Party Animals

Liz Truss is raving on the floor
as Tory members yell for more.
She beams in triumph. She’s so keen
she’ll hit the ground. What can she mean?
Full steam ahead, no ifs no buts.
Splash out the cash, but make no cuts
except for taxes on the rich.
Raise benefits? No. Life’s a bitch.
Among the pundits there’s some doubt
about how this will balance out
but Liz refers them to the man
who’s helped her draft this cunning plan.

Cue Kwasi, claiming his reward.
He’s worked out what we can afford
but check it with the OBR?
No way, he says. A step too far.
A TV star he’ll have you know;
he hit the buzzer like a pro
but still there has to come a day
when we hear what the experts say.
He holds his cards close to his chest;
he’s heard inscrutable is best.
Maybe November 23rd?
His critics say that that’s absurd.
OK. October 31st,
and let the markets do their worst.
Sadly, they’re not prepared to wait
and their unease will seal his fate.

The music’s loud, the lights are dim,
the future forecast’s looking grim
but still Liz parties to the end
and with delight she greets her friend.
“The poor”, says Coffey, plied with drink,
“are not as poor as you might think.
You want some pills to ease your cares?
Forget the doctor. I’ve got spares.”

The king’s next door. Liz took the oath
but her allegiance is to growth.
So all the governments she was in
get trashed; their work goes in the bin.
Around the world they watched, aghast
as everything unravelled, fast.
They see the carnage that ensued:
if you’ve a mortgage then you’re screwed.
Low wages now will buy you less
and as for energy – a mess.
You want to cry, you want to scream;
that press conference – was that a dream?
King Charles witnesses this farce,
the mounting debris, broken glass.
He speaks for all of us, it’s clear.
“Oh dear”, he says. “Oh dear. Oh dear.”

Blind Spot

She’s had to ditch that school job, which she loved;
some supermarket shifts will pay the bills.
She’s haunted by the story of a kid
who mimes that he is eating, very day,
taking an empty lunchbox into school.
And on the news, this big man in a suit
says he’ll be cutting taxes on the rich.

He thinks he sees it all. He can’t see her
because he’s focussed on the nods and smiles
as donors pat his back, congratulate
their protégé, and top up his champagne.
There will be turbulence, but he’ll maintain
this course. He tells them what they want to hear.
“It’s just the start. There will be more to come.”

The Blinkered Dormouse

A small myopic hamster, she has that rodent look
like Mrs. Tiggywinkle in some ancient children’s book.
DWP, she bares her teeth – a ferret gone berserk.
Select Committee have their doubts. Does this stuff really work?
She’s told to do a full review to check that there’s no doubt.
She does, but three years later the findings still aren’t out.

Fast forward, she’s in charge of Health. A crisis, plain to see.
A study charts the impact of inequality.
Huge load of pressures, crises, so where should she begin?
The stuff on inequality goes straight into the bin.
Thérèse can not be doing with these tedious reports
whose findings often contradict her own subjective thoughts.

She’s swigged the Johnson cool-aid, she’s buddies with Liz Truss.
There’s nothing else that matters, the answer’s always – us.

Ode to Autumn 2022

Season of mists. Unregulated Truss
lights up the gloom of this autumnal fog,
concocts a brew designed to cause a fuss
-              a shot of Coffey, sprinkled with Rees-Mogg.
First sack that Treasury mandarin, who’s slow.
Ignore the windfalls. Pruning. Cut right back.
Remember DEFRA, sewage? Cut away,
and most of all the green stuff. Exit Zac.
Above all, let the Civil Service know
that bloody Oxford comma has to go.
The cost of living? No. Some other day.

Who hath not seen the aging Tory few
seething with anger at their man betrayed?
They fix on Liz, to start the charge anew
and build upon foundations he has laid.
No levelling down. Be clear it’s not a crime
to be in business. Peasants should give thanks.
And while for some this winter will be cruel
she will pay more to those who run the banks.
The harvest’s in, so watch those profits climb.
There will be bills for which there won’t be time –
environment, obesity, and fuel.

Where are the songs of Spring? You may well ask.
There’s nothing here that offers any hope
to youngsters, who confront a massive task.
Your average superhero couldn’t cope.
But in a wailful choir the MPs drone
unthinking loyalty, vote through each act
-              whatever Liz is, she is surely Right –
and now, before we know it, we’ve been fracked.
She knows that she can do this on her own;
she’ll stride ahead, imperious, alone
and send the trolls atwitter with delight.    

