My astonishing scores drew me rounds of applause,
And my brain was much-fêted as nimble:
But it turns out my team was in breach of the laws:
Now nobody trembles at Trimble.
My moon-walking stunts were a hit on all fronts,
I was greater than God or Godzilla:
But now I'm cosmetic and surgery's dunce,
Not Bad – rather Worse, after Thriller.
Appointed! What dreams for the Premier team!
We would head for the top, that's a fact.
But all football manager cats have the cream
Till the board votes its 'confidence' (sacked).
I wrote millions of words, and hurrahed for the Kurd,
I rose higher and surer and faster.
But now I'm a perjurer, barred after bird,
And am viewed as a total disaster.
I was Friday night's boss and gave nary a toss,
With a contract that left me in clover,
But my brand-name is mud. I am Jonathan Ross,
Just a stupid announcer. Switch over.
At the time I succeeded, a marksman they heeded,
With a vote-winning gun in my holster,
But my shot at PM is a miss. I'm not needed,
According to every pollster.
They gave me the cup, I was really made up,
I was dubbed by the Queen, and I thank her.
But she may be feeling I've sold her a pup,
Because I'm no longer a banker.
Read the Guardian article here