F

 F

Farage’s fanatical followers

Flocked

Following fake Facebook

Fallacies flippantly forwarded

For fuckwits

Flag flying football fighters

Fell for Farage’s

Fear fraught fables

Felt fury

Fought floundering forces

Fireworks flew

Flames flared fiercely

Funeral flower folk flinched fearfully

Frog-face frets

Feels framed

Flustered

Fortunately for Farage

Florida’s fan-favourite

Fruit-faced

Future Führer

Forges fond fellowship

Fast-forward five

Finds flourishing Fararge

Fantasies fulfilled

Fronting fully fledged fascist federation

For foreseeable future

All reactions:

2Leon Hellboys and 1 other

All reactions:

2Leon Hellboys and 1 other

I'm Goin' to Clacton

 I’m going to Clacton

Reform canvassed by the seaside

Baited there without a doubt

Yarmouth Skegness and Clacton

Where the skint folk all hangout

I’m goin’ to Clacton

Only the sea is brown

Yeah I’m going to Clacton

The “Little” people’s town

Well come on down to Clacton

Smoke drink and wreck your health

Go shake the hand of the big-talking man

Make a sucker of yourself

Yeah go to Clacton

The clown’s on the pier

Minority snowflake woke factions

Had best keep clear

Whetherspoons is a heaving

People all but stoop and bow

Hearing and eagerly believing

In The Moon and Starfish now

I’m goin’ to Clacton

But I’ll be floating no boat

‘Cause I’m going to Clacton

Where Farage won the vote

People will laugh at you in Clacton

If you told ‘em what was on your mind

But if they tax wealth less like the contract says

Profiteers will rob you blind

Yeah go to Clacton

You big talking man

With your banner of distraction

And EU pension plan

Well Reform canvassed by the seaside

Bated there without a doubt

More crime and poverty in Clacton

Ever since they voted out

I’m goin’ to Clacton

Is Nigel coming back

From giving Trump satisfaction

I wish he’d got the sack

Reform canvassed by the seaside

Baited there without a doubt

Yarmouth Skegness and Clacton

Where the skint folk all hangout

Five Years

Five Years

Conmen, gifting everywhere;

So many farmers sighing;

Queues miles long at Dover;

We’ve got profiteers power supplying;

Hard right’s taking over;

The left is clearly dying;

New guy says we’re Labour led,

But no one’s really buying;

I saw populists, elected by gullibility;

I heard an activists’ hate on TV;

His brain was a spite warehouse, it had so much to scare,

He said, send troops to the beach and shoot every illegal there;

And all the trans and gay people;

And all the liberal people;

And all the jobless, poor people;

And all the foreign born people;

I never saw hate for so many people.

An underage kid, off his head,

Shot at Trump, from a building;

If God hadn’t have played a hand,

I think he would’ve killed him.

Old frog face flew across the pond,

For a friend, in need of a pat on the back;

I Hope Clacton-on-Sea’s people are pleased,

Cos I near threw up at the thought of that;

I think I saw you, by a Whetherspoons bar,

Throw a milk shake, cool and long,

Right in his face; he was looking so smug;

Don’t think he knew you were in the throng.

His Reform UK, and Trump’s MAGA’s gaining traction,

And the cause, for sure, is government inaction;

Not gays, not race, not gender, not woke;

It’s super-yachts, not rubber-boats

That’s left us all broke.

We’ve got five years, to roll up the blinds;

Five years, to win hearts and minds;

We’ve got five years, to take back the pot;

Five years, and fix all the rot;

We’ve got five years, to turn back the tide;

Five years, else get privatised;

We’ve got five years, to bring people round;

Five years; wealth don’t trickle down;

We’ve got five years, to reform the UK;

Five years, but not Nigel’s way;

We’ve got five years, to fund the state schools;

Five years, to supply the right tools;

We’ve got five years for our NHS,

Five years; to be either best;

We’ve got five years; or missed when it’s gone;

Five years; it’s not very long.

Five years,

Five years,

Five years,

Five years.

The Rule of Law

Rule of Law

Grease the right palms then grease ‘em some more,

Prosecutors get kicked out the door,

The rule of law was broken; done for,

By lucrative liars in ’24.

Convicted felons appeal, and walk free,

Innocent children drown in the sea,

Short selling hedge-funders buy super-yachts,

Billionaires legally raid pension pots,

Morons misguided, throw missiles galore,

At shell-shocked-shelter-seekers, on the seashore,

The rule of law was broken; done for,

By lucrative liars in ’24.

Male-chauvinist pigs decry women’s rights,

(One’s got a president’s term in his sights),

Property magnates; MPs of late,

Write manifestos of prejudice, hate,

Puppets, under an autocrat’s strings,

Enthroned, become tyrannical Kings;

Corporates bleed the public-purse dry,

Foddered employees work till they die,

Private-insurance don’t cover the bill,

For workers, unskilled, and dangerously ill;

High GDP rates don’t profit the poor,

Whilst Machiavellians, from the top drawer,

Rule over wannabe lions that roar,

In the midst of a make-believe culture war;

The rule of law was broken; done for,

By lucrative liars in ’24.

Lettuces, backed-by-minority, betray,

Bankrupt their country, then walk away

With riches, received by way of reward,

For being the worst-ever boss on the board;

A found-guilty, criminal (best not use names,

Lest I get sued for unwarranted claims),

Fascist, with racist political views,

Started a riot, declared it, “Fake news”,

Paid off a porn star he couldn’t get rid,

And was let-off till after his POTUS bid;

Swerving a fine, and maybe, jail time,

(Such was the seriousness of his crime),

His only opponent, being confused,

Very forgetful and certain to lose,

The criminal’s set for a four year encore,

Convictions quashed and forgotten, for sure;

Grease the right palms and grease ‘em some more;

Populists prosper, however hard-core:

The rule of law was broken; done for,

By lucrative liars in ’24.

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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.