Good Riddance

So, Johnson, finally you’re on your bike.
The Tory faithful swear you’ve been betrayed.
The bubbly Boris banter’s what they like
and they don’t care about the mess you’ve made.
Though fans will claim you got the big calls right
the record shows you dithered, bluffed and lied.
Consistency and decency took flight;
your mates all made a mint, and thousands died.
You held pandemic parties, pushed your luck,
did what you wanted, took us all for fools.
And now, belatedly, you’ve come unstuck
you have the nerve to claim they changed the rules.
Enough excuses. Time to call a halt
and face the fact. It’s no-one else’s fault.

Liz Truss visits the optician

Redistribution is a lens, says Truss,
which governments may choose to use – or not.
Although egalitarians will fuss
she’s happy when the richest gain a lot
‘cos through the unearned profits lens that’s fine.
The endless trays mean flexibility:
when she’s in fearless critic mode her line
is “Brits are workshy scroungers”, but she’s free
to boast of our resilience when she brings
her imitation Churchill lens to bear.
This way? Or that? Her smiling profile swings
from side to side. Who cares what’s right or fair?
Once posing has begun, she cannot stop;
this is her favourite lens – the photo op.

Dreamland

When we set out, each Lioness
seemed well equipped to handle stress.
Strong, smart and skilful, Millie Bright
is sure the preparation’s right.
Sarina’s thorough, calm, astute -
so cool, that Marks and Spencers’ suit.
Selection, substitutions, plays
are analysed, rehearsed for days.
Each tackles back, fills in those holes.
The work, the glory and the goals
are shared. The press are cockahoop –
at fourteen - nil they top the group.

After an hour they feel the pain
of chasing down a skilful Spain.
With subs the fightback can begin:
Russo to Toone, who stabs it in.
It’s extra time. Fear of defeat
is palpable, as Spain retreat.
Stanway lets fly from miles out
It’s in! No VAR, no room for doubt.

The semis. Sweden’s swift attack
has England reeling, on the rack.
They’re saved by Earps, and then the bar;
is this, maybe, one game too far?
But then, the magic of Beth Mead.
Bronze heads the second that we need.
It’s looking like a special day
when Russo takes the breath away.
The skill of that backheel – the cheek!
What we are watching is unique.

Final at Wembley. Popp can’t play
but Germany are on their way;
the tackles come in, hard and tight,
there’s early cards for Stanway, White.
A scramble, Earps is on the floor
and England dare to breathe once more.

An hour in, with subs in place,
the wonder Walsh finds Toone in space;
advances, with sublime control
and chips the keeper, brilliant goal.
We’re thinking that will lead the news
but Germans don’t know how to lose;
before our disbelieving eyes
they break away, and equalise.

There’s half an hour more to play.
Germany ? Penalties? No way.
There’s been great goals we can recall
but here’s the scruffiest of all.
A goalmouth melee, Wembley roars
as Kelly shoots, it’s blocked, she scores!  

Now, finally, the dream comes true –
the Euro champions, twenty-two
are England; Williamson steps up
to take the plaudits, lift the cup.
This crowd of women, children, men
learn how to celebrate again.
We cheer them, but they cheer us too,
remind us of the stuff we knew –
smart planning, teamwork, skill and style
done well, but always with a smile.
A staid press conference is the scene
for their triumphant dance routine.
So here’s to every Lioness
who helped us share in their success.

The End of his Tether

Big Dog is panting, gives a mournful howl,
pads round the tea-room, looking for his friends.
The sap who did Today gives him a scowl
then turns away. Is this the way it ends?
He’s doing so well, with levelling up it’s clear
there’s forty brand new hospitals we’ll get.
Woof, woof. The Brexit gains will soon appear
and no-one told him Pincher was a threat.
He swung the Brexit vote, it was his call
to chase away remoaners – sack the lot.
His bulldozer brought down the big red wall
and no-one in the pack has what he’s got:
a fourteen million mandate. Him – concede?
No way. He clamps his jaws on to that lead.

Tabloid Treachery

The vote was sprung on the PM in the
NIGHT OF THE BLOND KNIVES.
Stabbed in the back by 148 Tories,
a mixed bag of malcontents.
Some of his ministers used
the privacy of the ballot box
to stick the knife in.
Jesse Norman used to be his friend.
Petulant Tory renegades pressed the nuclear button…
dozens of irresponsible attention-seekers…
self-centred narcissists are taking
millions of Conservative voters with them.
Like Mad Vlad Putin they threaten
to keep bombing until they have reduced
this Government and everything their party stands for
to rubble.

And what is the alternative?
Jeremy Hunt is a “pound-shop Machiavelli”
Theresa May in trousers. He and his gang
of embittered remainers plotted for a YEAR.
They will gift the keys of no. 10 to Keir Starmer
a charmless chancer who, apparently,
is still confused by the facts of life.
Why open the door to smirking Starmer’s coalition of chaos?

