(They’re Eating The) Swans

They’re eating the swans says Derek
They’re eating the swans in the Royal Park
Shut up Derek says Margaret
Stop being so daft

I heard it this morning on LBC
Where nothing is true so anything could be
In Clacton, it’s Derek’s take
That fake news is real, and real news is fake

When the MP shares a racist trope
The MP’s that kinda racist bloke
An MP who shares a racist hoax
Then covers his tracks with a just misspoke

Tropes to cover his tracks
Avoiding questions about his tax
And callers on the phone
Asking whose money paid for his Clacton home

When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
And Nigel is the type of bloke
Who likes to share a racist trope
As you can see

Meanwhile across the pond
The stories correspond
They’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the cats
Are Donny’s version of the facts

Dropping racist bombs
Makes you wonder where Nigel gets it from
A taxi driver he says
Is where he gets his facts these days

When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
And Nigel is the type of bloke
Who likes to share a racist trope
As you can see

They’re bringing in shariah law, says Derek
I heard it on LBC
Nigel’s taxi driver says so
And who am I to disagree

They’re eating the swans says Derek
It’s our MP’s hot take
When nothing is true in Clacton
Fake news is real and real news is fake

When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
And Nigel is the type of bloke
Who likes to share a racist trope
As you can see

When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be
When nothing is true, anything could be…..

Flags, Rallies, Parties, People, and Stories

“Kier Starmer is a wanker,” the far-right rally chants.

“Kier Starmer is a wanker,” the counter-protesters reply. And there’s moment of unity in which this all makes a bit of sense.

I was on flag watch last week, cycling around Essex and driving to football matches, and the good news is that festooned lampposts and spraypainted mini roundabouts remain relatively rare in this part of the world, mainly centred around the flashpoints that you’d expect.

In the main, I believe, the flags, the lampposts, the roundabouts, and so on are the work of the far-right, of activists who are genuinely racist, Islamophobic and the rest, but not the work of the likes of the majority of people who attended Tommy Robinson’s demonstration in London just over a week ago, keen to declare that they’re not far-right, that they’re not all of the above, despite being at an event organised by people who are overtly just that.

What they are is scared. They’re scared, they’re angry, and they’re lashing out. Their living standards have fallen, taking their children’s prospects with them, and their future is predicted to contain nothing more than the same, while war appears closer than at any time in a generation, and nobody is listening to them. So they’re taking refuge in identity – English, white, working class – and taking umbrage with a government, with a political system, that they see as valuing everything that isn’t those things. They’re not racist towards their neighbours but they think that immigration is the biggest problem facing the country right now, they love their gay friends but they think that equality has gone too far, and even if their Englishness isn’t wrapped up in greatness and empire, it at least equates being English as being good, as being better than this.

And while confronting fascists remains a must, just telling people that they’re wrong about their identity, that they’re wrong about the impact of immigration on their lives, that they’re wrong about equality, doesn’t get us very far. Because feelings trump facts, because “the people of this country have had enough of experts”, because the lies don’t matter if they support how you feel about things.

Can music change the world? Billy Bragg gives a qualified no. Woody Guthrie and Joe Hill may well have said yes, and I might too. The best songs, the best songwriters, tell stories. Stories that show rather than tell, and if we want to ask people to reconsider their identity, their position, if we want to change how they feel, then we need to show them, not just tell them.

And so should politics.

Imagine a nationally co-ordinated, grassroots socialist party, let’s call them Your Party, who use some of their membership subscriptions to directly improve the lives of people in communities suffering at the hands of successive governments’ policies, maybe by reopening a library or a community centre or supporting a homelessness scheme that got people off the streets and into permanent accommodation. Starting small but doing something every month. Imagine them being able to say, look what we can do with the limited funds available to us now, imagine what we could do with the resources of government. Imagine them showing, not just telling.

Oh well.

There’s been a lot of telling this last week. A negotiation by mass email and tweet. (Can we please stop using X?). But it’s not their party, it’s ours; that’s the point. It’s up to us to decide if it’s over before it started or not.

And we have better stories to share.

