Sophie Hannah Jones
I tell the girl at Name a Star of course
I know it’s rare, I know she hopes she won’t be asked again.
Requests like mine are hardly likely to become the norm.
Most people will continue to conform,
but I am not most people.
I’ve read the rules. I know what’s fair
and I want to name a star,
as the blurb says, to show someone I care.
The name I have chosen is David Shithead Stubbs. Now, can we talk
certificates, star lists, gift sets? Oh, go on, let’s.
I’ve sent my cheque for fifty quid.
I have consumer rights.
She doesn’t even ask me what he did.
Do you know how long it took, I say, to choose a slur?
Wanker and arsehole sounded somehow wrong.
Shithead was good but couldn’t stand alone,
since how would David Stubbs or anyone have known
the star was named for him? You see, this means
a lot to me. It isn’t just a whim.
I need to know that every night, for ever,
he’ll trawl the skies, wondering is that the one?
Feet on the ground, he can repent, appeal, achieve, endeavour
but every twinkle of the star I’ve named
will show him he is blamed
permanently and hard for what he’s done.
So, David Stubbs, let’s see how tough you are.
I am the customer. I’ve paid. You can’t un-name my star.
The voice I’m speaking to sounds tired. I know
I sound hysterical, a mess,
a shrew it would be foolish to say no to. Well, so be it.
There will be a star called David Shithead Stubbs.
I will lean over balconies to see it.
I give her the address
I want the framed certificate to go to.
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