Entente Militaire

I was amused to read that Cameron has now followed through with last year's promise to start having closer military ties with the old enemy France.  He and Sarkozy signed a deal last week to develop and deploy military technology together.  I wondered what would happen if we took this through to its logical conclusion.

Entente Militaire

There’s been a bit of a down-turn,

And there’s a new hand on the helm.

For now it’s getting expensive

To pay for the defence of the realm. 

We’re told we’re all in this together,

And that we’ll have to take a new course.

We can’t afford the Army or Navy,

To say nothing of a proper Air Force. 

So they’ve put their heads all together

To dig us right out of this trench.

We can’t go it alone anymore,

And we’ll have to get into bed with the French.

Now this could be easier said than is done:

I don’t think that they’ve thought this quite through.

The misunderstandings could be awful,

Without a bi-lingual crew.

This entente militaire is worrying,

It’s all too easy to see,

For we might have our brave Tommies,

Fighting alongside chaps who eat brie. 

Imagine the atmosphere in the mess-rooms,

With Gaulois & garlic creating a fug.

When asked to stand to attention,

To be met by a simple Gallic shrug.

For the French have their own way of living

I just mention this en passant.

Our guys like their full English breakfast,

But for them it’s just café et croissant. 

But now we’re just going to have to share things,

Which I can see is quite a barrier.

You can just hear it, can’t you?

Apres vous avec that aircraft carrier. 

Can I borrow your helicopters?

I think it’s our turn, sacre bleu!

You really can’t hang on to the air-craft

Come on – give us a go, Mon Dieu.

For the war on terror must continue apace,

And we must fight in every region.

We’ll contribute our SAS,

If you’ll throw in your Foreign Legion. 

We’re not fighting in Europe any more:

We don’t have to face Russkies & Huns.

But we sure can’t work on the basis

Of asking “ou sont les machine-guns”!

You may think that it can’t get that bad,

But it’s not too early to gloat,

That one day our Trident nuclear deterrent,

Could be replaced by two blokes in a boat.

So I think that all of our armed forces

Need to keep our new allies en garde.

Because if we don’t keep our eye on the ball

We could all end up in the merde.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Cheese Bored

Following Anthony Worrall-Thompson’s brush with Tesco’s security service & the law, after pinching cheese & wine.

Cheese Bored

Worrall-Thompson went to Tesco one day,

To shop for his cheese and some wine,

He left the store without paying,

And now he’s slapped with a fine. 

EDAM well messed this one up,

It’s a BOURSINE of the times,

There was STILTONS in his basket,

He could GOUDA prison for his crimes. 

He must act more CAERPHILLY in future,

Red LEICESTER he forget to pay,

CHIMAY never get past this,

For his PECORINO that day. 

I said HALLOUMI old friend,

Is this just a FETAccompli?

Whatever drove you to this?

Whatever could it BRIE? 

I asked him, “what’s this ROQUEFORT?

Can I PANEER into your bag,

It’s HARD CHEDDAR you got caught,

In fact it’s a real drag.”

In his agony he cried YARG!!

Shoplifting is very PROVOLONE I know,

He’s not been issued with a GRAND PADANO,

Sadly he’s RICOTTA go home now.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Toad In The Hole Recipe

Recipe for: TOAD-IN-THE-HOLE

Ingredients:

• 140g/ 5 oz plain or self-raising flour
• ½ tsp salt
• Lots of fresh-ground pepper
• 3 eggs
• 2 tsp Dijon mustard
• 300ml/ ½ pint milk
• Mixed fresh or dried herbs
• Chopped onions (optional)
• 6-8 good quality sausages 

Method:

