Happy Birthday Chase

[I have a friend called Edd. During a discussion of what American names would suit us, we inadvertently became an unstoppable boyband duo known as Chase & Lance. It’s his birthday. Here is an early draft of one of our singles. Keep an eye on the charts.

Note: for a sense of how the hell this song actually goes, listen to the first two minutes of Slam by Pendulum. The below lyrics start at 0:22 on this version. (Please note: I don’t condone sniping in such attire)]


It’s Chase and Lance

We’re Chase and Lance singing…

our new song, the best yet.


New Chase and Lance

Drop a new beat that’s sick…

the ladies, they love us.


[static-y breakdown]


And tonight, across this small island, we’re gonna celebrate…celebrate…celebrate.


We are the bestest boyband on the planet

We sing great songs and the crowds go ballistic!



When we dance…

They all scream

Chase and Lance!


We are the best looking band in existence

We just make tune after hit after banger



Of the time…

We rock hard

Pose for photo

And we pout.







Fighting My Best Friend’s Girlfriend

Apologies to anyone who thought this was in any way related to the similarly-name post Fighting My Best Friend’s Uncle. It’s not, but struggle is a constant theme in my life. #misunderstood

My adversary this time is a woman I’ve never met – the mysterious Mary* who’s recently started dating my good friend Beej. This threatens to disrupt our steady-as-a-rock bromance (we recently coined the term ‘broulmates’) while she sees me as competition for Beej’s affection. It’s all speculative and light-hearted, of course; they’re coming to stay and we can’t wait to meet each other. And beat each other. A few taunts fly and, before I know it, my declaration that I’m ‘coming for her’ draws a battle-rap response, sent to me by Beej (loving the attention).

A challenge of competitive creativity, hey? It’s like she knows me already. I spend a good half hour crafting my response, a heady mix of put-down puns and superlative self-promotion. I mention how I’ll win Beej – we’ve already agreed to settle our dispute over him through a game of RoShamBo (rock-paper-scissors for those of you who don’t play ultimate) – and threaten to ‘knock her out for days’. After a few practice repetitions, I record my rap, one take. Word filters back from Beej that she’s impressed.

Come the weekend, and I greet Mary for the first time with a huge hug – we’re instant best friends. But the gauntlet we laid down is still the elephant in the room. That evening, as Beej films, we perform our respective taunts and I lay down the slickest, sickest rap of my life. Mary concedes defeat on that front but now it’s the highly anticipated best of nine RoShamBo showdown. I stare her down, formulating my first symbol. ‘No one ever goes paper first,’ I think. Given that this is so serious, she’ll put some thought into it, and go paper. I go scissors. Mary goes rock. Damn.

I equalise and we trade points to 3-2, then I stutter, caught off-guard by her speed, and paper cuts me to 4-2 down. “You need to win three in a row now,” Beej gleefully informs me. His preference is with her, perhaps because the rap battle was so one-sided, or perhaps because she has boobs. My scissors beats her paper and it’s 4-3. One match point saved. Now, I’ve worked out she’ll go paper again, so I’m going scissors. But wait! She’s smarter than that – she’ll have taken that step too, and gone rock. I should go paper, got it. “Ro, Sham, Bo, [panic] Sho!” At panic, I change my mind, running back a step to scissors…

Mary’s great. She rocks, you might say. She rocks.

*name changed to preserve Mary’s raputation. Thug life is unforgiving, she tells me.