That Celtic Tiger you thought was dead,
Replaced by the Rat of Recession instead,
Still echoes in the repossessed pads of the glitterati
Who’ve tightened their belts, but do SO miss the party.
Judged by mini-breaks and brand new cars,
They compare their lives to movie stars.
Competitive consumerism is alive and well:
In the Ladies room of a well-known hotel
Friends compete and, oops, drop names
From underneath their blow-dried manes,
“Santa’s bringing an iPhone 5
To dear little Cosmo, he’s only five!”
Wholeheartedly agreeing that aging sucks,
Admiring Botox and tummy tucks,
The horror of having a wrinkled face,
Un-plumped bits or hair out of place.
The pressure to stay looking twenty-three
For at least the next half century,
Plastic surgery’s on the rise
No-one’s beautiful in her own eyes.
Can’t afford to buy food for the larder,
But she’ll still buy the bag ‘n’ shades from Prada,
Homemade facials & DIY blow-dry,
Designer ‘vintage’ from the bring-and-buy.
Moet’s made way for Prosecco,
Lidl and Primark now the way to go,
Not a whiff of Versace anywhere,
Still wearing her Laboutins from last year.
The Bank is spoiling all her fun
By cancelling her cards one by one,
And negative equity in varying themes
Haunts her sober, daytime dreams.
She’s eighteen months been out of work
But loathe to sell her sporty Merc.
Luxurious habits are hard to kill,
But don’t underestimate her will,
In her smooth and hairless guise,
To face Generation Spend’s demise,
And confront her braying creditors’ chorus,
Looking skinny, tanned and gorgeous.
© Alex Barton 2013