Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001) 
Each time that babe Cleaver walks into the room

Bridget Jones’s Diary must go mad as a bad

Christmas sweater with a gherkin up its arse;

in part because he’s found the elevator that opens

onto every turn-of-the-millennium interior,

only ever enters between parted chrome

in close up; in part again because Kafka’s motorbike

revs so hard at cocktail parties it harmonises

with flutes and postmodern small talk like Rushdie

and the politically incorrect arithmetic

of a 90s hangover, my mid-30s, and a skirt;

in part again ad infinitum because after a certain age

there are always Alsatians waiting at the bottom

of the next bottle . . .
                                   I’d have done it. Shagged him.

I’d have done it and so much more just to replace food

with sex and stop singing each time Céline Dion came on.

I mean, how often does Hugh Grant jump at you,

from his punt, screaming “FUCK ME! I love Keats.”
I’d have done it again and again and again

and then written it all down in Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Because karaoke is more common than snow

and lovers rarely fight on the streets of Soho;

because if he’s not a knobhead without a knob

then he’s my uncle who’s not my uncle

and the only purple passage I’ve ever known

is the prolonged bridge of my mother’s lover’s nose

selling on the telly . . .
                        I’d have gone mad for Cleaver,

mad as a Human Rights lawyer on St Nick’s

mistaken again for the reindeer.  But what are the odds?

My chances are up there with a sequel

or F.R. Leavis calling on the phone.