Bring Back The Dancing Coppers

Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back community
Bring back using lampposts
Just the light the street
Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back giving a fuck about each other
Bring back understanding
Whose wealth is expanding

Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back community
Bring back using lampposts
Just the light the street

Paul lives in a country
With no parliament or king
His flag has no status
Except with racists and their kin
Paul lives in a country
Where even the roundabouts are white
His crusade’s embarrassing
And not a pretty sight

Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back community
Bring back using lampposts
Just the light the street

You can join Reform UK
But don’t get excited
The party’s for the very rich
And you ain’t invited
Reform FC is not a team
You want to bet your life on
Nigel’s not the football type
His word can’t be relied on

Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back community
Bring back using lampposts
Just the light the street

Bring back the experts
Bring back the truth
Facts don’t have another side
For anyone to choose
Bring back the right questions
Bin the clickbait and the quotes
None of your problems
Arrived here on small boats

Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back community
Bring back using lampposts
Just the light the street

If you fly the flag to intimidate
If you sneak it up at night
If you fly it to say you’re not welcome here
If you fly it out of spite
Then you don’t fly the flag for me
You don’t fly the flag for this country
You fly it for the fascists
And we will tear it down

Bring back the dancing coppers
Bring back community
Bring back using lampposts
Just the light the street

If you fly the flag to intimidate
If you sneak it up at night
If you fly it to say you’re not welcome here
If you fly it out of spite
Then you don’t fly the flag for me
You don’t fly the flag for this country
You fly it for the fascists
And we will tear it down

47

47 goes to get it right
47 goes and no end in sight
47 goes to get it right
They’re gonna need the Fentanyl to get ‘em through the night

It’s Trump-tastic, policy elastic
What he said yesterday
Ain’t what he’s gonna say today
Like what’s today’s favourite word?
What’s today’s favourite steaming turd?
It’s tariffs, tariff-tastic
Tariffs on cheap Chinese plastic
China, nowhere finer
For your cheap Chinese plastic MAGA crap
Your cheap Chinese plastic MAGA hat
Meanwhile here’s a pile for the EU
Meanwhile here’s a pile for the UK too

47 goes to get it right
47 goes and no end in sight
47 goes to get it right
They’re gonna need the Fentanyl to get ‘em through the night

Not withstanding
Trump’s grandstanding
Trump’s expanding the MAGA empire
Trump’s expanding the MAGA desire
While there’s still no water
For the L.A. fire
California burns
While The President piddles
California burns
While The President tiddles
He won’t fill a bucket, he won’t fill a pail
But he’ll let the insurrectionists out of jail

47 goes to get it right
47 goes and no end in sight
47 goes to get it right
They’re gonna need the Fentanyl to get ‘em through the night

Unpatriotic patriots, keepers of the oath
Gimme a conspiracy, hell, give me both
A tin foil hat and an M-16
A beer belly, and dirty magazine
Yeah, gimme a conspiracy, hell, give me both
The KKK and the keepers of the oath
Mr. President’s own private militia
While a wide-brimmed hat won’t even let him kiss her
He’s eyeing up Canada and Panama
Where he says their economic interests are
He’s eyeing up Mexico and Greenland too
Like a spray-tanned Roman emperor might do

47 goes to get it right
47 goes and no end in sight
47 goes to get it right
They’re gonna need the Fentanyl to get ‘em through the night

It’s Trump-tastic, bombastic
Authoritarian, bordering barbarian
Wants to help Benny level Palestine
A dictator mate who ain’t benign
It’s Trump-tastic, it ain’t cute
His mates chucking up a Nazi salute
If you were looking for the fascists, my dear
Look no further, the fascists are here

47 goes to get it right
47 goes and no end in sight
47 goes to get it right
They’re gonna need the Fentanyl to get ‘em through the night
47 goes to get it right
47 goes and no end in sight
47 goes to get it right
They’re gonna need the Fentanyl to get ‘em through the night

Kier’s Kitchens

The last bloke made a right mess of it
He always had an excuse
Either Covid or the war in Ukraine
And we’re left with half a kitchen, and the sink’s still loose

So we’re telling him to sling his hook
Going back to the phone book
Looked at the Yellow Pages for absolutely ages
And so
We’re gonna give Kier’s Kitchen Fitters a go…

Sir Kier’s Kitchen Fitters
The kitchen fitting splitters
Surely they’re worth a try
They’ll fit your cupboards right
And the boss is a knight
We’ve booked them for the 5th of July

Keir seemed happy with the budget
Said he wasn’t going to fudge it
He was only too pleased to assist
But a gender-neutral toilet
I thought I might’ve spoiled it
Got his knickers in a bit of a twist

Sir Kier’s Kitchen Fitters
For a side that glitters
Surely they’re worth a try
They’ll fit your doors right
And the boss is a knight
We’ve booked them for the 5th of July
We’ve booked them for the 5th of July

The last bloke made a right mess of it
And always blamed somebody else
The Albanian plumber, the Syrian sparks
Now we’re left with half a kitchen, and nothing on the shelf

So we’re throwing him off the job
And getting in another mob
Looked at the Yellow Pages for absolutely ages
And so
We’re gonna give Kier’s Kitchen Fitters a go…

