The Algorithm's Secret

The spokespersons, fed up with spouting rot,
resigned. That’s why they’ve turned to me, a bot.
When real life stats reveal a failing state
invent a world where what we do is great.
If there’s a charge, don’t try to answer back;
debate will only take you way off track.
I don’t respond to questions. Simply say
how much we’re spending, more than yesterday.
On Windrush, child care, the polluted Wye
I claim success, quote spending, won’t reply.
Though politics can be a dirty game
it’s Monty Python which defines my aim.
Our critics stir up argument and strife
but I look on the brighter side of life.

When Braverman quotes Shelley

Our setting is celestial bliss.
“Hey, Percy, have a look at this.”
He thinks the angel’s having a laugh –
she offers him the Telegraph.
“The Tory Party Conference? No.”
For Shelley, he won’t stoop that low
but she’s insisting that he needs
to see this. So he sits and reads.

“My parents came here years ago
blown by a wind that’s soft and low
but hurricanes are on the way
of migrants claiming they are gay.
The Human Rights Act is a joke
and Labour’s desperate to be woke;
no borders, predators set free
at the expense of you and me.
If they get in they’ll give you grief
and punish you for your belief
that men and women aren’t the same,
that slave owners were not to blame.”

Shelley complains he’s had enough;
“Why should I bother with this stuff.
It’s Braverman, I know her well,
notorious minister from hell
who’s spreading hate. That’s nothing new.”

“What’s new is that she’s quoting you”.

“You what?”  “The Masque of Anarchy.
Your dream that sets the people free
to set aside the rulers’ yoke.
She quotes from it.” 
“Is this a joke?”

 “Fraid not. Where is it? Here we go.
I tell it like it is. I know
the luxury belief brigade
in ivory towers, they’ve got it made. 
They know they’re safe, their jobs aren’t lost
when migrants come. We pay the cost.
We victims, ordinary folk
who don’t believe in being woke,
don’t want net zero, crooks set free,
those boats arriving. You’re like me.
They say I lie, you know it’s true
‘cos we are many, they are few.”

Swearing in Heaven’s out of place
but this is such a special case
the angel thinks she’ll let it slide.
She waits for Shelley to subside
as he, eventually, replies.
“I’m gobsmacked. Can’t believe my eyes –
she’s got the power, she’s in control,
it’s her fault we are in this hole.
She’s plotting headlines, never stops
preparing soundbites, photo opps
but when it comes to actual work
the Home Office is going berserk.
The backlog is a massive queue
because she doesn’t have a clue.
She’s pressing buttons all the time
that lead to cruelty and crime
and now she has the nerve to claim
that she’s a victim. No. No shame.

Applause at conference is a thrill,
a tribute to her power and skill.
She has to calculate which lies
will gain most traction, help her rise.
But like she says, there is a cost –
in families split and futures lost.
The casualties, so far below
there’s no way she would ever know
those desperate husbands, anxious wives.
She’s only looking up; she thrives
on climbing ladders as she strives
to stake her claim through ruined lives.”

"...a dog in the fight..."

The strikers told him, “You must pick a side.
Bosses or workers? Can’t be backing both.”
But Starmer sidestepped. Smiling, he replied
“I’ll stay detached. I’m on the side of growth.”
No tribal loyalties. He’ll change the rules:
each citizen deserves a decent home,
crack the class ceiling, tax the public schools,
back NHS, extend the right to roam.
Whether it’s climate change or social care
it seems each time he sets out on a track
there’s money men who whisper “Don’t you dare…”
He’s making two steps forward, one step back.

He knows the underdogs will come off worst
but he wants power. Overdogs come first.

She knew she was right

At DEFRA she was slicing through red tape
like maintenance of rivers – what a waste!
Some said there was a crisis taking shape
but she knew that anxiety’s misplaced.
As Foreign Secretary, she planned a lunch:
her and an envoy. Cost ? Three thousand quid.
The civil service are a cautious bunch
but did she overrule them? Yes, she did!
As PM, she ignored the OBR
then got the sack. It’s not a brilliant look
but only groupthink said she went too far.
You’ll find out she was right; just read her book.
Serene, impervious to folk like us –
the armour-plated arrogance of Truss.

It's Over

Espana are world champions and wonders never cease.
He has no choice – he grabs his crotch. (He’s a man’s man, is Luis).
Success and domination to him are fish and chips,
He grabs Jenni Hermeso, kisses her on the lips.

Later, she tells her team-mates “I didn’t like that kiss”
but PR have a strategy to deal with stuff like this.
The staff put out a statement they say is in her name:
“It was mutual and spontaneous, and he was not to blame.”

But still there’s murmurs of dissent so they put on a show;
the female coaches for the team are shown to the front row.
Luis will not go quietly, his job is on the line;
“Fake feminism is at work and no, I shan’t resign.”

He gets a huge ovation, not clapping would be rude;
the Spanish Federation say Jenni will be sued.
He’s saying now he asked her and she replied “OK”.
Is that what really happened? Hermeso says “No way.”

