Here’s a short ramble I wish to recite,
(Evermore hopeful of your attention);
Concerning powers of persuasion, insight,
A sprinkling of fanciful invention,
And a dawn meeting at Stansted Airport;
An anecdote really, nothing much more,
Though its recitation may land me in court,
And provoke the wrath of the hard-right-core.
But caution be damned! let's cut to the chase:
I’d been up drinking espresso all night;
Which, apart from causing my heart to race,
Occasioned a gabbling, magically bright,
In a taxi, taking me to Stansted,
From where I was flying to Italy.
The cabbie hung on every word I said;
And I very nearly, temptingly
Took up his offer to waver the fare;
He having decided to quit driving,
On my advice, to go study somewhere
And train for a career in sky- diving!
Fare offer refused; I bade him goodbye,
And, feeling hungry and thirstily dry,
My wife and I passed through security,
And entered an all but empty café;
I purchased some toast and a brew-of-tea;
And who should I see not five yards away,
But Tommy Robinson! Luton’s proud son;
For many a patriot; man of the year;
Sitting alone at a table-for-one;
Dapperly decked out in Stone Island gear.
Nodding my head by way of “Good morning”,
But giving no sign of recognition;
Lest he mistake “Good morning” for fawning;
I took my tray, of airport nutrition,
To a nearby table; and there I sat,
Still In a state of caffeinated elation,
Bombarding my wife with endless chit chat;
Or rather: compelling information.
“Excuse me mate”, came a voice in my ear,
“I’m sorry to intrude; but would you mind
If I join you? I’d really like to hear
Your views on the patriotically inclined,
Democratic Football Lads Alliance,
Reform UK, and right-wing defiance”.
Hence Tommy, given my invitation,
Joined us; whereupon I gave him my views
On those topics; along with immigration,
The woke-left-agenda, BBC News,
Palestine, Trump, Islamists and Farage:
Tommy looked vacant, decidedly grey,
Seemingly lost in deep-thought, by and large;
He certainly didn’t have much to say
In any case, even when the Tannoy blared;
“Will Mr Yaxley Lennon please go to gate
Three?”, he simply, as if mesmerised, stared,
Oblivious, to the fact he was late;
I gave him a nudge to him make aware;
He gazed at me uncomprehendingly,
Then all of a sudden, leapt from his chair
And ran (I assumed) to gate number three.
Later, on YouTube a podcast I saw
Of Tommy, announcing a change of name:
"Tommy Robinson, from now is no more”
He said, and his voice sounded much the same
As the Tommy I’d met and spoken to;
As for appearance; there’d been a sea-change;
His nails were painted; his hair was dyed blue,
And his hippy attire was equally strange:
Gone was Stone Island; both coat and sweater;
Ditched for a kaftan and a jumble-sale top,
With a printed slogan: “I STAND WITH GRETA”;
His cheesecloth trousers (from a charity shop),
Complimented his open toed sandals,
Which in-turn, showed off his feet to perfection;
His wrists were adorned with colourful bangles;
His bearing was of poetic reflection.
Thus, in every way, Tommy was gone;
Timothy Ribbons stood now in his place;
The ugly duckling, if not quite a swan,
Was clearly no longer a right-wing head case:
Today, he’s a highly respected mentor;
A socialist muse for aspiring MPs;
He works as a volunteer at a centre,
That offers asylum to all refugees.
Timothy Ribbons: whoever would’ve guessed?
Such was the charm of the words that came out
As I aired my views, upon his request,
His transformation was never in doubt;
And if that sounds like a load of old toffee,
I’ll gladly discuss it over a coffee.