Sir Kier’s Kitchen Fitters
The kitchen fitting splitters
Surely they’re worth a try
They’ll fit your cupboards right
And the boss is a knight
We’ve booked them for the 5th of July

Keir seemed happy with the work
Accepted it with a smirk
He was only too pleased to assist
But a gender-neutral khazi
It coulda got nasty
Got his knickers in a bit of a twist

Sir Kier’s Kitchen Fitters
For a side that glitters
Surely they’re worth a try
They’ll fit your doors right
And the boss is a knight
We’ve booked them for the 5th of July
We’ve booked them for the 5th of July

Rwanda Bound

His dad was Greek
His mum Palestinian
Born in Turkey
He grew up a Syrian

He’s a man of fighting age

He’s handy with a sword
He’s on a small boat
Coming over here
Red cross white coat

He’s a man of fighting age

But it’s alright, it’s okay
He’s leaving the country on the first plane

He law says it’s safe and sound
Just needs assent of the crown
He’s a man of fighting age
St George is Rwanda-bound

They stuck him on a barge
In Portland harbour
Lobbying hard
For his departure

He’s a man of fighting age

A soldier
In a foreign army
We’re not racist
To say this are we

He’s a man of fighting age

But it’s alright, it’s okay
He’s leaving the country on the first plane

He law says it’s safe and sound
Just needs assent of the crown
He’s a man of fighting age
St George is Rwanda-bound

The locals don’t like
Dragon slaying
Don’t like
What the dragon farmer’s paying

He’s a man of fighting age

A catholic country
This one ain’t
We ain’t the type
To venerate a saint

He’s a man of fighting age

But it’s alright, it’s okay
He’s leaving the country on the first plane

He law says it’s safe and sound
Just needing assent of the crown
He’s a man of fighting age
St George is Rwanda-bound

Spaffer Flies to Ukraine

Spaffer Bodycount’s in the Ukraine
While back home Sue’s not named a name
Nor has Cressida, whose investigative prognosis
Is to name no names in a fixed penalty notice

We now see Save Big Dog in action
A report without need for redaction
Cites numerous cases of bad behaviour
Leadership and judgement failure
Bullying and drinking culture
All the fault of the management structure
Thus, the investigation, admittedly provisional
Finds fault with no named individual

The ensuing debate in Parliament
Saw the speaker end the argument
By throwing the SNP’s Blackford out
With a smirk on Bodycount’s face throughout
The Scotsman’s crime? To tell the truth
Obvious to even the most hapless sleuth
That the PM without doubts
Had once more mislead the house

The rules of Parliament, it transpires
Protect the members from being called liars
With more weight lent to disrespect
Than statements patently correct
While protecting the scoundrel prepared to channel
The ghost of paedophile Jimmy Savile
(Let’s not forget that distain
For investigation of the same
Is what gave Spaffer his name)

But back to the report itself
Before it’s found a convenient shelf
Compiled by the woman responsible
For MP Damien Green’s downfall
When he touched Kate Maltby inappropriately
And used work time to watch pornography
She also did a review, less blue
Of what was said at Plebgate too
But on Partygate she’s circumspect
As we’ve already come to expect
Handing over, on its release,
Responsibility to the police
Who’ve already hinted their intention
Is for names to not be mentioned

So as Save Big Dog hit its peak
It was time for Starmer to speak
With calls for integrity and honesty
Action with moral authority
Not the cruel smirks of superiority
Protected by an eighty-seat majority
But his calls for Bodycount to resign
Would require a leader with a spine
Not a naughty kid prepared to try
To hide behind a preposterous lie
So obvious and fake
As ambushed by a birthday cake

But if the 1922 Committee
By clever speech or desperate pity
Allow Bodycount to stay in role
Then they’d to well to avoid a poll
All of which now say
The public think he’s had his day
His loyalists, increasingly few
Have got some catching up to do
Like Truss, newly deep of voice
And Dorries who, if given the choice
Would rather another G&T
Than an interview on the TV

News just in, by the way
That the Met Police now say
That if Bodycount is handed a fine
Then he will be named at the time
So, if Dame Dick’s prepared to deny him
How much time will this trip buy him?

‘Cause Spaffer Bodycount’s in the Ukraine
A stateman-like wave on the steps of the plane
Can’t explain to a nation in pain
From do-as-I-sayers, not do-as-I-doers
With families in castles and morals in sewers
With lockdowns for you and parties for them
And lies again and again and again
That it’s one rule for them and another for you
Just how long do you think that he thinks that will do?