He’d punch his opponent Though punching weren’t allowed He’d wind up the ref And he’d wind up the crowd In his black leotard that only had one strap You knew you were in for a bit of a scrap Because his wrestling shenanigans should’ve got him banned And God help you if you tried to shake his outstretched hand ‘Cos dirty Sid came from Dirty Leeds Filling your Saturday teatime with dirty deeds Picking up public warnings for fun He’d often find himself undone By two falls, two submissions or a knockout ‘Cos rules really weren’t what he was about But now it’s goodnight grapple fans from Cyanide Sid At the end of a heel’s life well lived With a twisted smile as he’d twist a limb. If only Spaffer were as honest as him
Spaffer liked hugging Allegra Spaffer liked hugging Marina too Spaffer liked hugging Anna Fazackerley And now hugging’s in the news (For hug’s sake)
Spaffer liked hugging with Helen But Spaffer still liked hugging Marina too Spaffer won’t hug you if you ask about Stephanie And now hugging’s in the news
Spaffer’s hugging here and Spaffer’s hugging there He hugged up Foreign Secretary, hugged up being mayor He’s hugging up the red wall, hugging lying down No one’s safe from being hugged by Bozo the Clown
Spaffer liked hugging with Jennifer Hugging on the sofa like there’s nothing to lose Spaffer likes a hug more than anything else And now hugging’s in the news (For hug’s sake)
Spaffer likes hugging with Carrie He’s hugged her enough to want to marry her too Spaffer is the hugger that the voters love And now hugging’s in the news
Spaffer’s hugging here and Spaffer’s hugging there He hugged up Foreign Secretary, hugged up being mayor He’s hugging up the red wall, hugging lying down No one’s safe from being hugged by Bozo the Clown
James Dyson’s tax bill, Cameron and Greensill Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Hancock’s sister’s company, Jennifer Arcuri Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Sixty grand wallpaper, the Barnard Castle caper Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Wincanton’s LFTs, being accused of sleaze Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands Let the bodies pile high, Spaffer’s battle cry Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Big contract awards, in the Commons and the Lords Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Ayanda Capital, nothing wrong with that at all Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Randox and Serco, racing’s where the money goes Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Nothing here to see, no public inquiry Let the bodies pile high Let the bodies pile high
Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands Let the bodies pile high, Spaffer’s battle cry Let the bodies pile high, in their thousands
Let’s paint it blue, Draped with union jacks But Spaffer’s West Wing Just got the axe He said “They wanna hear me” But doubt got in his head And now Allegra needs Another job instead
Her’s got spaffed
Spaffed! There goes your taxpayer pound Spaffed! By Bozo the Clown He Spaffed on the bus, he spaffed in space He Spaffed on Dido’s track and Dido’s trace
Let’s build a bridge Bedecked with flowers Take what’s theirs And make it ours We’ll host bridge parties, Corporate jollies Another of Johnson’s Corporate follies
It got spaffed
Spaffed! There goes your taxpayer pound Spaffed! By Bozo the Clown He Spaffed on the bus, he spaffed in space He Spaffed on Dido’s track and Dido’s trace
Let’s build an island In the middle of the Thames For planes to take off And to land again Like many of his ideas This one was crap Four million quid later, Boris Island got scrapped
It got Spaffed
Spaffed! There goes your taxpayer pound Spaffed! By Bozo the Clown Spaffed on the bus, spaffed in space Spaffed on Dido’s track and Dido’s trace
Let’s paint it blue, Draped in Union Jacks Let’s paint it blue, Draped in Union Jacks Let’s paint it blue, draped in Union Jacks And bury the news that it’s been spaffed Spaffed
Week after week They clapped their hands And banged their pans From rainbow bedecked windows And cars and vans. Hundreds of thousands Acting with care, thought, and precision Led to this decision. “The NHS saved my life” Spaffer said But what he meant Was all they’re worth to him is one percent.
And Hancock, Responsible personally To the horse racing fraternity, Pays tribute with words, His deep pockets reserved For contracts for corporate chums. “Get out there and tell them you saved lives” he said But what he meant Was all they’re worth to him is one percent.
Nadine “I’m a former nurse, me” Dorries, The first Covid MP, Seeks to defend the economy. Never surprised By an MP’s pay rise, But with Rishi is in accord That this is all they can afford While recognising sacrifice, commitment and vocation Tells the nation What she meant Was all they’re worth to her is one percent.
When they tell you “level up” What do they mean? The numbers dead hid behind A vaccination screen. No money for heroic nurses’ pay When Dido’s folly costs a million pounds a day. There is a simple message delivered in this verse: Next time, clap a Tory, pay a nurse.
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
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)
No ads for Maccy D’s before bedtime
No BOGOF on Pringles or Mars Bars or any of that
But that’s not even this evening’s headline
Whatever you do, don’t cough over your cat
Spaffer’s a stone down and fat shaming the nation
Clamping down on promotion of food high in sugar and fat
Obligatory labels for cafes in new legislation
And whatever you do, don’t cough over your cat
He says we owe it to the NHS to keep our weight healthy
I suspect he owes them a bit more than that
Start with 350 million a week, maybe
And please don’t cough over your cat
There are complex ethnic and socioeconomic factors
At play here, but despite all of that
The fight against the virus starts a new chapter
With advice to not cough over your cat
Steve White & The Protest Family 