To prophesy the future deeds spectacular
Of Peter, Kate and Jordan- and don't deny
We also want to know what beckons for McFly
So we turn to age-old methods, like the sages,
And find ourselves a-browsing web pages.
(No augury or runes or reading of tea leaves
Can tell the future like the great "Ask Jeeves".)
So first we query, who will aspire to marriage
And seek to rival Madame Andre's carriage?
Lance Armstrong strong of arm and fast in love
Will turn his Sheryl Crowe into a dove;
The actor Billy Zane will wed that Kelly
Off Love Island, that snog-fest on the telly -
But for a couple of such marked élan
We don't know why they chose to wed in Ham.
Though it was good enough for Farmer Giles
We thought the Seychelles more their styles.
But soft - let no man nor woman pick a hole
In the bliss of lady Tweedy and her Cole.
Their nuptials (in a Berkshire castle, by the by)
Will keep the tabloids going through July.
But that's enough of love in 2006
We want celebs' faux pas, we want the pix!
Who will, dead drunk, roll in the gutter?
Which chat-show host will start to stutter?
Whose dress will split right down the seams?
Which diplomat will spill the beans?
We can but spell "Hope" out by the letter
Glory is good but, oh, humiliation's better.
We like the coming girlband, Pussycat Dolls
But we love their alter ego, Pussycat Trolls.
So Google, pray, what is already slated
To leave our taste for Schadenfreude sated?
A "jukebox musical" entitled "Daddy Cool"
Starring Harvey of So Solid Crew - dear fool!
And for some soppy blather bound in folio
Look out for "Sven", a memoir by Dell'Olio.
Ye fans of literary prose are not forgot
With Loos and Price and Marsh, all hot to trot.
Their golden pens are poised, their heads are bowed
And scribblers Amis, Coe and Co are cowed.
What's this? My screen adopts a dark incline
And lightning rents the page: "Netscape online".
Ill things we see for former stars Take That
Their comeback tour may - sad to say - fall flat.
And quick! before the album, someone text her
A boomerang career is hard, Miss Ellis Bextor.
So now to lift our spirits, if we're able,
Let's look into the small celebby cradle.
Why who's the squealing little Scientologist?
(For rhymes like this, I'll have to turn apologist.)
And who's the baby, wise of face like Plato?
It's Apple Martin's little sis, Potato.
Ah, bless the child that's born unto a star
They know not how unlike us all they are.
And speaking of a woman born to power
What of that Carol Thatcher, late to flower,
But all next year, TV will be her sop
Like Hungry Hippos, up and up her head will pop.
All these dear predictions my screen it did provide
And laptop, too, until the damn thing died -
So hold your breath folks, through winter's gloom
Till with the spring the bonny Oscars bloom
And as new leaves will blossom on the bough,
Dame Church will rise to power, just watch how.
Then shall we see if this forecast holds true
Or if Apple's sweet sister is simply called Prue.
Then no doubt a cranky and righteous blogger'll
Point out that this poem was nothing but doggerel.