You shouldn't make it up

For some reason, the Daily Mail website has elected not to publish Richard Littlejohn's humourous spoofs of Beatles songs which formed the entirety of his column today. Since Littlejohn had clearly spent several minutes on them, that seems a shame. So here's a taste:

I once had a girl, Or, as you know, She's now had me. She showed me her leg Isn't it good? Norwegian wood.

She told me that I should stop drinking, I started to laugh, So I lit up a spliff and the next day woke up in the bath. She took off her leg, Smacked me in the head.

I went back to bed. Covered in blood. Isn't it good? Norwegian Wood.

We're sure your sides will be heaving at their very seams. Here's another:

I read the news today, oh dear, About an unlucky man who lost his wife, And though the news was rather sad, We all just had to laugh, We saw the photograph.

He dyed his mullet in the bath, Midnight Maroon was what the bottle said.

A crowd of people came to stare, They'd seen his face before, But nobody was really sure if he was only 64.

I read the Mail today, oh boy, It said he stabbed her with a broken glass, Grabbed the respondent by the neck, Though she was up the duff, He'd always treat her rough.

I had to turn the page.

Woke up, fell out of bed, Couldn't find my wooden leg. On the way downstairs, Tipped the bedpan up. Looking back, I noticed he was drunk.

Found my leg, my Beatles cap, Pocketed my Amex Black, Went up West to meet my brief When he told me what I'd get, I went into a dream . . .

I read the news today, oh dear, Four million quid -- that's just the lawyers' fees.

And though the sums were rather large, She said: I want it all, And it'd better be a damn sight more than Jagger gave to Jerry Hall.

Whatever turns you on.

You'll note, besides the sort of parody that gives sixth form revues a bad name, Littlejohn is obsessed with Heather Mills' disability. Nothing like someone losing a leg in an accident to raise a titter, is there, Dicky? Especially when mixed in with a bit of domestic violence, too.

One last, although there was much more:

Close your eyes and I'll kick you, 'Cos you make me sick, you Bone-idle, gold-digging cow.

I know what you're thinking, You're right, I've been drinking, I've got to get through this somehow.

When you worked in Harrods, You partied with Arabs, And starred in some porno pix, too.

You might think it's funny, But you won't get my money, I ain't going to give you a sou.

All my money, I will keep from you, All my money, darling, this is true, All my money, all my money, All my money, will not go to you.

Littlejohn and the Mail like to position themselves as some sort of moral guardians of the English soul. You can see that coming through, can't you?

[Thanks to Alan Connor for the tip]

music richard littlejohn paul mccartney heather mills