Tim Minchin “One day you’ll be as good as Elton John“ | Universal Comedy

To help you through your self-isolation or quarantined state, here’s an anthem from the genius songwriter and star of Jesus Christ Superstar, Tim Minchin. OH AND REMEMBER TO WASH YOUR HANDS Taken from his 2008 special So F*cking Rock. LYRICS He looks at me intensely 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 it’s semi-er*ct I feel I’d 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 his fantasy c*ck He delivers his philosophy I reckon it don’t matter It don’t 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 chick and my dogs have an en-suite bathroom each That I’ve already reached my first million and I’m only 26 You’re 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 That I’d give it all up like that He leaves me to ponder his wisdom for a bit And with a click of his fingers Beckons the blondest, bimbo-est barmaid And grinning ridiculously Orders a G and T And a beer, for me And before I can escape He’s back saying Cos mate, the thing is All of that crap It’s all superficial It’s all just a front Anyone can be a rich c*nt But the thing we all want Can’t be bought with dosh You know what I mean boss? Cos you don’t give a toss That when I want to get slim I’ve got my own private gym And a personal trainer called Danielle or Darlene She’s got t*ts Like those chicks In Ralph magazine And it’s 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 That 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 a form And that this postulating, peroxided p*rn-star prick ain’t 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 I’m trying to say In my own little way Is that I reckon that musos and artists and that Well I reckon they’re great I know some people reckon you guys just sit on your bums And don’t get out of bed til the pizza man comes And smoke cones And take crack And wack-off all day But I don’t care what they say And I don’t listen to people Who say that all actors are gay Not that I don’t think that’s OK As far as I’m concerned Although it’s not my bag If you wanna be a fag Be a fag y’know? 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 He’s 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 he’s starting to dribble As he dribbles on and fucking on But you musos are alright I don’t know much about music But I know what I like And I reckon I’d throw it all in To be like you Jim 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 earn from a really nice car Or a tennis court Or holidays in Greece Or a house on the beach Or stock market shares Or twenty-one pairs Of Calvin Klein underwear Do you understand you are a wealthy, wealthy man I mean I don’t want to piss in your pocket But i’ve gotta say Before I get on my way That honestly, and I’m not having you on I reckon on day you could play the piano as good as Elton John The cops are still mingling Though the crowd’s shuffled out I’ve got ice on my hand Where my fist met his mouth And although I explained That it wasn’t my fault I’ve a five hundred buck fine For aggravated assault So before it gets worse I reckon I’ll bolt A wealthy, wealthy man In a 1981 Mitsubishi Colt Don’t forget to subscribe to Universal Comedy for all your comedy needs - #StandUp #Comedy #TimMinchin #SelfIsolation #Musicals #AndrewLloydWebber