Today in Parliament

The Speaker of the House doesn’t speak, he shouts
And doesn’t call the PM out
On the lies he spouts,
And when he answers a different question to the one that’s asked,
He gets a pass,
As unchallenged as his misogyny
Referring to the women questioners as ‘she’
And to the men
As right honourable friends.
And calls for him to correct the record
From the baying horde
Are just ignored.

Sir Kier said, “Bring your own boos”,
A witty retort
No doubt given much thought
But an acknowledgement just the same
That this is all somehow a game,
Played out again
When a fella who likes kicking refugees,
Burning down the trees and tax avoidance schemes,
Crossed the floor
To Labour applause,
While a man of genuine integrity
Still sits in a whip-less constituency.

Is it any wonder then
There are loads of people who when asked
Say, “Why should I care
What happens in there?
It’s clearly just panto,
And it’s not Christmas”.
And that’s the way
Operation Save Big Dog
Survives another day.

Operation Red Meat

Banning wine time Friday
Kicking at the BBC
Buller! Buller! Buller!
Operation Red Meat

Sending in the navy
To harass the refugee
Buller! Buller! Buller!
Operation Red Meat

Tell ‘em what they want to hear
Daily ‘til we’re in the clear
Buller! Buller! Buller!
Operation Red Meat

The NHS backlog again
Eased by private medicine
Buller! Buller! Buller!
Operation Red Meat

Cover your hypocrisy
With populist new policy
Buller! Buller! Buller!
Operation Red Meat

Save Big Dog to shift the blame
Red Meat to stay in the game
Buller! Buller! Buller!
Operation Red Meat

Sue Gray

Need talk about a party to just go away?
Do you need to keep the metropolitan police at bay?
Has your shopping trolley got wheels of clay?
Then you need Sue Gray

Did you touch Kate Maltby in an inappropriate way?
Did you use your work computer for some “me time” play?
Did you lie about it all on Radio 4’s Today?
Send for Sue Gray

Need a pint at the end of a bandit country day?
Who could do a job for Theresa May?
What did Andrew Mitchell actually say?
You could ask Sue Gray

Have your friends in Scotland cried, “Foul play”?
Does breaking two years’ silence fill you with dismay?
Do you need to survive PMQ’s to fight another day?
Then you need Sue Gray


The right bullets miss,
Fired from the wrong gun,
When getting it done
Is just a slogan,
While the Tories are taking the piss,
‘Cos my postie’s being bullied by Iain Duncan Smith
While Jacob only cares about happy Brexit fish.
Priti says nothing, set to rhyme;
For Maxine and Henry, it’s vaccine time
While Dido spaffs a million pounds a day,
Every day.
And while “Now is not the time,” is the schtick,
The blood on Johnson’s hands reaches one hundred thousand thick

More sleaze exposures of Tory donors
’Cos when you say, “Pandemic” they say, “Profit”,
If there’s a healthcare contract,
Their mates have got it,
Makes you want to vomit.
And the deaths of heroes and friends brings it all home.
Air Miles Andy takes flight,
Spaffer reveals a roadmap for Keith to like,
And, aware of the cost,
Van Tam warns a 3-0 game is there to be lost.

Space rockets, Mars Bar economics,
Stalker Morgan stomping off the telly,
The opening salvos in the vaccine wars,
Where Jason’s ready, and Joanna’s not ready.
And Johnson says capital and greed
Are all your vaccine rollout needs,
Keeping a compliant nation in check
With clapping, silences, flags and respect,
And despite racial disparity and affairs again,
Marks his own homework: ten out of ten.
This tactic of just telling whoppers
Also adopted by the Clapham vigil coppers.

The wrong fox ran for Mayor.
A Harrods Tommy Robinson,
Didn’t get far, to be fair,
And ducks in the fountain at Trafalgar Square
Don’t care who’s the statue up there.
Lauded for bravery,
Blind to the slavery.
A racist old man pops his clogs
And were supposed to mourn because
His missus wears a million-pound hat
And owns that, and that, and that, and that,
While the leader of the country cries
“Let the bodies pile high”.

In Chingford they prefer Priti Patel
To a refugee from a war-torn land.
At least in Glasgow Southside
Jayda Fransen had to talk to the hand.
The Queen sanctions Parliament to carry on shrugging
As the PM cautiously sanctions hugging.
So, when all this is over
And we’re mourning our family and friends,
We’re gonna build a statue of Boris Johnson
And chuck it straight in the Thames.

