Jacob’s Fish Are Happy Fish

Born in Hammersmith
Went to school at Eton
Then Trinity College
Oxford
Presided over the Tory
Association
Went into the City
Started a hedge fund
Amassed what they call
A significant fortune
Estimated worth
150 million
Married into money
Helen The Chair
A mate of his sister’s
Who was always there

Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish

Moved into politics
In ‘97
Didn’t get elected then
Or even at the next ‘un
In Scotland they though he was
Too posh
Canvassing with nanny
Got a resounding 9%
Fuck off, toff
Complained to Piggy Cameron
That his quotas weren’t right
Said parliament oughta be
95% white
Nicked a speech off Trevor Kavanagh
Faked an interview and then
Got a seat in North East Somerset
In 2010

Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish

In parliament he became
King of the filibuster
Thought he was funny
With his history and verse
Holding the record in the Commons
For the longest word spoken
But spoke other words
That were even worse
Addressing members of the far-right
Traditional Britain society
Who would have some of us
Made deportees
And said quarter of a million quid
Spent on MPs portraits
Was just chicken feed

Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish

He got a hand up into government
From a fellow Old Etonian
Leader of the House of Commons, no less
Then was kept away from the mics and the cameras
After he said the Grenfell victims
Lacked common sense
Now , chief Eurosceptic
Out of all the Eurosceptics
Said Trump will be our best ally
After Brexit
He likes Brits to be Brits
And the poor to be poor
And says gay marriage
Still breaks the church’s law

Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish

He broke the lockdown rules
‘Cos he prefers a Latin mass
His relationship with god
Is more important, more pious
Than your relationship
With coronavirus
He wasn’t born to follow
He was born to lead
And his vicious defence of the status quo
Is just born of greed

Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
Jacob’s fish are happy fish
But Jacob can just fuck off

The Singles Club

No, not that sort of club.

After the success of Santa is English, we’ve decided for as long as we’re locked down we’ll produce and put out a new video every few weeks, recorded and shot in isolation but brought together by our nascent mixing and video editing skills and the power of the internet.

The first one lands this week, using up previously unreleased footage from the last time that we were allowed to meet up outdoors, after that, we really are flying solo (together).

My Postie’s Being Bullied by Iain Duncan Smith

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

Right Bullets, Wrong Gun

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

‘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

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

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.

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.

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

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