Going Viral

She says that they’re all liars.
Health warnings are just jokes.
Covid is a conspiracy
and the vaccine is a hoax.
A middle-aged female rockstar
with a forty thousand base
is screaming out from YouTube -
and I’m sure I know that face.

I know that she looks stunning
when she grabs that microphone;
she sees the sea of faces
and knows she’s not alone.
I get it that you’re listening
to hear what she will say
and she has a kind of magic
but she’s always been that way.

You guess that she’s a guru
you think that she’s a saint.
Take it from one who knows her
she definitely ain’t.
She only cares about herself
she does it to get high;
if that’s what gets attention
she’ll tell the biggest lie.

She’ll say they’re out to get you,
they’re storing cyanide.
She’ll swear that we’re all heading
for a massive genocide.
But I can say for certain
that isn’t what’s to come.
You can’t believe a word she says
I know – cos she’s my mum.

Rearguard Action

It’s June in 2020 and Owen Paterson’s wife
has killed herself. He’s asking why she chose to take her life.
They’ve been together forty years and he has not a clue;
it worries him he never guessed what she was going to do.
Should he have noticed something? How could he be so blind?
A nagging sense of self-reproach is preying on his mind.

Until November ’21, when everything is plain -
a major factor in her death was an anti-sleaze campaign.
The County Food firm is his boss, they pay a hundred grand
for him to represent them. Quite legal, understand.

The regulator, Kathryn Stone, suspects she smells a rat.
Abuse of role, and offices. Corruption, stuff like that.
Standards committee of MPs review her evidence:
the meetings, failure to declare…They say the charge makes sense.
A thirty-day suspension, demoralised defeat;
he could face re-election, and maybe lose his seat.

His friends cry “Natural Justice! This verdict is absurd.
He’d gathered seventeen witnesses and none of them was heard.”
They’d say he was a decent chap. The charge? Nowhere in sight.
Their evidence could never prove that what he did was right.

But that does not deter them as they move into attack,
so many ways of showing that they’ve all got Owen’s back.
There should be some compassion. OK, maybe he lied
but don’t forget he’s had it rough since Rose’s suicide.
There’s others think that Kathryn Stone has overstepped her brief.
She should resign. They organise a lorryload of grief.

Or how about we change the rules, revise the whole bang shoot?
For just a couple of hours this looks a likely route.
They call in Andrea Leadsom, they’re thinking it’s win-win;
a three-line whip demands MPs troop through to save his skin.

There’s many with misgivings. Says Johnson “Never fear.
As with Patel, I’ll go through hell to save a Brexiteer.”
They’re dancing to the music when suddenly it’s stopped.
They do a rapid do-ce-do and Paterson gets dropped.
The world of politics is cruel, he curses his bad luck;
he can’t believe he’s punished for trying to make a buck.

Conference Call

Whether or not it’s what the world might need
COP 26 is going to head the news.
We have the opportunity to lead.

Protect the green home grants, fanatics plead,
but they can’t curb our freedom. We refuse
whether or not it’s what the world might need.

Kids dying, as pollution rates exceed
what’s safe. Headline: “The greens have got the blues –
we have the opportunity to lead.”

Sod Paris. Past agreements all recede.
Expand the airports, cut aid if we choose
whether or not it’s what the world might need.

Face it, in social gatherings I succeed;
on teamwork, planning, details I lose
but here’s my opportunity to lead.

The clock ticks on, the earth’s resources bleed
but bring it on, the banquets and the booze.
Who cares if this is what the world might need?
I have the opportunity to lead.

Pep Talk

The cabinet, reshuffled, much the same,
crams into Downing Street, no masks in sight.
Windows are closed, of course. Who needs fresh air?
One more precaution that they can forget.

Delivery Unit’s head makes her appeal:
“Let’s tell the voters that we’re moving fast,
show how much we’ve delivered up till now.”

The boss starts musing on his fecund past…
…delivery rooms…one star, of course, and yet
the team’s providing necessary care.

Ah, teams. That takes him back, to rugger, how
you suck the orange segment, spit the peel.
Adjust the gumshield, get the scrumcap right
and go back on the field. It’s all a game.

Afghan sunset

The mountains chuckle as the soldiers leave
their occupation gone. Same old, same old.
Corruption, patriarchy are the rocks
on which progress will founder, every time.
The English and the Russians limped away
licking their wounds, desperate to be home.

“The end of history” was what they said.
They never studied it. How could they learn,
their heads stuffed full with confidence
that they don’t make mistakes? Watch Bush and Blair
handing their wives the script that said
female emancipation was their aim.

