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

Blue Passport Fishing

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)

Cummings, Cain and Princess Nut-Nut

Get out, he said, and never come back
Take your box out of the front door
No sneakin’ out the back
You might’ve got Brexit done
But now you’re getting’ the tin tack
There’s the road to Barnard Castle
I suggest you hit it, Jack

Now Spaffer’s back in self-isolation
With Carrie and Baby Wilf
She doesn’t need to text him ten times a day
Now she’s got him all to herself
He’s phoning in the bluff and bluster
From a comfy sofa in number 10
Arms-length prime ministering, no surprise
We’ve been there once, now we’re doing it again

Get out of here and never come back
Is what I hear he said to Lee Cain
But apparently money’s already changin’ hands
That it won’t be long ‘til he’s back again
Too close to Cummings, too close to home
Don’t say “Princess Nut-Nut” when you’re not alone
‘Cos it might not be such a laugh
When the boss de-blokes the backroom staff

Now Spaffer’s back in self-isolation
With Carrie and Baby Wilf
She doesn’t need to text him ten times a day
Now she’s got him all to herself
He’s phoning in the bluff and bluster
From a comfy sofa in number 10
Arms-length prime ministering, no surprise
They’ll just have to wheel Matt Hancock out again

This Ship is Lost at Sea

This ship is lost at sea
And Spaffer’s wearing the captain’s hat
He needed help with the charts
But he was never interested in all of that

He simply expected to point
And somehow the ship would just go that way
He always figured the details
Could wait for another day

Now this ship is lost at sea
And the crew are hungry and tired
Because it turned out to be the hat, not the ship
That Spaffer truly desired

The Children of the First XV

A teenage state school rugby player
Could marvel at the examples
Among the fee-paying opposition
Bigger and better in every position
And every respect
From wrist to thigh and arm to head
Glossier, brighter, whiter
Quite obviously better bred
Better fed, on better bread

These giants who roamed the land
From families who owned the land
(And freely used the word ‘alas’
When deigning to see their lads
At half term)
Were clearly of a better stock
From full back to loosehead prop and back
Chock full of born-to-lead-ness
That our team somehow lacked

As we left the playing fields of England behind
To turn our noses to the daily grind
They rose to take their rightful place
In the grand offices of state
To bray, debate, deliberate
And make the regulations and the laws
That daily will affect us all

Marcus plays a very different game
Co-opted early to the Order of the British Empire
An uncomfortable title
But recognition all the same
He seeks to shame
Those with the power to make a change
In this time of national crisis
To extend a free school meal a day
Into the Christmas holiday
Though tempered is the hope that he’ll succeed
For the children of the first fifteen
It’s a meal they’ll never need

Will it End in Tiers?

The move from local lockdowns in parts of the north of the country and the Midlands came fast, the move from tier 1 to tier 2 in London, York and other areas came even faster, as if the Government had miscategorised certain areas in the first place which of course they had. The people, needing clear, simple, effective guidance in the face of rising case numbers and hospital admissions didn’t get it. The rules, no longer guidance and now enforceable by law, were complex and it was difficult to understand how they would work. The balance of protecting the nation’s health against protecting the economy weighed heavily in favour of the latter. Confidence and compliance were low.

As families and communities considered the impact of the new rules on their lives and how they might bend or break them, open rebellion in the Westminster-governed political sphere was seen for the first time, echoing the previous divergence of the devolved administrations. Andy Burnham, the mayor of Manchester, declared that he would resist a move from tier 2 to tier 3 unless the Chancellor found some money to support those affected. You can’t instruct people to stay at home, he argued, if to do so deprives them of an income. Correct, of course, but falling on deaf ears, or tin ears as Kier Starmer like to refer to them as during Prime Minister’s Questions.

Sir Kier, leader of the workers’ party and knight of the realm, was not in favour of the tiered approach and argued instead for a short total shutdown, the “circuit breaker” approach, which would at least hurt the economy as much as it would the people. It was an argument that had previously been put forward by the Government’s own scientific advisors, the SAGE group, who were also ignored.

In Liverpool, the first area to enter tier 3, we discovered that there were two mayors, a Conservative mayor for the Liverpool city region with whom the Government maintained a dialogue and a Labour mayor for the city of Liverpool with whom they did not.

