Four Bellends and a Farage

Four Bellends and a Farage

A firm on the brink of ruination,

Finally entered administration,

Upon a further turbulent five years,

Of erosion, on the part of Sir Keir’s

Management, which was certainly no worse

Than that of before, yet failed to reverse

The consequences of that reckless teams’

Underinvestment and devious schemes;

Sir Keir, amounting to more of the same,

Being identical in all but name,

Team Starmer fled leaving no one in charge,

Hence enter four bellends, and a Farage.

There shortly followed a town-hall meeting,

Whereat the Farage, post formal greeting,

Said, “Our once great company’s in dire need

Of reform, and I invite you to read

This new contract, written by Richard Tice,

My good friend, colleague and source of advice”;

Said contract was later picked up by all

In attendance, upon leaving the hall;

Deafened ears, ringing with rapturous cheers,

Eye moistened, cheeks sodden with joyful tears,

As the Farage obliged each member of staff

Requesting a selfie and autograph.

But who were the aforementioned bellends;

The Farage’s colleagues and very good friends?

Richard Tice was a property millionaire,

Who’d spent some time in the Farage’s chair,

Temporarily keeping his seat warm,

Spreading the gospel of business reform,

Whilst the Farage was airing right-wing views

On Fox LBC and GB News.

Ben Habib was a property magnate

A losing by-election candidate

A long term Tory party donator,

Brexit fanatic, and boat-people hater.

Lee Anderson, known as 30p Lee,

Had a very limited vocabulary,

“I just want my country back”, he’d complain,

Over and over and over again.

And last but not least, Doctor David Bull,

Founder of the company Incredibull;

One time presenter and Tory MP,

Now deputy leader, both Habib and he.

“This is the board that will see the firm through

A total reform, refreshing brand new”,

So-said the Farage, and how the staff cheered,

Blinded as they were before the mist cleared.

And clear it did, by which time the Farage

And the bellends, were no longer at large;

Profits, unshared were enough for five yachts,

An island retreat, and elite private plots.

And who did the staff seek for punishment

Whilst drowning in debt and impoverishment?

Not the Farage, no nor the bellends;

They would be always remembered as friends:

Woke ideology, trans, immigration,

Dragged down the firm, along with nation,

As implied in the Farage’s contract,

That was an incontrovertible fact.

See contract excerpt below:

"Record mass immigration has damaged

our country. The small boats crisis threatens

our security. Multiculturalism has imported

separate communities that reject our way of

life. Divisive, ‘woke’ ideology has captured our

public institutions. Transgender indoctrination is

causing irreversible harm to children".

A League (For Mary-Ann)

A League (For Mary-Ann)

There’s a league of poets

I’ve gotten to know

Over the last five years or so

An ecliptic mix bi straight trans gay

Brown black white yellow grey

And hand on heart I can honestly say

I’ve never in sixty plus years

Come across a league as wonderful

I feel I’m among familial peers

And I’m so appreciative

Of them all

Audience and performers alike

Whether main act or open mic

I thank you from the bottom of my heart

For welcoming and making me feel part

Of an amazing community

Which till relatively recently

I didn’t know existed

And of names

Too numerous to be listed

I’ll mention but one

Mary-Ann

My rock in the lake

Where the ripples

Began

The Road to Clacton Pier

 The Road to Clacton Pier

I like Great Britain how it used to be,

And Nigel Farage has said as much too;

So, could it be that we, are happily,

Harmoniously, of a common view?

Alas no; Nigel, as I understand,

Is an ultra-Tory Thatcherite man;

Keen to complete what Thatcher first planned,

In ’79, when her term began:

Pray listen as I attempt to convey,

My thoughts on the past, present, future UK.

Aged seventeen, I lived in a bedsit;

A common thing then for someone my age;

I lived very well, even saved a fair bit;

And all on a modest factory wage,

When income tax was thirty three percent:

I ask you: how many youngsters today,

Can afford to be fully independent?

Even thirty year olds can’t move away;

Could it be, low income taxation,

Don’t compensate for privatisation?

Seems to me, comparing the past to now;

Tax-cuts haven’t bettered life quality,

Unless you live in an ivory tower,

A mansion, or a gated community;

And if, over the last forty five years,

Ever increasing NHS waiting times,

Dental fees, rail fares, water rates, rent arrears,

Debts, mortgage-payments, unsolved petty crimes,

And poverty, is anything to go by;

Thatcherite merchants have pedalled a lie.

Which begs the question: what version of GB

Does Farage want for this once great nation?

His manifesto, from what I can see,

Once immigration’s out of the equation,

Offers nothing but an acceleration,

Of what’s been happening since ’79:

i.e. a methodical disintegration

Of services that have been in decline

For forty five years; and he couldn’t care less

About Clacton-on-Sea or the NHS.

My guess is, he wants to implement Truss-

-Economics across the board, by raising

The primary tax levels for us,

Year after year, whilst gradually phasing

Out the NHS, by making it easier

To go private; giving the impression

We’re all better off; life being breezier

Without the tax burden, not to mention

Closed borders, net zero immigration,

The end of woke, and a Saint George vacation.

And when the roads have more potholes than road,

People have to work past seventy five,

Rivers are still like toilets-overflowed,

Fit for work claimants are barely alive,

Healthcare’s modelled on Trump’s USA,

No cancer treatment, no elderly care,

Unless of course you can afford to pay;

When infrastructure’s in total disrepair,

Will Reform’s voters finally see through,

The lies they were told about the EU?

I like Great Britain how it used to be,

And Nigel Farage has said so too,

But his version isn’t my cup of tea,

And if Truss’s fuck-up don’t offer a clue,

Look up the cost of an operation,

Performed in a private establishment,

Peep through the borders, beyond immigration;

You’ll see a charlatan, smugly content;

Laughing, like the old clown, by Clacton pier;

Smoking a Benson and raising a beer.