Virtual Wards

She’s on a virtual ward
In a virtual hospital
She saw a virtual doctor
On a video call

She said your virtual op
Will just have to wait
Theatre virtually
Always runs late

She got a virtual ambulance
All the way down the stairs
No virtual paramedic, though
In virtual care

She’s in a virtual hospital
Under a virtual team
They promised us forty
Just not virtually

She’s on a virtual ward
Receiving virtual care
From a virtual government
That virtually doesn’t

New Year’s Honours

Stephen Graham OBE
Virginia McKenna from Born Free
Brian May, well he was in Queen
Dara McNulty, the naturalist teen
Four Lionesses but not the others
Two dead kids’ campaigning mothers
Lissie Harper for law reforming
Rachel Riley who hated Corbyn
Ivan Menezes for running a company
Like Johnny Boden CBE
Over half the honours still go to blokes
Frank Skinner got one for telling jokes
All summoned to Empire by royal shout-out
Inside the tent now, pissing out

(Some) People Who Died

Robbie Coltrane, Bernard Cribbins
Vivienne Westwood had a good innings
Sidney Poitier, Ray Liotta
Ronnie Spector, the Big C got her
Wilko Johnson, Jet Black
Christine McVie from Fleetwood Mac
Hot Lips Houlihan, Dot Cotton
Mrs McClusky won’t be forgotten
Irene Cara, Keith Levene
Elizabeth, who played the Queen
Dame Olivia Newton-John
Leslie Phillips dinged his last dong
Nichelle Nichols, Kirstie Alley
Fashion designer Issey Miyake
Taylor Hawkins, Barry Cryer
Olive, when her house caught fire
Jerry Lee Lewis, Loretta Lynn
Terry Hall, Joyce Sims
Maxi Jazz, Coolio
Meat Loaf revved up some place to go
Pelé, Mark Lanegan
Shane Warne, Dennis Waterman
Bill Turnbull, Raymond Briggs
Paul Ryder’s played his last gigs
As has Martin Duffy too
Angela Lansbury, Shirley Hughes
George Cohen, David McKee
Big Bird’s neighbour in Sesame Street
James Caan, Hilary Mantel
Vangelis, and Fletch as well
Ruth Madoc out of Hi-de-Hi!
And many, many more besides

Money Goes to Money

They’re running rather than getting beat
They’re starting to vote with their feet
The rats are leaving faster than the ship can sink
Like their shit doesn’t stink
Like their shit ain’t on the brink
Like it ain’t shit to think
That money goes to money is okay
That money goes to money is the only way
That money goes to money
Goes to money goes to money

Meanwhile in an imaginary navy
Penny’s insincere smile
Mouths coyly look at me
Admire my philanthropy
Admire my new food pantry
While opposing free school meals
Don’t that just hit you in the feels?
A proper Scrooge turned fake Marley
As the money goes to money
Goes to money goes to money

The posties on the picket know
They’ve got to hold the line
Firefighters, nurses, teachers
Among the left behind
As the money goes to money
And the warm bank number grows
The money goes to money
And the pubs begin to close
As the money goes to money
Goes to money goes to money

They ain’t here to manage the crisis
Just the TV news
This morning’s media message is
Another excuse to bruise
The money goes to money
As they put the word about
That there ain’t no money
You’ll just have to do without
As the money goes to money
Goes to money goes to money

Lynch’s mob don’t need to strike
The train’s already fucked
And Mrs Smith’s replacement hips
Well, she’s just out of luck
Hancock, pushed, jumped anyway
Says he’s still got lots to say
Not even in opposition
Would there be a point to listen
While the money goes to money
Goes to money goes to money

The money knows no borders
The money knows no shame
The money only hears the sighs
Of the rich who coo its name
Like Michelle, Robber Baroness
The PPE millionairess
Banished as Rishi fakes it tough
She’ll be back soon enough
As the money goes to money
Goes to money goes to money

Money goes to money
While the rest get less and less
Money goes to money
What a fuckin’ mess

Where Are You From?

