All My Friends Read the Mail Online

All my friends read the Mail Online
They may not want to, but they do
And share sections on their Facebook pages
For friends and followers to view

Here’s an illustrated menu
Home grown versus imported grub
A celebration of toast and chips
Or lobster at the Brexit Club

You can stuff your avocado
And your broccoli and tomato
We’ll have eggs with milk and mutton with scotch
After taking back control

Yes, all my friends read the Mail Online
Like 11 million other folks do
‘Cos it helps them set the news to rhyme
While bidding their breakfast “adieu”

Williamson v. Ferrari: Brexit Gambit Declined

Downing Street sources surveyed the board and spied no immediate threat: an announcement of a compromise reached on next year’s exam arrangements, expected to be generally well received except by the it-was-harder-in-my-day crowd and the occasional education analyst pointing out that 24 hours isn’t really much of a delay, and a follow-up on the news that the UK, such as she was clinging to being, was the first to declare a vaccine safe to unleash on a coronavirus-riddled public.

They made their move and slid Williamson, a minor piece, into the affray in the centre of the board. Hushed tones, remembering the “shut up and go away” gaffe, pronounced: “Surely, not even he can fuck this one up”. But fuck it up royally (with sovereignty clearly in mind) he did.

Ferrari, his opponent, countered with “Are we first with the vaccine because we Brexited?”, using the less familiar verbal form. Williamson, wise to the trap that had caught Hancock in an earlier game, avoided it but, in so doing, blundered. “We’re the first because we’re the best” came his Trumpian response, “Better than all those other countries” of which he then went on to name a few key allies.

In Downing Street, heads were shaken and Williamson quietly removed from the board before the lunchtime news.

“Brexit Gambit Declined, and still he fucked it up”.

On Substantiality and Scotch Eggs

Gove, a hearty trencherman he
Would never accept a scotch egg for his tea
“Two’s a starter!” he would exclaim
When Good Morning Britain called him to explain

But Eustice, a man of lesser appetite
When challenged by Ferrari said that he might
Be tempted to see the tier two appeal
Of a single scotch egg as a substantial meal

And so it came to be in a later edition
The Chancellor of the Dutchy of Lancaster’s position
U-turned, like the worst of the government’s fools
He did not, but said that the pubs knew the rules

Gentle folk of England, such is the fate
Of your taverns and inns, by glass and by plate
Decided by men who can’t even agree
On a simple scotch egg for lunch, dinner or tea

Christmas Bubble Trouble


Jason and Joanna got Christmas bubble trouble
She wants to see her mum but then her sister’s bubble doubles
And her brother and his girlfriend make another bubble couple
She’s trying to understand the rules

Jason and Joanna got Christmas bubble trouble
He wants to see his dad but it’s gonna be a struggle
‘Cos her side’s already in a Christmas bubble muddle
He’s trying to understand the rules

(Which go like)

You can see her sister if you go round to her mother’s
But that’s already three so now you can’t see her brother
That would need a separate bubble but you can’t have another
What happens if we meet outside?

Jason and Joanna got Christmas bubble trouble
His mum and dad ain’t speaking so that’s something else to juggle
There’s too many pieces in their family Christmas puzzle
They’re trying to understand the rules

Jason and Joanna got Christmas bubble trouble
The tree ain’t even up before negotiations crumble
‘Cos “Are we splitting up for Christmas?” ain’t exactly subtle
When you’re trying to understand the rules

(Which go like)

Three bubbles can behave like they live in the same house
And pass the roast potatoes while passing on the sprouts
But unless they’re only children then there’s someone missing out
What happens if we eat outside?

Three bubbles can behave like they live in the same house
And pass the roast potatoes while passing on the sprouts
But unless they’re only children then there’s someone missing out
What happens if we eat outside?

Jason and Joanna got Christmas bubble trouble
The tree ain’t even up before negotiations crumble
‘Cos “Are we splitting up for Christmas?” ain’t exactly subtle
When you’re trying to understand the rules

They’re just trying to understand the rules

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

From World-Beating to Scraping the Play-Offs

Last night’s TV: Coach JVT
Discussing the psychology
Of match-deciding penalties

Score your first, said Coach Van Tam
And know that you can beat your man
The match ain’t won but you know you can

Last night’s TV: JVT brings news to cheer you up
Avoiding carefully the thing that’s never added up:
Why play-off final winners get to lift a cup

Tear Down the Fence

Beth’s reading meterology
She’s a first-year undergrad
The first bit of independent living that she’s had
Embarking on a future that includes a cap and gown
Yesterday she found herself locked in the compound
Now the atmosphere in halls is getting pretty tense
And Beth is tearing down the fence

Natasha’s reading history
First time away from home
She never expected to feel quite so alone
Locked down in a flat with students she just met
An education that she’s beginning to regret
The message the past teaches her is self-defence
So, Natasha’s tearing down the fence

Sam’s reading economics
At nine grand a year
Looking forward to a freshers’ week swimming in beer
The virus isn’t news, so he’s not too dismayed
But he never expected to wake up in a stockade
His education’s coming at considerable expense
So, Sam is tearing down the fence

The University of Life
The School of Hard Knocks
Call it what you like, it’s what these kids have got
Locked up and logged in, guards keeping them inside
Learning lessons in life that money just can’t buy
Learning who’s for them and who is against
Learning to tear down the fence

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

Hands, Face, Pasty

Six tier one folks can still meet inside
It’s the tier where the science and the politics collide
Where the rule of six guide stands ready for the slide
Over to the hundred in one hundred thousand side

So, we’re standing on the precipice of tier two
Sadiq says that it’s coming very soon
But I’ve got people to see and things to do
While COVID’s turning the screw

Meanwhile there’s a new slogan in tier three
Where you can’t have a pint except with your tea
It’s like Tim Wetherspoon’s writing policy:
Hands. Face. Pasty (and chips).

Rishi Sunak (We Know a Song About You)

Oh dear, Rishi
You’ve pissed off the people
Who like to rhyme
Who like tell stories
Who like to keep good time

Oh dear, Rishi
You’ve pissed off the minstrels
The entertainers
The chroniclers
The maintainers
Of the culture
Of the hope
Of the real story
Of our times

Oh dear, Rishi
You forgot the golden rule
That all that glitters is not gold
That money can’t buy you love, Love
That value can’t always be measured
In pound notes
Not even close

Oh dear, Rishi
You forgot
That we know the words
That people sing
And people hum
That we know the tunes
That people whistle
And people strum

Rishi Sunak we know a song about you
No better than the other Tories in your crew
Rishi Sunak, fuck you

EDIT: Full Fact are now reporting that Sunak didn’t say that musicians and other people working in the arts and creative sectors should all re-train and ITV have modified their headline and deleted their tweet accordingly.

But you know what? Fuck him, anyway. The Musicians’ Union recently published a survey of their members which reported that 70% can’t do more than a quarter of their pre-COVID work but 38% of them aren’t eligible for the government’s support schemes. His hands are nowhere near clean.

And let’s not forget Edwina Currie telling LBC’s Iain Dale that “you can’t save all the puppies”.