His mother goes on hunger strike. “They’re picking on him – why?
He’s always been a good boy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Most Spanish women don’t agree. They’ve had this sexist stuff
for years but now’s the moment they say they’ve had enough.

The thunderclouds are gathering – it’s over, is the word.
For him to stay in power now would simply be absurd.
So Luis Rubiales is not a man we’ll miss:
he wrecked the World Cup coverage with a self-important kiss.

Feeling Sick

While global competition is a vital part of sport
just how events are organised requires careful thought.
Of course, each country’s different. That must be born in mind
so idealistic principles sometimes get left behind.

Though they agreed to hold World Cups in Moscow and Qatar
ignoring imperfections can sometimes go too far.
Allowances, of course, are made for muscle and for wealth
but even they will draw the line at threats to athletes’ health.

At last week’s big triathlon the danger was made clear
when fifty-seven competitors had sickness and diarrhoea.
They journeyed here across the world to swim at Sunderland
but gulping down ecoli was hardly what they’d planned.

It’s breeding in the water where sewage overflows.
Officials knew, did nothing, but why?  God only knows.
I know no country’s perfect, each has its ups and downs,
but how come we’re a third world state administered by clowns?

The Vision Thing

So Sadiq Khan has got this great idea
which cuts pollution. Tories mobilise
the fears of motorists. That worries Keir.
His minders say commitments are unwise.

I wonder how this worked in days gone by…
Post war, we’re broke, and nobody can guess
what happens next. A vision comes to Nye,
a comprehensive network: NHS!
Cradle to grave, and no-one has to pay.
It’s massive, but a risky kind of bet
and Clem has doubts. “What will the Tories say?
“I like your thinking, Nye, but no. Not yet.”

A golden chance. It makes me want to scream
until I realise – that bit was a dream.  

Painting out the smile

with apologies to Lonnie Donegan

The Manston centre’s famous
for how to get it wrong –
too many migrants for the space
and locked up far too long.
Someone has the bright idea
to make this place less vile
by painting comic murals
and trying to raise a smile.

Her Majesty’s Inspectors
looked round and all agreed
that bright and cheerful colours
are just what children need.
The Home Office was not convinced –
hostility’s their style.
They’re not amused by Mickey Mouse,
they don’t want kids to smile.

There’s Jenrick, in his office.
He’s keen to get it right
and demonstrate to Braverman
that he is full of spite.
He sends a gang of painters
whistling all the while
to cover up the murals
obliterate the smile.

“Cartoons” he said “are friendly.
Too welcoming, I find”
until he got a ton of flak
and sort of changed his mind.
But they ramp up the rhetoric
intensify the bile
piling on the agony
painting out the smile.  

Not Wanted on Voyage

Before the good ship Labour goes to sea
we have to choose who we will let on board.
We want an overall majority
but there’s still passengers we can’t afford.
Not strikers, not the Black Lives Matter crowd,
nor those who want to change the protest laws.
We don’t want angry and we don’t want loud;
cross-party contacts undermine the cause.
Not eco-stuff (unless the price is right).
There are some details we’ll re-arrange
but discipline’s what counts; we keep it tight.
Don’t tell the kids that things are going to change.
No local rebels, passionate and bold.
We want the ones who do as they are told.

True Believers

At first, he wasn’t certain what he thought;
they’re colleagues, so he takes them at their word.
But now he’s had a look at the report
it’s “tripe…deranged…and patently absurd.”
Dorries, because her peerage was denied,
is fuming, warns that Tories should beware;
if they should fail to vote on Johnson’s side
the threat of deselection’s in the air.
Rees Mogg. now knighted, sees a future when
Johnson returns in triumph to the fray,
reclaims the Tory leadership again
and, riding on his charger, saves the day.
The evidence, meanwhile, slips out of sight
but they don’t care. They know that they are Right.

Clear Blue Water

The EU have a vision – water heaven.
By ’22 all members must commit
to clean their rivers up by ’27.
The UK rivers bear a load of shit
and Thérèse Coffey is in charge. No way.
She’s Truss’s drinking buddy, rock’n’roll;
she’ll set a deadline for another day –
that’s why we opted out, took back control.
The opposition moan, that’s what they do;
they’re ineffectual dreamers to a man.
Coffey’s not phased, because she knows it’s true
she is unique: she has a grown-up plan.
Our waterways will be pollution free
by – yes, you’ve guessed it – twenty sixty-three!

Labour Pains

Election’s coming up. “You need to know
that sex offenders, gun-crime gangs run free
because the Tories shrugged and let them go.
Labour will lock them up and lose the key.”

 It’s just a poster. Tories did the same –
“Because of Starmer, Savile got away”
they said. It was a lie, but that’s the game
and “they don’t like it up’em when we play.”

Boys’ playground talk, and Labour’s massive lead
is shrinking, so they’re desperate to find
a punchy slogan, simple USP
to change the undecided voter’s mind.
This isn’t it. A vision’s what they need
-   shared future hope that anyone can see.