Sir Richard, Knight of the Shire in 1339
Son Richard, Speaker of the House in Richard II’s time
Another Richard, Lord of Bures
Then William, then Edward, the name endures
Another Edward, a baronet
Without a peerage, as high as you get
Then Henry, married the King’s daughter
Then James Waldegrave, sailing back over the water
For a seat in the Lords, mates with the PM
His son James, George II’s best friend
His son William, an admiral, nice one
His son Granville only a vice one
As Britannia ruled the waves
Next was George, the 4th Earl Waldegrave
Who lived at Strawberry Hill
The house is in the family still
George and James were 5th and 6th
The 7th, George, the name still sticks
The 8th another William
With still more Waldegraves to come
He was known as Viscount Chewton
With his land to hunt and shoot on
Succeeded by Henry, who the records tell
Was succeeded by Geoffrey, who married a Grenfell
Whose daughter… yes it must be
It’s Susan, Baroness Hussey
Who knows just what it’s like to belong
And demands to know where you are from

If You Do It to an Ant

I’m a vegan, he said, I hope you’re a vegan too
I don’t like to think of the animals as food
‘Cause if you do it to an ant, you can do it to a fly
Oh my! A fly! He said, just try
And if you do it to a fly, you can do it to a spider
I know this is getting a bit wriggled inside her
But if you do it to a spider, you can do it to a fish
‘Cause fish don’t have any feelings, I wish
And if you do it to a fish, you can do it to a chicken
The Colonel’s tortured millions, they’re finger lickin’
And if you do it to a chicken, you can do it to a cat
Fancy that? A finger lickin’ cat?
And if you do it to a pig, you can do it to a dog
Just another similarly sensitive hog
And if you do it to a cow, you can do it to a horse
A horse? Well, they eat them in France of course
And if you do it to a horse, you can do it to a man
Oh yes, you can, you understand?
That if you do it to a man, you can do it to the planet
Oh
You already did

Some Things Bought by Qatar

Stadia built on blood and bones
A swathe of England’s poshest homes
Hotels too, The Savoy, The Ritz
The Stock Exchange, at least some bits
One Hyde Park, Canary Wharf
The Olympic Village, of course
Heathrow, Harrods and The Shard
Much of Mayfair’s posh backyard
The old American Embassy
The HQ of HSBC
More of London than you-know-who
David Beckham and FIFA too

Silence

You only get a silence if you die gloriously
You only get a silence if you die victoriously
No silence if you died on the losing side
No silence if you’re just a PTSD suicide
No silence for civilians killed in Afghanistan
No silence for the victims of Little Boy or Fat Man
It’s written in the theme tune, who should be surprised
Happy and glorious, send him victorious
In service of the King, it’s the only way to die

The Point

There’s a point to this and the point is this
He’s very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter that he’s Hindu, Buddhist, Anglican or Jew
Member of the Church of the Latter Day Dude
He could be an atheist, Taoist or a Jainist
An only-goes-at-Christmas, or a Catholic priest
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter he’s South Asian, though a nice change from Caucasian
He might as well be Bajan, Filipino or Malaysian
He might as well have landed in an alien space invasion
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter that his mum ran the local pharmacy
She could have made a living catching fishes in the sea
Or been a minor member of a foreign royalty
Or the woman at a non-league football club that makes the tea
What matters is he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It don’t matter how much money Boris Johnson’s got
Or the size of Liz Truss’s 44-day pension pot
He’s the Prime Minister and thankfully they’re not
And like them he’s very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

It matters that he’s very, very rich
Because he presides over policies which
Scratch the greediest of greediest itch
And at poverty doesn’t so much flinch or twitch
And that’s the pitch that for a decade or more
The biggest growth is the gap between the rich and the poor
Knock, knock, there’s a landlord at your door
As the own-you-own-homing middle class
Reliable elbows to the Tories’ arse
Are soon becoming a thing of the past….

There’s a point to this and the point is this
He’s very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very
Very, very, very, very rich

102 Supporters (Yeah, Right)

Like Brent turning up at the office
With a guitar they don’t want to hear
All together now, let’s restart the disco
Has fallen on deaf Tory ears
He came back from holiday to die for their sins
But the MP’s would rather he stayed in the bin
Let’s restart the disco, all together now
Cincinnatus, best you fuck off back to your plough