DEFIANT AND UNBOWED
BORIS VOWS “I’LL BASH ON.”
This is the man who got Brexit done,
who rolled the vaccine out,
who got the big calls right.
Innovative solutions to longstanding problems
-      this is what he does:
migrants to Rwanda, social care.
The needs of Britain have to come before
the vanity of his ambitious rivals.
And now let’s focus focus on what really counts…

"What bloody man is that?"

Across a stage obscured by fog or smoke
flit fearful shadows, hiding in the gloom.
The mutters of assorted punditry
(each confident they are equipped
to analyse the rumours, read the runes)
are buried by the thunder of the guns.
Enter Macbeth. Hacks through diplomacy
garottes dissent, explodes what’s in his way.

He’s had it up to here with partnership.
The wife got ditched. The younger model learnt
to be invisible behind the scenes.  
The deal with Banquo never stood a chance.
Swap titles, president - prime minister?
Take turns because the rule-book says
two terms the limit? How much simpler, then,
to shred the rule-book, do it on his own.

Out on the heath, the witches speak
Chernobyl babble, they equivocate
the truth that lies behind fake news.
Fair/foul, foul/fair. All one to him.
Macduff’s a rival. Fair enough
but butchering his wife and kids
steps up the ante, makes it clear
this is a different game. There are no rules.

He’s sounding weird. Hang those that talk of fear;
there’s forests moving, neo-Nazi plots.
The victim of a thousand slights
becomes the hero of a fairy tale
he’s twisted from fag ends of history.
He’s gone too far to turn back now.
He will be hated till the end of time
but nobody can tell him what to do.   

Modus Operandi

Working from home? I wouldn’t have a clue.
Make coffee, amble to the fridge for cheese;
come back, forget what I was trying to do…
No wonder the economy’s on its knees.
Right. Feet up on the desk at Number Ten,
I raise morale, a glass. We have a laugh.
We’re working hard, so let’s have drinks again;
send out a suitcase, and abuse the staff.
But I take full responsibility
for all the dreadful stuff I never saw.
I say I’m humbled. Super sorry, me –
now let’s get back to where we were before.
Oh yes, I’ve sacked my central team as well.
Will my behaviour alter? Will it hell !

A Flight of Fancy

The lasting lesson Johnson got from school?
Outrageous images should be the rule.
Weird parallels keep buzzing through his head –
not A and B so much as A and Z.

That’s why he likens warfare in Ukraine
to Brexit’s spat between Leave and Remain.
Russian disinformation did its work
in both, split families and went berserk
but Brexit is a dream which voters choose
whereas the freedom that Ukraine would lose
is all too real. When bombing stops, smoke clears
they’re left with wreckage in a vale of tears.
Ukraine’s a tragedy, Brexit’s a game –
but otherwise the two are just the same.

Mystery

“…and he let Jimmy Savile get away!”
Not strictly true, but hey, that’s not a crime.
On some supporters’ faces there’s dismay
but here’s the clincher: bought myself some time.
Except it lingers longer than most lies.
“It’s inappropriate and partisan”
Munira says. ”You must apologise.”
I grit my teeth. I’ll take it like a man.
“It’s not his personal record I attacked.
I totally get he didn’t make that call.
He ran the organisation – that’s a fact
so he still takes the blame. I think that’s all.”

A piece of piss. Worth it, for peace of mind.
“Munira! Why on earth have you resigned?”

Transparency

Smart room, eh? Cost two million quid,
so we can tell you what we did.
We fast-tracked deals for PPE,
a national emergency.
Less chance to check, humungous spends
meant massive profits for our friends.
A Brexiter’s severely shamed
so we spread rumours he’s been framed.
Trial by jury earns respect –
it’s just the verdict we reject.
No Covid parties. We’re not fools.
But those there were kept to the rules.
Today, the truth is what we say.
We don’t remember yesterday.

The Playing Field

Baroness Dido Harding jumps the queue
where power people hand out jobs. Her face
just seems to fit. Without an interview
she’s ushered in as boss of test and trace.
When Covid testing has a vacancy
she intervenes to add an extra name.
Mike Coupe’s a Sainsbury’s colleague; his cv
includes no public health, but all the same
he gets the job. Meanwhile, her other half
lands anti-corruption champion – just the chap.
And then, to the dismay of angry staff,
another health job drops in Dido’s lap.
To ignorant observers, it’s a mess;
to those that know, unqualified success.