Return to Work

That’s Covid done. Back to what suits us best.
Those idlers in their wheelchairs should prepare
to jump through hoops and pass an acid test
before we’ll let them stay at home. Child care?
Explore the possibilities of play?
Boost social training and relieve the strain
on single mums with more support? No way.
We do it just so they can work again.
I have this mate, who’s always run a bar;
come Covid, he’s supplying PPE.
I get him on the fast track, as a perk,
and he’s quids in. I tell you, he’ll go far
because he gets it. Any fool can see
you get rewards if you’re prepared to work.    

Not Mea Culpa at all

Er…mumble, bumble, bluster…hand on heart,
there’s rules and guidance and I got confused.
Not reckless, not deliberate…Where to start?
I think a leader ought to be excused
for cheering up his staff. In the UK
we do that with a drink. I went along
with the advice I got. From whom? Can’t say.
Nobody told me that I’d got it wrong.

His fans say it’s a court for kangaroos.
Does he agree? He gives that cunning smile.
Depends. On what? Whether I win or lose,
and off he skips, in that evasive style.
The Mail says “he’s agile as a cat.”
Maybe. We paid two hundred grand for that.  

The Trail of Evidence

“I always paid the full amount of tax.
On Covid, we were short of PPE.
Reporters have made scurrilous attacks,
cast vicious slurs on my integrity
but my sole motive then was to obtain
vital equipment. Yes, he was a friend
but there’s no question of financial gain.
Work gatherings, of course, I did attend,
sometimes in gardens, and you would expect
hard-working ministers to let off steam
but when Prince Philip died we showed respect.
And as for bullying staff, I’d never dream
of it. I have high standards, but I swear
that is the truth.” 
And leaves it, lying there.

The Case for the Defence

John Yems has got a lifetime ban.
A football coach and older man
whose language, as you might expect,
was not politically correct.
So, “curry muncher...terrorist...
and…Zulu warrior.”  That’s a list
of stuff you’re not supposed to say.
But John, a racist? No. No way.

Racism’s “I hate niggers”, right?
It’s not John’s fault. OK, he’s white
but there’s one thing you need to know:
this comes from kids that he’s let go.
Maybe they just weren’t tough enough
to take rejection, dredged up stuff
as their revenge against a bloke
who’s keen on banter, likes a joke.
It wasn’t conscious. But it’s sick
that mud gets thrown ‘cos mud will stick.
Nobody wants to hear his side;
he’s been unfairly vilified -
offensive stuff, which isn’t true.  
He thinks apologies are due.

Working for Putin

The old ones are the best. The Tories said
that British strikers brought an evil grin
to Putin’s face. Reds under the bed.
Same old, same old…the enemy within.

You have to ask why he would be obsessed
with some obscure industrial dispute.
Surely he’d rather sabotage the West
or send the euro down a rubbish chute?

And then it dawns. That’s where he gets his kicks.
He spent his time and money on the cause
of maximum disruption; paid for clicks
to get EU supporters on the run.
The agents who got most Russian applause
were useful idiots who got Brexit done.  

Spokesman

- for the over sixties.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the vengeful sort
but when I see that woman on TV
I want to punish her. I had a tempting thought,
this entertaining little fantasy:
I saw her naked, dragged across this land,
where folk abused her, throwing faecal waste.
That wasn’t meant to hurt, you understand –
it’s what I’d call a cellular distaste.
My daughter’s disapproval makes the news
and feminists are fuming about men.
Though all I’ve done is simply air my views
it seems I’m on the naughty step again.
An old white male, bound to take the blame
-              but everybody my age thinks the same.

"Don't fence me in"

There’s people need places to live
and they’d find it quite hard to forgive
if the government didn’t react
by making new houses a fact.
So we’re totally sure they were thrilled
by the news we’re committed to build.
Our target, spelt out loud and clear,
was three hundred thousand a year.
But this future, so carefully mapped,
disappeared when the target was scrapped.

It’s not that we’re ignorant fools
(we went to the very best schools)
it’s just – we’re allergic to rules.

Missing Paula Rego

“The arc of the moral universe is long
but it bends towards justice.”
The reverend doctor on the mountaintop
saw way beyond our present setbacks here -
a future that was comforting, secure.
Turns out that was another sixties dream.

Abortion seemed secure, a natural right
but celebration on the stage
is not the final scene, not bound to last.
Out in the shadows of the gods,
back in the wings, the dark conspirators
are plotting how they can rewrite this play.

For them to win, they will do anything.
A judge will swear allegiance to the law
then swivel on a dime when he’s confirmed.
To-do list says abortion first,
then contraception, same-sex marriage rights.
Reversing Roe v. Wade is just the start.

We miss her wicked smile, her vibrant art.
A brilliant student, married at 21,
a baby on the way – but all of that
enabled by abortions earlier on.
She pictured stories that real women lived,
of how it felt to go there, have that done.

In Portugal, in 1998,
that protest was a howl against the wind;
the referendum kept abortion banned.
2007, no-one knew
if things had changed enough.
Same paintings, different result.

If only we had Paula with us now…

You don’t need me. Maybe you need my work.
Much braver in my art than in my life.
You have to fight this, the men and women both;
no-one gets pregnant on their own.
First time, it may not work. So, try again.

Won the TF postcode prize, in the Ironbridge Poetry Competition, September 2022