Saturday, 28 September 2019

A Plea

Please don’t nail my testicles to the table,
It’s’s a valuable table and I prize it.
It’s rosewood, 1820 , deep red brown with grain of sable,
And it’s English too, so please do not despise it.
Of course the Regent did admire the Napoleonic style,
So it has a graceful French look about it,
And of course you know, I too, am a mad keen Francophile,
It’s not my balls I care about, don’t doubt it. 

Inspired by this section of an article in The Spectator by Rory Sutherland:

Remainers have almost exclusively made their case on economic grounds, yet in a manner far more fanatical than the businesses they claim to defend. One of the strangest aspects of the Brexit debate is how readily people on the left adopt neo-liberal beliefs about free trade when it supports their emotional predisposition. This may explain why such people have won so few converts; after all, it doesn’t sound convincing to hear leftists suddenly profess passionate concern for global supply-chains. Theirs is an emotional fear disguised as an economic argument; a bit like saying: ‘Please don’t nail my testicles to the table, it’s a very valuable table.’
You can’t help but think: ‘That isn’t your real reason, is it? 

Thursday, 26 September 2019

I’m a Goody

My vitriol and vile abuse is alright,
I’m a goody, I can’t stand deceit.
Who wouldn’t abuse H*tl*r, who’d be polite?
Don’t call me a hypocrite, let me bleat
About how hurt I am, that that fat cheat,
Johnson, had the temerity to utter the name, last night,
Of an old fashioned sweet.
My vitriol and vile abuse is alright
When faced with the sight
Of Tories why not repeat
All the insults one knows? This is a fight.
I’m a goody, I can’t stand deceit
And Johnson lies and won’t admit defeat,
He says he’ll carry out Brexit, he’s so far right,
And he means it, he’s so full of conceit. 
Who wouldn’t abuse H*tl*r, who’d be polite
When faced with these Tory, leaver swine and their sh*te?
It’s our democratic duty to turn up the heat
And break the rules and violence incite.
Don’t call me a hypocrite, let me bleat,
It’s my bounden duty, right and  meet
And taking offence is a ritual or rite,
A religious practice, like an outrage tweet
And am I outraged!  and full of spite
And vile abuse.

Wednesday, 25 September 2019

A Supreme Being

Hello, I’ m Lady Hale,
I have  just replaced The Queen,
I may be grey and frail,
Though I’m not some old ‘has been’.
I’m the face of progress, a new broom sweeping clean.
Don’t give me your tradition, for it’s stale.
I make up law upon the hoof, and seek out pastures green.
Hello, I’m Lady Hale,
My role is to derail.
I find the Constitution quite obscene.
I wish to see it ruined and so it’s up for sale.
I have just replaced The Queen,
Who needs the old Monarchic scene?
We will be a Republic, but first let us hail
Me, as Protecter, I’m in charge and quite serene.
I may be grey and frail
But I never ever fail
To trash all that’s held good and I’ve been seen
So to do: the old order’s coffin got its final nail.
Though I’m not some old ‘has-been’
There are some rules on which I’m keen:
My judgement can’t be questioned, or I’ll wail
And scweam. I’m impartial, don’t deny it as I intervene,
I weigh only justice in my scale.
I’m Lady Hale. 

Tuesday, 17 September 2019

“The Haste of the Fool is the Slowest Thing in the World. “

The slowest thing in the world is the haste of the fool,
Who seeks to undermine that which over years
Has been held fast, because it is a good.
He rushes through his Bills and seeks to rule
A people whom he holds in deep contempt,
And cannot bear the fact he shares their race,
Dispensing with their wishes in distaste
He makes them criminal by passing acts.

Because he is a fool he moves in haste
And sees the nation through his weak, myopic lenses
A poor, distorted, wishy washy place
Where principle and moral have no force,
Revealing he has nothing understood
And ultimately cannot stay the course.

And other fools, whipped up into like frenzies,
Craving power in their ignorant greed,
Champion his folly as they school
Their minds in shallow, thin and meaningless ideas,
Believing they are radical, in contradiction
To the definition of the word, for who needs facts?

That which Orwell had predicted but thought fiction
Has come about through this crazèd, foolish speed
This ‘rational’, ‘liberal’ shallow intervention
Has sought to lay a once great nation waste. 

But a fool’s haste is the slowest thing there is
And a country knows its stories and its fate
And writes its history in terms of people,
And fools, by definition, learn too late
Their folly, viz:
Movements borne of popular dissent
Are never crushed by those who legislate. 

Wednesday, 4 September 2019

Detected as Spam

This comment has been detected as Pek,
Your previous comment was detected as Fray Bentos corned beef,
Because it attempted to start a bit of an Argie bargie.
Here at the Spectator, every time we see one of your comments,
We think ooh ‘eck, this woman’s ideas are beyond the pale,
But we don’t want anyone giving her grief,
We believe in free speech, yet this woman’s feeble minded, frail,
And highly offensive, like cheap ham.
So we’ll detect her remarks as spam,
All arseholes and eyeballs, and beyond belief.