Killing People’s Okay, But Kissing Them Isn’t

Killing people’s okay
But kissing ’em isn’t.
Give your girl a job,
But make sure you keep her distant
Workplace lovin’
Brings a certain frisson
But killing people’s okay
And kissing ‘em isn’t

Hopeless Hancock had his cake and ate it
Gave his girl a job, but now he might regret it
If there’s a prize for incompetence, you think he’d probably get it
But give ‘em extra marital, they won’t let you forget it

Professor Lockdown will tell ya, “It happened to me”.
But Hopeless don’t take advice easily.
Although he hands out contracts to friends and family
It’s about him and Gina: Stars of CCTV

‘Cos sex sells papers, I’m sure you understand
We live in saucy seaside postcard land
It’s Carry On Government at it’s most grand
And Hands Face Arse might get him banned

Baby Boris is Born

In an imaginary pub, open during lockdown.

“I had no idea she was that pregnant, to be honest.”


“No. Well I thought, what with him nearly dying and rising again at Easter, that Baby Boris would be putting in an appearance at Christmas.”

“Christmas! You’re a one! She’d hardly be pregnant at all if she wasn’t due until Christmas.”

“Ah, I guess so, just me being poetic. But anyway, what are they going to call her now?”

“It’s a baby boy!”

“No, not the baby, her, what’s her name, Carrie.”

“What do you mean, what are we going to call Carrie?”

“Well she’s always been Pregnant Girlfriend Carrie or Pregnant Fiancée Carrie, she’s going to need a new nickname now. Baby Mother Carrie, maybe.”

“Don’t be so daft, she doesn’t need giving a nickname.”

“Not by you maybe, but the press will. She’ll be defined by her relationship to himself, what with him being the prime minister and everything.”


“Think about it. It happens all the time. Tell you what, I’ll list all the women owners of the mainstream British media.”

“Go on then.”

“I just did. Want me to do it again?”

“Oh. I see. I think.”

“Anyway, bless the child being born a boy. If she was a girl the papers would definitely have christened her Corona.”

“Ah, yeah. Or maybe Covidia, that sounds posher.”

“Poor bastard’s going to end up christened Boris Winston Brexit Johnson isn’t he?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Same again?”