Britain was a nation fractured and exhausted. The arts had been written off as unviable, the hospitality industry dealt yet another blow by the tier 2 restrictions which didn’t shut them down but discouraged customers from going out and thus killed their trade without compensation, and football failed to emerge from behind closed doors.

The twin saviours of mass testing and comprehensive contact tracing still seemed a distant dream. Both were in the purview of Tory darling, corporate and political failure and baroness, Dido Harding.

Earlier in the crisis, Prime Minister Johnson and his sidekick, Health Secretary Matt Hancock, were at pains to demonstrate how they’d “ramped up” the testing regime, setting their own targets and celebrating when they achieved them but under Harding’s regime the swabs were all tested at centralised, privatised “lighthouse” laboratories, standing down the previous NHS and university collaborative effort and when laboratory capacity looked close to being exceeded the system started to restrict access to tests, sending symptomatic people hundreds of miles to testing centres and cancelling walk-in appointments. The Government issued a stern message that you should only apply for a test if you really needed one.

Hapless Harding, abetted by an equally hapless Hancock, took a cue from their boss and spaffed £12 billion on a test and trace system that didn’t work, including an app that failed and a centralised contact tracing system that couldn’t find any work for full-time private sector contact tracers. Although comparisons with spending in the Republic of Ireland were misleading, the rumours that some consultants earned in the region of £7000 per day proved true.

Populist Prime Minister Johnson had got it wrong at every turn, from herd immunity to world beating test and trace. Even the appointment of a vaccine tsar and the promise of a jab by September had come to little, but at least the news from China was more encouraging.

Facemasks at Half Mast

It’s facemasks at half mast
For the coffee guy at the station
For better facial aeration
For poorer droplet filtration
For rules half followed out of frustration
And Stanley Johnson ain’t wearing his at all

It’s facemasks at half mast
For the woman on the morning train
In a sippy cup coffee kinda vein
She’s looking at her make-up again
Over a blue chin protection membrane
And Stanley Johnson ain’t wearing his at all

It’s facemasks at half mast
Baby, let’s go exponential
It’s facemasks at half mast
Baby, let’s get existential

My mask protects you, your mask protects me
Round here, it’s what we call solidarity
It’s how we show love and respect for one another
Sisters and brothers

It’s facemasks at half mast
For the fella on the train home
Slipped down while he was on the phone
Glanced around the carriage and he’s not alone
With important communications home
And Stanley Johnson ain’t wearing his at all

It’s facemasks at half mast
Baby, let’s go exponential
It’s facemasks at half mast
Baby, let’s get existential

My mask protects you, your mask protects me
Round here, it’s what we call solidarity
It’s how we show love and respect for one another
Sisters and brothers

Spaffer doesn’t understand the rules
What rules?
Whose rules?
His rules
For home and work and schools
While Stanley Johnson ain’t wearing his at all

It’s facemasks at half mast
Baby, let’s go exponential
It’s facemasks at half mast
Baby, let’s get existential

My mask protects you, your mask protects me
Round here, it’s what we call solidarity
It’s how we show love and respect for one another
Sisters and brothers

Operation Moonshot

Is Operation Moonshot
The best that you’ve got?
Chucking in our lot
With a punt on a long shot?

Astronaut Spaffer, it has to be said
Is comfortable speaking out the back of his head
But a 20-minute test when you get out of bed
Sounds like he’s just bet it all on red

Is Operation Moonshot
The best that you’ve got?
Chucking in our lot
With a punt on a long shot?

Cosmonaut Spaffer of the rule of six
Reckons he’s got a long-term fix
A quick test between toothpaste and lacing up your kicks
Trouble is it doesn’t yet exist

Is Operation Moonshot
The best that you’ve got?
Chucking in our lot
With a punt on a long shot?

Starfleet Spaffer’s new COVID marshal
Badge and gun, pledge to be impartial
Breaking up a seven-plus party in your local
Doing it for free, there’s no money on the table

Is Operation Moonshot
The best that you’ve got?
Chucking in our lot
With a punt on a long shot?

Spaceman Spaffer’s shooting for the moon
Spit in the pot, you’ll know pretty soon
If you’re going back to work or back to your room
Are we watching a PM or a cartoon?

Is Operation Moonshot
The best that you’ve got?
Chucking in our lot
With a punt on a long shot?