It was a wise, prescient man who once wrote: “January is a bleak, depressing month, brightened only by the occasional snowball fight and the fact there are no wasps.”
Well, as an antidote to this rubbish one-twelfth of the year, here’s a fun activity which will help you pass up to and including five minutes of the month.
Last year, before I lost my dream job of occasionally appearing as an unpopular fourth member of a little-loved posse which made comments in the background on a Sunday afternoon radio show on a DAB station hosted by Stephen Merchant off of the telly, I forged an unlikely friendship with the far-more likeable Super-Posh Rufus.
It was an unusual bond, certainly. There I was, an open-mouthed bumpkin with straw in my ears, alongside the urbane, witty actor. I’m pretty sure I was little more than a Pygmalion-type experiment for him, or maybe a bet, like Eddie Murphy was to Ralph Bellamy in Trading Places. In any event, we had a few laughs.
And I took to wondering: What would today’s slang-filled, superficial pop lyrics sound like to his super-refined ears?
To that end, I built a massive supercomputer, which could translate said lyrics into the language of ‘Super-Posh’.
Here, I present four well-known lyrics after they have been fed through the translator. Your task is to translate them back into the original English. I’ll smash up the actual answers here on Monday.
Post your answers below, and I’ll give the winner either a million pounds or a short sentence explaining why they won (it’s a 50/50 chance, I’ll choose on the day).
UPDATE 18/01/10 – This competition has now closed, the answers are below.
Super-Posh Lyric #1 – Billie Jean by Michael Jackson
I’m rather afraid it’s my solemn duty to report that Ms William Jeannette is not, as has been stated elsewhere, my paramour
(Billie Jean is not my lover)
Rather, she is merely a damsel, and furthermore, one who has made a false claim to my exclusivity
(She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one)
Unfortunately, for the purposes of clarity and veracity, I must stress that the infant to which Ms Jeannette refers is most indubitably not my male offspring
(But the kid is not my son)
Once again – Ms Jeannette has made a claim uponst my exclusivity, but sirs, I reinforce the sentiment that the juvenile has little or nothing in the way of blood ties to my own good self
(She says I am the one, but the kid is not my son)
Super-Posh Lyric #2 – Three is the Magic Number by De La Soul
Thrice
(3)
That amount, sir, is – to my mind – an amount equivalent to an act of conjuring
(That’s the magic number)
Indeed!
(Yes it is)
It is an amount pertaining to wonderousness and extraordinarytude
(It’s the magic number)
It is understood by myself that there is a location within this youthful body politic (which accommodates the music of rap, the dancing of break, and also the art of graffito)
(Somewhere in this hip-hop soul community)
Wherein the natal day of thrice and my most excellent companions Mase and Dove took place – alongside my own
(Was born 3, Mase, Dove and me)
And that is the numerical which mystifies
(And that’s the magic number)
(I say, I’m awfully confused by this)
(What does it all mean?)
Super-Posh Lyric #3 – Girls and Boys by Blur
Lassies, who are chaps, who are well-disposed to striplings resembling doxies, who perform whippersnappers as though they were sweet things, who take on the form of tootsies to all ends and purposes resembling fellows
(Girls who want boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who do girls like they’re boys)
Perenially, one must ensure that one’s heart is a-flutter
(Always should be someone you really love)
(I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say)
(oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh)
Super-Posh Lyric #4 – Forgot about Dre by Eminem
The current fashion is for people to indulge in vehement oratory, creating the impression of pertinence
(Nowadays everybody wanna talk like they got somethin’ to say)
However, the motion of their lips is moot; they produce little in the way of improvement
(But nothin’ comes out when they move their lips)
Rather, they emit pure, unadulterated balderdash
(Just a bunch of gibberish)
Also, these mater fornicaters foolishly appear to have forgotten about Dre
(And these rotten eggs act like they forgot about Dre)
Tune in for more preposterous translations of popular music next time!
Steve Show Posse 
