Month: December 2020

Happy New Year!

In the meantime, may I wish you in advance every happiness for the New Year. If it’s anything like the old one, I, for my part, would sooner consign it to the devil.

Karl Marx, writing to Friedrich Engels, 27th December 1861

Gimme the vaccine, Maxine.

John Cooper Clarke, Walking Back to Happiness 1979

My late father would say keeping body and soul together. I never really gave the phrase much thought at the time but it’s a fair summary of the challenge that’s faced us all this year: the struggle for sustenance for our bodies: food, housing, medicine, employment; with none of that nutrition for the soul: live music, football, pub, socialising. At the end of the day a Zoom1 call is only so rewarding, particularly if that’s what your day-to-day work has become, and it can be a poor, though necessary, replacement for real human interaction.

Being in a band is all about that interaction, sharing the creative process, the synergy of playing in time and in tune with one another (like flapping your arms and finding out that you can actually fly) and the shared experience of band and audience that makes a great gig, well, great.

We’ve spoken elsewhere about what we’ve done to compensate for not being able to gig: the make-it-look-live videos, the live streams where we could and, of course, my sprawling COVID-19 drama set out in nearly 150 songs and poems, and while there’s no substitute for the real thing, online shows are here to stay and we can reach people that way who would otherwise never get to see us live.

But it’s New Year’s Eve, so let’s look forward. It’s big pharma2 (of all people) to the rescue and with a fair wind and a following sea the return of real football, real pubs, real music, and real people is coming, but with lessons learned, continuing to reach out to those who can’t get out, and not leaving newly created mutual aid structures3 behind.

Onwards into 2021, friends. Look after yourselves, look after each other and, in the wise words of his holiness, John Cooper Clarke:

Gimme the vaccine, Maxine.

Happy New Year!

Steve

  1. Other online meeting software is available.
  2. More on that another time.
  3. The extraordinary efforts of We Shall Overcome with Pauline, Joe, Matt and Pete at the helm have continued throughout the pandemic. We’re not going anywhere until we’re no longer needed.
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‘Tis the Season to be Jolly Careful

We stream supporterless football
And pass punterless pubs
In tearful tiers
Over clubberless clubs

Now the variant’s British
And tranmission’s enhanced
Making quarantined skiers
Scarper home via France

The taxis are starving
Ambulances sated
Your Christmas tree’s wilted
And Santa’s deflated

We’ve got troublesome bubbles
With persistent coughs
While Boxing Day hunts
Ride with law-breaking toffs

“Christmas must be saved
Like St. Pauls, at all cost”
A spaffed exhaltation
Fingers firmly crossed

‘Tis the season to be
In tiers four, two and three
‘Tis the season to be
Jolly careful

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The Golden-Haired Boy

It’s that awkward bit between Christmas and New Year when you’d struggle to find things to fill newspapers with anyway, never mind the pandemic, so one of the leading lights of the Tory press, riffing on the idea of Spaffer’s miracles following his rising from the near dead at Easter, publishes a story about his latest offspring’s wonderous artistic ability. Well, it is Christmas, and a story so preposterous that they couldn’t get a journalist to put their name to it.

It’s the Xmas perineum between the 25th and the 31st
You’ve eaten, drunk and been merry ‘til your fit to burst
There’s no football, no music, no pubs in Tier 4
Not much to do if you step out of your door

Is there anything to look forward to that ain’t austere?

Well, the golden-haired boy, just eight months old
The golden-haired boy, just eight months old
The golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Crafted a hand-painted image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

There’s Driver Tizer lining the hedgerows of the Garden of England
British Variant COVID making its presence felt, and
Miles and miles of queues to get into Dover
Thousands of truckers wishing Christmas was over

Is there any news to help Tories be of good cheer?

Well, there’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
There’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
There’s a golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Who crafted a hand-painted image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

‘Cos Spaffer might’ve nearly died for your sins
But it’s his miracle child that’s now the thing
With The Telegraph fawning over his painting
He’s clearly the one born to be king

This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
(What number is he again?)
This golden-haired boy, just eight months old
Crafted a hand-painted miracle image
Hand-painted, miracle image
Of a reindeer
Of a reindeer

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Santa is English

It’s been a tough year for bands.

It’s been a tough year for everyone.

We hit some real form with great shows at What’s Cookin’ and The Birds Nest when the curtain unexpectedly fell in March. We girded our loins and learned how to fake a live-but-beaming-in-from-different-locations video, which served us well for a couple of online festivals (and a massive shout out is due here for Joe Solo, Matt Hill and Pete Yen for getting WSO Isolation Festival not only off the ground but out in front of anyone else hosting online festivals, including the big corporates).

As soon as the noose loosened a little, we started the occasional socially-distanced park meeting with instruments and shot our video for the, now online, Tolpuddle Martyrs’ Festival in a little-known Walthamstow beauty spot.

Slightly less restricted again, we were able to just about stay two metres apart in Steve’s house where we played a few online gigs, either live or pre-recorded, and took advantage of the fine summer weather to enjoy each other’s company in the garden over a drink or two.

But then London went from tier two to tier three to lockdown to tier three and now tier four. Face-to-face ain’t happening but undaunted while more than a little disappointed, we thought we’d find out just what we could do together in isolation. Although The debased street music of the vulgar was all recorded at Steve’s house, this track had to be recorded in five houses on equipment ranging from mobile phones to inexpensive USB interfaces, free software and, in some cases, our employer’s laptop (shh!).

