended up down the boozer.
He was a picture maker, a bit of a dab hander, an instinctive creator.
He had a lot of chat and gave it some “o that”
He came from leafy Harrow, a very upmarket borough,
He loved that east end patter, all the pearly clobber,
Got his hands on a thesaurus and belted out a lively chorus.
He was an anecdoter, a real crowd pleaser, a consummate performer.
He was a hard grafter, knew what he was after,
Then he and the lads hit the big time and it was all money and deadlines.
He copped off with some students and still had his moments,
A cameo in the odd movie, turned into a proper luvvy.
He was quite the all rounder, a right piss taker, a boundary breaker.
He was landed with some grief, put things into perspective,
Needed to express his fresh new mood, had another crack at fatherhood.
His guts gave him gyp but he wasn’t having any of it.
Got the lads back togevver again, knew he couldn’t do it without them.
He was a firm believer, a willful fancy tickler, a positive thought promoter.