Hancock walks
When he gets caught
Snogging his bird
When it should have occurred
That in an environment so parliamentary
There’s bound to be some CCTV,
And someone will leak it while his hand’s off the tiller
Because they won’t forget that he’s the Care Home Killer,
While Southgate shows what leadership should be
As his Euro 2020 team take the knee.

Eat out to help out:
Well, that went well
Wear a mask without being asked, and don’t lose your sense of smell.
New rules for pubs but it never gets rammed
In the New Rose and Crown, the pub of the damned.
Derek won’t wear one, he’d rather be dead,
And Cassie wears a G-string on her face instead.
A trip to Oxford Circus for a plasma donation,
A Covid threat to the cats of this nation,
And Jason, never brave,
Scans the horizon for a second wave.

Still singing in August
And trying to understand
What just happened in Afghanistan,
While at home the mess that Brexit makes
Means there no milk for shakes
And no chicken for your tea
If you’re the type that likes them fried in a KFC.
(Personally, that’s not for me
To feast on the grease
Of the recently deceased).

If you’re a woman and a Texan
The control of your own body ban
Makes your rights are as poor as in Taliban Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, in our own nation,
You can get a CBE for a substantial donation.
The levers of the machine that you must lube
Being operated by the squeezer of Charlie’s toothpaste tube.
And chat show hosts are talking bollocks,
And Nikki Minaj is talking bollocks,
Carbon dioxide makers are despondent
And Phil McCann’s a fuel crisis correspondent.
It’s all going toilet rolls again.
So, if you’re looking for a world that’s fair
You’ll need to understand that there’s no halfway there.

Butcher Johnson, sometime author,
Counsels Marr on porcine slaughter.
Says, “I hate to break it to you,”
“That pigs must die to be your food”.
Misunderstanding, deliberately,
That there’s no bacon for his tea
Because the workers in the abattoir,
Most recruited from afar,
Alas, have stayed at home.
While Prince Charles, himself the owner of swine,
Runs his posh car on cheese and wine.
The Saudis buy Newcastle,
No sportswash here,
The sovereign wealth fund’s
Intentions seem clear.
Yeah, right.
Jayda will try it on again,
This time in Southend.
Let’s hope the Essex voter sees through
Her racist hate in ’22.
And while Johnson talks shit at COP26
It’s the shitting in rivers voting that sticks.

And Batman’s just a violent capitalist, right?

Omicron, a new Greek letter
Makes you a cougher and a sweater,
May take ten days til you get better,
May take more, may take lesser,
A milder form, Delta’s successor,
But try not to end up in a hospital bed,
Or dead,
Because Johnson, feeling Christmas party shame,
Is playing a different game,
Not just to Drakeford, who seems wiser,
But to his own chief advisor,
Who says, “Stay safe”, while Johnson ‘s business
Is not to cancel another Christmas.
The “Party, what party? Oh, that party” thing
And a Lib Dem swing give another kicking
To his credibility and authority
From which not even producing more offspring
Can deflect.
And when football and darts fans take your name in vain,
Inevitably profane,
It’s calling time on this insufferable toff.
Bye, bye,
Fuck off.

(This blog post is also available as a podcast)

Back in the Day

Back in the day, there were no foodbanks
And no such thing as a mobile phone
You had to walk to find a phone box
If you needed to make a call home
They had rotary dials, could be left off the hook
And if you couldn’t remember the number
You had to look it up in the book

Back in the day, there were no foodbanks
And you recorded the telly on VHS
You mum went shopping in BHS
(She still could, I guess)
Woolworths and C&A
And you took pictures on photographic film
That had to be sent away

Back in the day, there were no food banks
We had the cold war, miners strikes, and Reaganomics
Jim Davidson and Bernard Manning
And a load of other old racist comics
Who smelled of Old Spice, Denim and Brut
We had endless summertime Seaside Special
And James Galway on the flute

Back in the day, there were no food banks
And pubs still had a cigarette machine
The nit nurse used to come to the school
And we all needed to have a TB vaccine
Which was better than getting the cane
Which, if you were enough trouble,
Could happen again and again and again

Back in the day, there were no food banks
And prawn cocktail was haute cuisine
With black forest gateau for pudding
But only If your main course plate was clean
And there was only one Chinese takeaway
Who’d put your dinner in a minicab
So long as you promised to pay

