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
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)
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”.
Gove, a hearty trencherman he Would never accept a scotch egg for his tea “Two’s a starter!” he would exclaim When Good Morning Britain called him to explain
But Eustice, a man of lesser appetite When challenged by Ferrari said that he might Be tempted to see the tier two appeal Of a single scotch egg as a substantial meal
And so it came to be in a later edition The Chancellor of the Dutchy of Lancaster’s position U-turned, like the worst of the government’s fools He did not, but said that the pubs knew the rules
Gentle folk of England, such is the fate Of your taverns and inns, by glass and by plate Decided by men who can’t even agree On a simple scotch egg for lunch, dinner or tea
Steve White & The Protest Family 