Lustily, to the tune of ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’

 Our sewage pours into the ocean
Our turds bob around in the sea
Brown effluent laps at our ankles
Oh bring back my Blue Flag to me

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my Blue Flag to me, to me
Bring back, bring back [deep breath]
the EU Marine Strategy Framework Directive to me

The fat cats get £25 million
while shit clogs our rivers and seas
Their profits nudge £2.8 billion
Yeah money sure grows on those trees

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my Blue Flag to me, to me
Clear up, clear up
Oh clear up this strange rash for me

The Tories all think it’s appalling
and clutch at their pearls in dismay,
But back when they actually voted,
let shit-pumpers have their own way

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my Blue Flag to me, to me
Dish up, dish up
some great British seafood to me…

On second thoughts, I’ll just have a bag of chips.

Surfers Against Sewage
https://www.sas.org.uk/

The Rivers Trust
https://theriverstrust.org/key-issues/sewage-in-rivers

‘UK government’s sewage spills strategy is ‘cruel joke’, say critics’ (The Guardian, Friday 26 August)

“For I was hungry and you gave me food sent me to a foodbank, I was thirsty and you gave me a drink cut Universal Credit as prices soared, I was a stranger and you welcomed me put me on a plane to Rwanda, I was naked and you clothed me got yourself a flash new suit from Savile Row, I was sick and you visited me partied on, I was in prison need of a lawyer and you came to me cut Legal Aid.” Then the Righteous One will answer Him, “Lord, we can’t just give handouts to any Tom, Dick or Jesus, especially when he’s a brown-skinned refugee.”

And the King will answer him, “Truly I say to you: you are a hypocritical, unchristian git.” Matthew 25:35-40

17 April 2022 (Easter Sunday): ‘Rwanda asylum plan is “almost Easter story of redemption” says Rees-Mogg’: https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2022/apr/17/uk-asylum-seekers-plan-rwanda-jacob-rees-mogg

Rishi ‘Man of the People’ Sunak stares glumly at the sunset from his £5.5 million Santa Monica penthouse. Why are they being so mean to him? Alright, so energy bills have risen by 54%, the UK’s facing the worst slump in living standards since 1956 and inflation’s through the roof, but what exactly do they want him to do about it? He’s only Chancellor, after all. He couldn’t slap a windfall tax on the billion-pound profits of the Big Six, or backtrack on that NI rise. Well OK, he could.

And now they’re having a pop at his darling hyper-wealthy wife. It’s not like she can help being a billionaire’s daughter. Or like she did anything illegal by paying thirty grand a year to get out of 20 million quid in taxes. Morally repugnant, yes, but not illegal.

The wind picks up. He adjusts his designer hoodie and sighs. Should have stuck to being a Tech Bro.

Tim: Listen up — I’ve had a great idea for a Netflix series.

Mike: Oh yeah?

Tim: It’s a cross between The Manchurian Candidate, Inventing Anna and The Incredibles.

Mike: Go on…

Tim: So there’s this Russian guy, son of a London-based KGB agent turned oligarch in the post-Communist Wild West. They’re part of the filthy rich jet set, throwing parties at their Italian palazzo for celebrities and fun-loving politicians. One of these is a great pal – let’s say he’s a Mayor of London who becomes Prime Minister…

Mike: Hold up, Tim.

Tim: There’s more! Our chap gets citizenship, buys up some London newspapers, and then – in spite of repeated intelligence warnings – is made a Lord by his pal. The kicker is that they’re not even subtle: he’s something like ‘Baron Smirnoff of Henley-on-Thames in the County of Oxfordshire and of Siberia in the Russian Federation’. And that’s when the fun begins…

Mike: Can’t touch it, mate.

Tim: ???

Mike: Libellous.

Tim: Only if it ain’t true…

It’s one of those slightly surreal afternoons that Covid excels at.

First, a chemist’s at the grittier end of High Street, where one set of people is getting jabbed while another has their liquid methadone – live-saving stuff dusted with pleasantries:

‘Awright today, Steve?’
‘Could be worse, thanks, Bev.’

‘Just a small scratch…’
‘Well, that wasn’t so bad’.

Freshly boosted, she goes for a wander. She quite fancies a Bratwurst, but it’s too full for comfort. She’s damn well going to M&S for a little browse, though.

As she wrestles with her face mask at the entrance, a thirty-something-year-old bloke sidles up and says: “We still wearing a mask, then?”

His expression: smug righteousness. A confrontational gleam in the eye.

For a split second, she comes very close to decking him, then she turns and leaves him standing.

She has thermals to buy.

To the tune of Dolly Parton’s “Here You Come Again”, slow tempo

Here we go again
“We don’t think we can justify tougher measures before Christmas”
It’s going to be too late
Like every Covid wave to date
It’s doubling every two days, so just Do The Maths please

Here we go again
Ignoring all those doctors’ & consultants’ warnings
He looks into our eyes and lies those pretty lies
Putting party before country & the poor sods in it

All he has to dooooo is follow the science
To spare the NHS dire consequences
But leave it up to him and in a little while
He’ll be messing with our heads and overfilling ICU beds

Here we go again
It’s always others on the frontline while he quaffs his glass of vino
Enraging us all so, that all we really know
Is here he goes again, and here we go

And here we go
Here we go
And here we go
Here we go