Category: Lyrics

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