Back in the day there were no food banks
And everyone remembered the war
You used different key to start the car
From the one that opened the door
You never knew what would go wrong next
And if you needed to transfer money
You had to do it by writing cheques

Back in the day, there were no food banks

Plan B

Work from home if you can work from home
Unless there’s a secret Santa party.
You’ll need a Covid pass if there’s enough folk
But we’re still having Downing Street festives, aren’t we?
Cover your face in public venues
Unless you’re having cheese and wine
And a lateral flow test might suffice
But you were never there’s still the party line.
Rest assured that everyone follows the guidance
At all events that you deny ever happen
And double down in faux outrage
When you see the clip of Allegra Stratton.
Contacts are okay if they test every day,
The Emperor’s new clothes are plain to see:
Don’t do as I do, do as I say,
It’s the 8th day of Advent, here’s Plan B.

Barbara’s on the Radio

Barbara says it’s none of Nick’s business
Barbara says it’s her personal choice
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara says both sides need a voice

Barbara’s annoyed that Santa got the vaccine
Barbara’s mad at Tesco’s Christmas ad
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara thinks that we’ve all been had

Barbara doesn’t wear a seatbelt
Barbara doesn’t always turn the lights on
Barbara’s ringing up the radio
Barbara thinks that the science is wrong

Barbara’s careful what she puts in her body
Barbara’s ringing up to have a go
Barbara’s a bacon-eating anti-vaxxer
And Barbara’s ringing up the radio

Oh, Micron!

Not oh-my-cron, little o
But ommi-cron, I don’t know
Why it should be so, but
The alphabet deflects damnation
From the variant’s home nation
And nu could be confused with new
And xi could be confusing too,
But Johnson called it omnicron
And that is definitely wrong.

Meanwhile Coach JVT
Says we’re picking up injury
And a yellow card or three.
So, to avoid sending offs
With persistent coughs
He’s bringing on the booster shots
And masking up in all the shops
And trains and buses, at the stops
Unlike his cavalier boss.

But transport’s one thing
And shops are another
While pubs and restaurants
Don’t have to bother.
If it’s personal responsibility
What happens in hospitality
Ain’t the fault of their strategy.
“No sir, not us at all!”
When it’s all spaffed up the wall.

Now they’re bringing in the army,
Calling up the volunteers,
Rolling up their sleeves
Like antiviral engineers.
They haven’t cancelled Christmas
(That would be bad for business)
Although there have been whispers.
Not oh micron, but omicron
What could possibly go wrong?

COP26: 5-1 Down at Half-Time and One Minute to Midnight

If it’s 5-1 down at half-time
And one minute to midnight,
Then this metaphorical football match
Is not in Glasgow tonight.
It’s in Russia or Malaysia
Or elsewhere in Asia
Or Western Australia.
And now he’s introduced a Bond-style doomsday device
Are you guessing his advice
Is doomed to failure?
Because COP Number One didn’t get it done,
Nor did COP Number Two (’96 in Geneva).
The Kyoto protocol did pretty much sod all
As a reducing greenhouse gas emission lever.
And that was COP3, COP4 had little clout,
And COPs 5 to 12 did nothing to write home about.
COP 13 said refocus on CO2.
COP 14 said give technology to developing economies
And COP15, in Copenhagen, said that too.
COP16 did little to convince
As CO2 levels have risen ever since,
And the treaty promised by COP17
Was never seen. So much for green.
COP18 in Doha, didn’t get very far,
And COP19 had little clout, when nearly everyone walked out.
COP20 was in Lima, Peru,
And nobody remembers what they resolved to do.
The COP21 Paris Agreement said
Forget CO2, let’s target temperature instead.
COP22 did nothing new,
Nor did COP23, actually,
And COP24 also did no more.
While COP25 in Madrid
Just said and did what the others all said and did.
So, what’s your aspiration for COP26?
With metaphor faffing,
Up the wall spaffing,
Johnson between the sticks.


Jayda’s at It Again

From Glasgow Southside to Southend West,
A crusader, invader of mosques and the rest,
A patriot, self-confessed,
A racist, no less, self-obsessed,
So she can advocate, give weight
And seek a mandate for her hate.
Her will to aggravate and alienate
Does not abate.
It’s gross,
The violent intolerance that she promotes,
In red top quotes,
One hopes
Will get no votes.

[Story here.]