Self-interest was their aim. First up, revenge.
Next, staving off another 9/11.
But then move on, attracted by fresh bait  -
Saddam, the oil. And all the while
the lives, the cash, that seep away until
the polling says it’s gone too far. Pull out.

They settle for retreat, and leave behind
the casualties of hope, who half believed
“Democracy”, “We’ll stay there till it’s done.”
It’s never done. Beneath this brilliant sky
the land stays hard, resisting fragile plants
brought here by foreign innocents.

The locals who had faith in better things,
who tasted freedom, wanted more to build
a future for their children, what of them?
They cover up their faces, hide their eyes.
They fold their dreams and put them in a drawer
and watch the sun sink slowly in the west.

Manifesto

So what does Labour stand for? How about:
The universal credit’s not enough.
We need to have a plan for social care,
build up resilience in our public health
so next time we’re not fighting on our knees.
No deals for cronies. Government that’s fair
and isn’t scared to regulate how wealth
is gained, how power’s exercised. No more
vindictive harassment of refugees.
Above all, looking forwards. Plans that last –
green revolution, kids, the future stuff…
Top down? Two parties? That’s the past.
It’s decency. That’s what we’re for.
That’s why we have to get them out.     

A Quiet Word

When leading opposition, way back, two thousand ten,
Cameron stakes his claim out. Let’s hear those words again:
“Parliament’s been infected”, we heard young David cry,
“by privilege, excess, the sense that rules do not apply.
When we’re in power we’ll stamp it out – we have to make this clear –
the lunches, hospitality, the quiet word in your ear.”

In January 2020, in a Saudi Arabian tent.
there’s Dave and Lex, in suits and ties; they ooze entitlement.
Lex runs this clever business which lends out cash to firms
by buying up their invoices at reasonable terms.
It’s not his cash he’s using – it’s a moneymaker’s dream
as he recruits rich backers for hi private Ponzi scheme.
Their host had Jamal Khasoggi killed only a year before;
he’s given Lex eight hundred mill, and now six hundred more
for the pyramid of promises that the Saudi prince supports.
Then Covid comes, and government cash is upmost in his thoughts.  

 Fast forward on to April, and here’s a private drink.
There’s Dave and Lex, Matt Hancock, just mates, you’d surely think,
and joining them Bill Crothers, who’s obviously no dunce.
Greensill, or civil service? He works for both at once.
No briefing when it’s over, no minutes, none of that.
It’s not official business, it’s just a friendly chat.
Greensill’s a thriving company, just look how much they’ve grown
so all they want is access to a government Covid loan.

They get turned down, keep coming back. Embarrassing, it feels
but each time the approach is made, Cameron oils the wheels.
“Why cut off business?...Keen to help…” his needy anxious prayer.
“I must be missing something here…Not getting anywhere.”
But, boy, does he keep trying his wheedling little tricks;
in four short months his messages add up to fifty-six.

Meanwhile Gupta’s steel appears a very dodgy bet.
He’s claimed on phony invoices, he’s drowning deep in debt
and thanks to all the lobbying that David Cameron did
the UK is now liable – could be a billion quid.

A friend reports in Cameron’s case it’s clear that money talks:
“When Dave found out what he might get his eyes went out on stalks.”
He never broke the rules he made, he sings the same old song,
he had no clue that things were bad, and he did nothing wrong.
It’s just a private matter, and profit’s not a crime.
Just seven million quid. Not bad – for someone who’s part-time.

Political Instincts

When Southgate said his team would take the knee
that wasn’t popular with my support.
Still, now they’ve reached the final, folk can see
we’re tough on racist attitudes in sport.

Critics attacked our cuts to foreign aid
-      scrapped useful programmes, victimised the poor –
but watch the polls. The savings that we made
were what we needed to increase our score.

And now these food proposals come our way –
less salt, less sugar, action backed with facts.
I’m not attracted to this, I must say:
hard-working people paying another tax.

What other people think might vary, but
on balance I prefer to trust my gut.  

Levelling Up

Hi, guys. My theme is levelling up, again.
Strong leadership is yeast, the magic sauce,
the catchup- ketchup. If I could explain
it’s not at all like levelling down, of course.
We are not going to decapitate
tall poppies. We don’t share the lefties’ itch
to penalise success. They just can’t wait
to boost the poor by pulling down the rich.
This isn’t spreading jam, not zero sum;
it isn’t robbing Peter to pay Paul.
That was the old-style levelling, and it’s dumb.
Our method is win-win, and best of all
the benefits are absolutely clear.
I’ll spell them out – um, later on this year.

Showdown

It’s one-one after extra time, 3-2 the final score.
“England go out on penalties” – you’ve heard that one before.
We’ve cancelled social distance and we’ve purged ourselves of zoom
but it’s one more night of failure, say the connoisseurs of gloom.