So here it is, our Christmas gift to you. We hope you like it. Keep smiling, keep fighting, and we’ll see you in the flesh soon with any luck.

Solidarity, brothers and sisters!

Russ, Lol, Simon, Andi & Steve

P.S. Get your free download here.

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Behave as if You Have the Virus

Behave as if you have the virus, they said.
So, I went back to bed.
They said,
Work from home if you can work from home.
So, I got my work on the phone
And said,
I’ve got the virus
Because they said
Behave as if you have the virus
And if I had the virus
I’d be certain to tell my work on the phone
Who then sent everyone else home,
Because they clearly hadn’t been
Behaving as if they had the virus
Well enough.

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An Eyeful of Nose

Emma was cold and went shopping for clothes
The heating was broken and she nearly froze
But deficient face coverings wherever she goes
Meant all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She went to the market for blankets and throws
Cheaper than fixing the boiler I s’pose
But the trader had bad bits of his face exposed
And all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She went to the gym for a downward dog pose
Lots of exposed knees and elbows
In communal areas, face covering’s imposed
But all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She went to the florist to buy a nice rose
To cheer up her cold flat and brighten shadows
But the florist’s mask was part in repose
And all Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

Past the fire station at the crossroads
The firefighters were out practising with their hose
With facemasks left off to talk on radios
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

She sat on a bench, this rhyme to compose
She’s always preferred a poem to prose
A little tale of face cover ratios
And the day all she got was an eyeful of nose

An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
All Emma got was an eyeful of nose
An eyeful of nose, an eyeful of nose
Emma see noses wherever she goes

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Christmas With the Vulnerables

Mr and Mrs Vulnerable
The nice old dears
Have not seen much of anyone
Since March this year

Except the fella with the Tesco van
The DPD delivery man
Her next door, whose name is Anne
Who dropped them off some beer

But when they heard there was an armistice
For Christmas friends and relatives
They bought a tree and wrapped some gifts
Full of good cheer

It’s Christmas with the Vulnerables
It’s the most wonderful
Time of the year

Now, poor old Mrs Vulnerable
Has a little trouble
With her breathing
But the doctor ain’t seen her

She blames it on advancing years
A health and safety-free career
It’s been the same for all her peers
Who call it emphysema

But she’s invited all the family round
Ordered in a turkey crown
They’ve had a Christmas bubble count
And no-ones got a fever

So, it’s Christmas with the Vulnerables
It’s the most wonderful
Time of the year

They’re reckon it’s OK to ask
Everyone to wear a mask
Don’t want this one to be their last
Christmas (Whamageddon!)

So Little Sal and Baby Dan
Will have to santise their hands
And try hard not to hug their nan
Like biological weapons

Fingers crossed and wish them well
A Christmas with full sense of smell
Pleased as man with man to dwell
Let’s hope they all can get on

It’s Christmas with the Vulnerables
It’s the most wonderful
Time of the year

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Blue Passport Fishing

Gunships, fish and chips
Protecting no-deal Brexits
But the fish don’t care
If you think they’re Brits
The fish don’t care
To be served with chips
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)

Gunboats, keeping Spaffer afloat
Strong man nationalist
Someone get him
A Stone Island coat
It’s quote very very likely
Unquote
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)

And the plucky little fisherman ain’t all he seems
There’s corporate interest behind the scenes
(And a blue passport)

Gunships, fish and chips
Protecting no-deal Brexits
But the fish don’t care
If you think they’re Brits
The fish don’t care
To be served with chips
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)
See that little bastard swimming in the sea
That little bastard belongs to me
(He’s got a blue passport)

And the plucky little fisherman ain’t all he seems
There’s corporate interest behind the scenes
Ask about the quotas, you’ll see what I mean
(And a blue passport)

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All My Friends Read the Mail Online

All my friends read the Mail Online
They may not want to, but they do
And share sections on their Facebook pages
For friends and followers to view

Here’s an illustrated menu
Home grown versus imported grub
A celebration of toast and chips
Or lobster at the Brexit Club

You can stuff your avocado
And your broccoli and tomato
We’ll have eggs with milk and mutton with scotch
After taking back control

Yes, all my friends read the Mail Online
Like 11 million other folks do
‘Cos it helps them set the news to rhyme
While bidding their breakfast “adieu”

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Williamson v. Ferrari: Brexit Gambit Declined

Downing Street sources surveyed the board and spied no immediate threat: an announcement of a compromise reached on next year’s exam arrangements, expected to be generally well received except by the it-was-harder-in-my-day crowd and the occasional education analyst pointing out that 24 hours isn’t really much of a delay, and a follow-up on the news that the UK, such as she was clinging to being, was the first to declare a vaccine safe to unleash on a coronavirus-riddled public.

They made their move and slid Williamson, a minor piece, into the affray in the centre of the board. Hushed tones, remembering the “shut up and go away” gaffe, pronounced: “Surely, not even he can fuck this one up”. But fuck it up royally (with sovereignty clearly in mind) he did.

Ferrari, his opponent, countered with “Are we first with the vaccine because we Brexited?”, using the less familiar verbal form. Williamson, wise to the trap that had caught Hancock in an earlier game, avoided it but, in so doing, blundered. “We’re the first because we’re the best” came his Trumpian response, “Better than all those other countries” of which he then went on to name a few key allies.

In Downing Street, heads were shaken and Williamson quietly removed from the board before the lunchtime news.

“Brexit Gambit Declined, and still he fucked it up”.

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