A Miracle at Christmas

It’s Christmas day at the madhouse
where statesmen run affairs;
Omicron’s running rampant but
it’s holidays – who cares?
The Saj and Thérèse Coffey are
engaged in a dispute:
maybe don’t snog a stranger
unless they’re really cute?
“Last year there was no party” –
the PM holds the line -
“and if there was it kept to rules
so everything is fine.”
But Secret Santa, party games
beneath the mistletoe?
And now – can you believe this, folks? –
a bloody video.
They use the smart new briefing room
that cost two million quid;
Allegra does her party piece
about what they just did.
“ A meeting – but with added drinks –
a gathering of staff.
But was there social distancing?”
The whole thing is a laugh.
In retrospect she can’t believe
her own stupidity;
she used to be respectable,
worked for the BBC.
But now she’s on her tearful way
it comes as no surprise
and Number Ten tells Johnson
he must apologise.
“The party I said never was
it seems has taken place.
Though nobody invited me –
and that’s the real disgrace.”
He stays upbeat, he keeps the faith:
“Though Fate’s about to screw yer  –
unto us a child is born.
Glory, Hallelujah!”

Wonder Woman

She told select committee
She wasn’t at ease at all.
Ethnic minority minister –
Could be a long, long haul.
She needs to sort out Windrush which
Has left a nasty smell
But this new broom is sweeping clean
Home Secretary Patel.

The Border Force are seeking
Where scroungers may be found.
They’ll find these vulnerable craft
And make them turn around.
They have the strictest orders –
Deter, divert, repel –
She’s fighting gangs, she’s saving lives
The heroine Patel.  

She smeared a Muslim preacher
And must apologise
But that’s the price you have to pay
For bullying and lies.
The refugees go somewhere else
Albania would be swell
So long as they do not come here
That suits Priti Patel.

And now she wants new powers
to help her stop the rot.
One minute you’re a citizen
and then – ta da! – you’re not.
The lawyers and the lefties
Are anxious to rebel
So she calls in the heavy mob
Does populist Patel.

Windrush did not get sorted.
There’s payments overdue
While unheard migrant cases form
An everlasting queue.
Ten years of Tory botching and
The system’s shot to hell;
There’s only one solution –
It has to be Patel.

World Leader

He looks around the dressing room
and tries to lift the sense of gloom.
His half-time team talk. 5-1 down.
Climate’s the only game in town.
The skipper’s rallying his men –
“although it’s tough, we go again.
Look, guys, no hairshirts, I’m no geek.
No need to be an eco-freak
to do this stuff. We win this game
and life will go on much the same.”
He’s confident he’s shown the way:
“So step up, chaps. Now, what d’you say?”

They’re thinking yes, he’s good at talk
but is he going to walk the walk?
His voting record’s anti-green
and party donors aren’t that keen.
His budget mentions no expense
for climate. How can that make sense?
The green homes deal was a flop
and foreign aid has seen a drop.
Coalmine in Cumbria, Shetland oil,
a flood of effluent to spoil
the rivers. No-one’s keeping rules
or cutting back on fossil fuels.
They hope what’s coming into view
is rational action, followed through.

Then, just before the conference starts…
Ta da! The man of many parts
says “ Here it is, for all to see
-              my new net zero strategy!”
It doesn’t mention farming, meat
or flying - is this plan complete?
There was a document which said
if we don’t alter course, we’re dead -
our whole behaviour has to change.
Then Johnson chose to rearrange
the schedule, so that bit got dropped.
The script’s revised, the picture’s cropped.

 Glasgow, November. Make or break.
The future of the world’s at stake.
Ten years back, promises were made
but then not kept. The debts weren’t paid.
A hundred billion to support
poor countries, but they came up short.
Time and again the future’s dreams
are strangled by the complex schemes
of those who find a devious way
to make these green solutions pay.
Communities about to drown
watch profits rise as they go down.

The leaders of the world in place.
He’s looking for a friendly face.
How much will Merkel back a bloke
who treats the EU as a joke?
Is Macron really feeling sore
about that trivial fishing war?
Biden, maybe, still takes the hump
at dealing with a mini-Trump
who spread Obama smears and then
put Irish peace at risk again.
Just when his ego needs a boost
the chickens all come home to roost.

No matter. He knows how this plays –
a stunning joke, a vivid phrase.
No blah blah blah, last-chance saloon.
Actions not words, aim for the moon
with fantasy, of which he’s fond.
“Minute to midnight, we’re James Bond.
The ticking bomb must be defused…”
It’s safe to say they’re not amused.
Too bad. While losers take the train
he’s heading for his private plane.
He and Prince Charles flew from Rome
on separate flights. It’s hitting home
that message about action/words
but not for him. That’s for the birds.
He’s done his bit, he’s done his best,
he’ll leave the details to the rest.
While global warming runs berserk
somebody else can do the work.   

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.