But then, they always failed to see how much this team got right,
the talent we should celebrate, the snapshots of delight.
The finest side in Europe were taken to the line
by Gareth’s lovely, likely lads who’ve made our summer shine.

They had the luck that good teams need. The teams they didn’t play
-      France, Belgium, Portugal and Spain - the draw worked out their way.
The chance that Muller didn’t take, the save that Schmeichel spilled…
but England were worth watching, quick moving and well drilled.

They worked and ran their socks off, they bought into the dream,
kids, veterans and back-room staff who know they’re all one team.
Outside their training bubble there’s a world of doubt and hate
but they’ve a common purpose: play on, and concentrate.

And at the centre, Gareth, immaculately sane,
selections and formations, buzzing through his brain.
Forget the commentators fixated on the past;
he’s heading for a future that’s skilful, bright and fast.

But it’s not just the tactics. For all the cunning plans
we are in this together, he shares it with the fans.
Some booed the German anthem and some spat at the Danes
but Gareth’s a believer that our decency remains.

We make it to the final: a brilliant, perfect start
where Shaw’s half-volley’s hit so sweet it almost breaks your heart.
Mancini’s looking restless. Is he maybe sensing doubt
as England block his every move and see the first half out?

The second half is different, a long night of the soul,
and is that early masterpiece our only shot on goal?
Italian waves of pressure are a constant, mounting threat
when a pinball goes from save to post, is bundled in the net.

But still. The lessons have been learned. The Danes had gone ahead
but we fought back to equalise. This game’s not put to bed.
It’s extra time, we’ve got a bench with energy to burn
so does this endless script possess one last dramatic turn?

The spotlight of the penalties is the cruellest kind of sport.
Which names go down in history as the ones who came up short?
Rashford and Sancho brought on late so they can do their stuff.
A last ditch-save from Pickford, but it’s not quite enough.

He moves among the broken hearts, his loyal, fine young men.
“I know the way you feel,” he says, and Gareth’s right – again.
You can come back from failure, you can inspire the crowd
and they deserve our gratitude because they made us proud.

The Fourth of July

He wants to think about the happy stuff.
More jobs, lives saved. Forget Afghanistan.
That’s last year’s model: never-ending wars,
big sticks, red lines defined and then ignored.
Domestic focus is what counts, it seems.
Good news helps confidence to grow
and progress, bit by bit, is what works best.

They cannot look away. The Taliban
are waiting in the hills. Not long to go.
Believers in the democratic cause –
the women activists, the kids with dreams,
translators who had hopes – are all abroad
forgotten now. Their faith won’t be enough.
They watch the sun sink slowly in the west.

His Master's Voice

That David Frost, he doesn’t miss a trick.
He’s Johnson’s perfect mouthpiece, obviously –
that’s arrogant, insensitive and thick,
the ideal toolkit for diplomacy.

For Elton John, their efforts undermine
the young performers who might work abroad.
A hundred billion pounds. It’s Philistine
to wreck this trade, a loss we can’t afford.

Frost says “Free movement has a price. Mind you
I can’t help noticing that Elton John
had hits before we ever joined EU.
I’m guessing something else is going on…”

He can’t see altruism. He can’t hear
the argument. He settles for the smear.  

Entitlement

This is the stuff that matters – what I say,
the golden boy who knows he won’t grow old.
Get what I want, and someone else will pay.

 I sent the Covid mugger on his way
with handshakes, friendly deals bought and sold –
a good result. At least, that’s what I say.

The Downing Street décor is so passé
and curtains at John Lewis leave us cold.
Get what we want, and someone else will pay.

The civil servant’s job is to obey
and codes of conduct have been put on hold.
The only rules that count are what I say.

Planning’s a game I never learnt to play
but improv is the sport where I get gold.
The media love me. Someone else will pay.

Spaff money out on foreigners? No way.
Racism’s not as bad as you were told.
The only truth that matters? What I say.
Get what I want, and you’re the ones that pay.

Sir Keir gets some advice

Accept responsibility; act tough.
It’s on the leader, when the party lose.
Next, ditch a rival who could be a threat.
Sideline the women. Touchy-feely stuff
does not poll well up north. Plus, she attacked
the education guy – who is unique –
but if we say it’s time he should be sacked
and then he isn’t, that makes us look weak.
Leopardskin trousers aren’t appropriate.
We need some Union Jacks, maybe a joke.
The red wall’s looking for a solo bloke
who’s purged the party of dissenting views
and looks as if he’d have you for his dinner.
So go on, growl. You’re looking like a winner.

