Tim Minchin: So Live Page #3

So he writes in third person,

In an attempt to seem more rock'n'roll

But he suspects it's not working,

And deep in his heart he knows he

Will never be Bono or Bowie

And even if he was quite pretty

In small pants like Kylie

He knows that he ...

Will always be

A rock'n'roll nerd,

He'll keep writing songs the world don't care about,

And though it sounds absurd

He'll just keep writing

oh yeah, yeah, yeah,

You can criticise him but he won't care,

'Cause he wants to rock, and he will never be deterred,

But he'll always be a f***ed-up little tryhard wannabe rock'n'roll nerd.

A rock'n'roll nerd.

Ow!

So, I- I-

Thanks, thanks, uh ...

I have a problem with stockbrokers.

Um, it's not-

Is there any stockbrokers in the audience?

I don't wanna upset anyone, it's not-

I don't have a problem with the job you're doing. I'm not even, um-

I'm not even entirely sure what it is.

Um. My problem is a gramatical issue.

Because 'broke' is the past tense of 'break'.

So, strictly, I don't think you can have a broker.

Like-

I don't call myself a sanger.

This is a song about, um, the conversation I had

with a stockbroker, in a pub once.

It's actually a beat-poem.

Cool, huh?

It's called, uh,

'Mitsubishi Colt'.

He looks at me - intensely

Eyes sparkle,

Contact lens green with artifical envy

C*cks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare

Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair

And theorises thus:

You know what I reckon?

Pause for effect

Adjusts his tackle as if its semi-erect

I figure Id better give him what I know he expects

What do you reckon?

A hand on the shoulder

An avuncular wink

Sips his lemon drink

Spits out the pips

Hands on hips

Licks his lips

Like a wolf near a flock

Yet again adjusting this fantasy cock

He delivers his philosophy

I reckon it dont matter

It dont mean squat

What you earn or what you got

Or the style of your hair

Or what you wear

It matters not

Like what do you care

That I live on a hill with views of the beach

That my chicks and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each

That Ive already reached my first 10 million and Im only 36

Youre as thick as two bricks

If you think you can fix

What is broke in your life with money

And the funny thing is

And I sh*t you not

I would give it all up like that

He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit

And with a click of his fingers

He beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid

And grinning ridiculously

Orders a G and And a beer, for me

And before I can escape

Hes back saying

Cos mate, the thing is

All of that crap

Its all superficial

Its all just a front

Imean, anyone can be a rich c*nt

But the thing we all want

Cant be bought with dosh

You know what I mean boss?

Cos it's not like you give a toss

That when I want to get slim

Ive got my own private gym

And a personal trainer called

Danielle or

f***ing Darlene

Shes got tits

Like those chicks

In Playboy magazine

And its not like you care

That I own the controlling share

Of an overseas company

That builds accounting software

It matters not one bit

I mean who gives a sh*t

If I earn six hundred grand

And drive a brand new land rover

You know I would hand it all over like that

He pauses for a beat

Long enough for me to retreat to a seat

And sit, elbow on the bar

And contemplate this guru

With his white teeth and big car

And ponder silently my belief

That genius comes in many forms

And that this

postulating, peroxided porn-star prick

aint one of them

My specultaion cut short

As he reforms

Like Terminator II

And before I have time to abort

He descends upon me and snorts

I guess what Im trying to say

In my own little way

Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that

Well I reckon theyre great

I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums

And dont get out of bed til the pizza man comes

And smoke cones

And take crack

And wack-off all day

But I dont care what they say

And I dont listen to people

Who say that all actors are gay

Not that I dont think thats OK

As far as Im concerned

Although its not my bag

If you wanna be a fag

Be a fag yknow?

Who am I to say

Where you come and where you go

In the privacy of your own homo

Ha ha

Homo

Ha ha

Homo

Ha ha

Ha ha

Hes shitting me now

And my eyes start to glaze

And through the haze of my anger

I notice his G and T is gone

And hes starting to dribble

As he dribbles on and f***ing on

But you musos are alright

I dont know much about music but I know what I like

And I reckon Id give it all in

To be like you Jim, Tim

I mean you might be poor in monetary terms

But what you earn spiritually

What makes you what you are

Just means so much more

Than what you get from a really nice car

Or a tennis court

Or holidays in Greece

Or a house on the beach

Or stock market shares

Or thirty-one pairs

Of Calvin Klein underwear

Do you understand? You are a wealthy, wealthy man

And mate, I dont want to piss in your pocket

But ive gotta say

Before I get on my way

That honestly

And Im not having you on

I reckon on day you could play piano as good as Elton John!

The cops are still mingling

Though the crowds shuffled out

Ive got ice on my hand

Where my fist met his mouth

And although I explained

That it wasnt my fault

Ive a 800 buck fine

For aggravated assault

So before it gets worse

I reckon Ill bolt

A wealthy, wealthy man

In a 1981

Mitsubishi

Colt

Is everyone relaxed?

- Yeah!

- So! Um.

I've been, um-

I've been, uh-

Uh ...

I've got this little personal confession.

I've been, um-

I've been going to see a psychologist, recently.

No.

I know,well peo- I know, I know, that's weird.

Because, obviously, on stage I look like ...

totally well-adjusted, and ...

So it comes as a surprise.

But I've been, um...

just been to this psy-

And it's not a big deal.

It's just talking about stuff, the little things that I think I, you know, could probably just [?].

And one of the issues I have is, um,

with anger.

Um.

So, I don't get ...

I don't get angry.

Um, so the issue is not really an anger issue,

it's that

I don't know how to express anger.

Which is nice! I'm basi-

It's nice to be diplomatic and stuff, but I-

It comes from a fear of confrontation, I think.

So, um...

So ...

I've been talking to this-

Cos I worry about what's happening to all that anger that, like-

Anger that I'm not expressing, you know?

So, anyway, he reckons what I should do

is write my feelings down.

Thereby expressing myself without

having to confront anyone.

So that I don't , you know, um, bottle it up.

And, um. So I've been doing that, I've been doing

some writing. And I've written a poem.

Which is really helpful to write.

I think it might be even more helpful to sort of do

in front of a sympathetic,

non-judgmental, kind and neutral crowd like you guys.

So, this is, um, this is my poem.

It's called, uh, I've given it a title.

It's called

'Angry'.

Or, in brackets : '(Feet)'.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes