My postie’s being bullied by Iain Duncan Smith With his smug face and folded arms On posters showing all his charmless DWP-ness And shaming sick statistics, A careless Tory trick which Doesn’t mention COVID at all. A deliberate omission From a man in his position. “43% are absent from work” he cries To his allies About workers they despise Though, in truth, deserving of a pay rise For tireless work on the pandemic front line Getting your mail to you on time, Because when it’s not just a touch of the ‘flu Post every other day will do. So, I am righteously miffed That my postie’s being bullied by Iain Duncan Smith
The right bullets fired from the wrong gun Will miss their target one by one There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson Now we’ve got the right bullets In the wrong gun
When the truth as you tell it changes From sunrise to sunset When definitely safe means definitely not safe This is the recoil that you’ll get And you’re not as persuasive As your Latin teacher told ya And you’re relying on a fair wind To get you that far When no one believes you know The what or the how Not even JVT Can help you now
The right bullets fired from the wrong gun Missing their targets one by one There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson It’s the right bullets In the wrong gun
Don’t say We are where we are We are where we are, we are where we are Where are we? We are where we are We are where we are, we are where we are Don’t say where are we?
When the truth as you tell it changes From speech to speech and ear to ear When definitely safe means definitely not safe This is the recoil that you fear And you’re not as persuasive As your Latin teacher told ya And you’re relying on a fair wind To get you that far When no one believes you know The what or the how Not even JVT Can help you now
The right bullets fired from the wrong gun Missing their targets one by one There’s only one sharp shot in a Johnson It’s the right bullets Fired by the wrong gun
Henry Hooray Huntingdon Hunter Pretends to no one it’s a trail hunt With his pinks and his horse and his Boxing Day booze He’s got the horn for a bit of sport “I say, fine day” for folk of his sort
Julia Hooray Huntingdon Hunter Would rather be a supporter Her and her daughter 4×4 around Checking out the hounds And the horseback clowns
Terry the terrierman Keeps his dogs in a box Next to shovels and spades Used to dig out a fox King of the quad bike A doffer of caps Not the nicest of chaps
Sebastian, field secretary The collector of subs From the killers of foxes And murderers of cubs Rides at the rear Prefers the hilltop scene Likes to imagine that his hands are clean
Walter whips-in For Henry Hooray Huntsman Summoned to trouble shoot By Henry Hooray’s horn He’s paid to spot foxes He’s paid to control hounds To keep them out of the neighbours’ Gardens and grounds But when called to explain A fox ripped limb from limb It was never anything to do with him
Inspector Carl Copper See nothing wrong here A country pursuit That the locals hold dear If there’s a breach of the peace It’s not that of the fox’s And he’ll brook no disruption Or interruption Of Henry Hooray Huntingdon Hunter’s day out Today or any other day He’ll just say “go away”
The hunt saboteur Recognises them all Julia Follower Henry Hooray’s hunting call Terry the terrierman With his dogs in a box Walter whipping-in Denying chasing a fox Sebastian the secretary Who never gets near And Inspector Ineffective Who will see nothing here
So when you’ve finished the tofurkey Tucked the last mince pie away The sabs will still have work to do On Boxing Day
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
Other online meeting software is available.
More on that another time.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
Steve White & The Protest Family 