Keeping to the Rules

Believing those they’re governing are fools
they give the worst excuse you’ve ever met:
We’d love to, but we mustn’t break the rules.

 Meanwhile, their reckless spending ridicules
all notion of control. A wild bet –
believing those they’re governing are fools

The Iranians feel like they’ve won the pools;
they hold our hostage, till we pay their debt.
We’d love to, but we mustn’t break the rules.

Promises, codes, agreements are just tools
that they’ll pick up, then ditch without regret,  
believing those they’re governing are fools.

They’ll clap the carers, till their ardour cools.
A pay-rise for the nurses? Not just yet.
We’d love to, but we mustn’t break the rules.

There’s test and trace, the tutor scheme for schools,
money for mates they’d like us to forget
believing those they’re governing are fools.
Just do it. We don’t care about the rules.

Hancock's Half-hour

The think tank known as IEA
has controversial things to say:
“The NHS is oversold;
our healthworkers aren’t solid gold
and if we did this differently
things would improve immediately.”
They’ve got the ear of cabinet
since fourteen ministers have met
with them, and yes, it’s true they did
donate me thirty thousand quid.
I’m not corrupted by this wealth;
I’m still the minister for health
and I give briefings, set the scene
on how we’ve met Covid-19.

Reporters said that PPE
was running out. I made them see
how much we had provided. True
I said a pair of gloves was two.
I counted tests we sent, no doubt,
rather than those we carried out.
And if some items do get lost
we get a firm to find them. Cost
is not an issue. No-one knows
exactly where the money goes.

“We will admit what we got wrong”
I tell the press. They nod along.
That’s not a promise I regret;
it’s just there’ve been no errors yet.
We let the care homes down? No way.
Our arms were round them, night and day.

The Covid crisis left no time
for tendering; it’s not a crime
to hire consultants, with a view
to messaging. Who heads the queue?
The friends of Gove, you understand,
have to be worth five hundred grand.
That also is the fee we pay
to keep this from the light of day.

The vaccination’s been a breeze.
Great firm. If only we’d got these
to do the test and trace, but hey,
another firm, another day.

When we review what happened here
the answer comes up loud and clear:
“Reorganise the NHS.”
Is this the ideal time? Oh yes.
The virus rampant, shattered staff
and budgets stretched. It’s such a laugh
designing how a future scheme
will fix it that I live the dream.
We each get fifteen minutes fame
said Andy Warhol. All the same
when I assess my taste for power
I reckon I’ll need a good half-hour.

Rebuilding the Red Wall?

Can Labour be electable?
That’s Starmer’s current task.
Picking up Corbyn’s pieces
is a monumental ask.

 Johnson has breezed to power
on an optimistic smile;
his record may be rubbish but
the voters like his style.

 It’s yes to handshakes, Christmas –
he simply can’t say no.
The schools will soon be open
and holidays are go.

It’s a dangerous load of nonsense
but it seems to go down well
and it hasn’t changed his ratings
so far as we can tell.

Equality or climate change
could be the Labour cause
but they are anxious to avoid
what look like culture wars.

So we’ll listen to the focus group,
ours not to reason why:
sing land of hope and glory
in a lounge suit and a tie.

Pressure Group

“We must be free, or die.” That is our creed
so ditch the masks and social distancing;
it’s time for us to open up the schools.
Ed Barker is our star recruit; he’ll bring
his contacts and campaigning expertise.
Gavin is sympathetic, pays no heed
to mass petitions from deluded fools.
They’ve got the numbers, but it’s us he sees.
Steve Baker (Brexit mastermind) ‘s in play,
plus CRG and seventeen MPs.
We’ve got the heavyweights, so now we need
an altruistic hashtag, which will say
we’re not so much a clique, more a crusade.
How about UsForThem ? Is that OK?

Stinking Fish

Brexit is good for business.
Jacob Rees-Mogg’s made seven million quid
and now the Covid crash is opening up
a priceless entry opportunity:
“super normal returns” – get in there, now.

There are, it’s true, some snags.
Just teething problems, the PM insists.
His new PR team have him cast
as doting father, fondling his child,
wanting a kind and civil atmosphere,
longing to see those hopeful baby steps.

Fishermen have a different tale;
red tape is strangling their trade.
The vet’s inspection takes five hours
while seafood’s dying in the crate.
There’s export levies, with a courier’s fee,
disbursement charge, a trail of paperwork,
their living gutted, gasping on the slab.
It’s not what they were promised, days ago.

But here’s Rees Mogg, successful businessman,
who’s got good news. “Our fish are back.
They’re British fish, and happier for that.”
He smiles. Of course. The whole thing is a joke.