1. make the batter first.  Sift the flour & salt/ pepper into a mixing bowl, adding the herbs
2. in another bowl, beat together the mustard, eggs and milk
3. make a well in the centre of the flour, and add the beaten egg mixture
4. mix to a smooth batter
5. beat the batter until thoroughly aerated – about 5 minutes
6. add the chopped onions (if using)
7. stand the batter, covered, until ready to use (at least 30 minutes)
8. heat the oven to 240C/ fan 220C for 5 minutes
9. put the sausages in a roasting tin with a little oil & place in the oven for 5 -10 minutes, until starting to brown, and the oil is very hot
10. briefly stir the batter then pour into the roasting tin, over & around the sausages
11. replace the roasting tin into the oven & cook for another 25-30 minutes until risen & golden brown

What else you need to know:

1. try to avoid opening the oven door during cooking so as not to lose temperature
2. great with onion gravy, or with baked beans

News From Bromham - Headlines on Sunday 26th February

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 26^th February 2012

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

·       The first-ever edition of the Bromham Bugle, known as the Bun On Sunday, was published today.  Press baron Donald Piglet, announcing the new title, remarked that plenty of other pigs already had their snout in the Sunday readership trough, but that there was still room in the market for another.

·       The Council for Humanitarian Aid, at its headquarters in leafy Trowbridge (CHAT), announced agreement to a ten-minute ceasefire every two hours between the warring Bromham Parish Council, and the Seend Separatist Movement.  CHAT Secretary General, Komfy Sofa, admitted that the practicalities of imposing such a repetitious and confusing timetable on the two parties would be enormous, but hoped that both sides would soon become so muddled that their constant bickering might cease.

·       The hut once lived in by Seend Separatist leader, Osama Been Lardy, at that bit in the woods where the trees thin out, just after the bend in the path, has been demolished by local farmer Jonathan Piglet, on behalf of the Parish Council.  It is reported that they did not want the shack to become a place of pilgrimage for religious radicals.

·       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

A Case Of Mistaken Identity

It's Saturday, and the end of the world hasn't happened (see yesterday's blog), so no surprise there then.  Turning back to the real big events of the world, here is a trivial example of mistaken identity.

The New Vicar

Our village is small but quite pretty,

With a shop, a pub and a church.

Then our vicar broke some commandments,

And left his flock in the lurch. 

The bishop he had to be summoned,

And we told him how we’d been rocked,

By the antics of our latest Reverend.

Well – in the end, he was defrocked. 

It was now several months later,

And I heard it only by chance:

A removal truck had been spotted -

Our new vicar had moved in to the Manse.

So, being of a neighbourly demean,

I thought I’d meet him as soon as I could,

And welcome him to his new parish,

And nip any problems right there in the bud. 

I wandered along up to his front door.

Well - you can imagine my shock,

When the door was soon answered,

By a tall young bloke in a smock.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

He stood there with a mop of long hair.

He had tattoos and an earring,

And before I knew it, I was staring. 

His beard was short and quite wispy,

But the greatest of all of my cares,

Was what he was sporting below:

My God – a pair of pink flares. 

He was younger than I was expecting,

And dressed up all rather fey.

If he went round the parish like that,

Some folk wouldn’t know what to say.

I’m not an expert on the latest fashion,

Nor am I up with the latest trend,

But, what had possessed our good bishop

Such an odd character to send?

Now I’m as broad-minded as anyone,

But, to me, it was as plain as the light.

I could see that we were headed for trouble,

And that I’d have to put the chap right.

It’s quite a conservative village,

And the locals don’t suffer fools,

So as part of my introduction,

I thought I’d lay down a few ground rules.

I told him that we liked our services

Traditional, not happy-clappy.

So if he’d like to keep things the same,

We’d be grateful, there’s a good chappie. 

Singing Onward Christian Soldiers

Was just what we expected to sing.

No trendy, modern stuff would be needed,

And very short sermons – that was the thing.

Our church organist is in his eighties.

He’s deaf, and so isn’t sure when

The choir has finished already,

So the rest of us just sing the last verse again.

And after all of this advice,

I saw that his eyes had gone sort of glazed.

He looked at me in some surprise.

In fact, he was totally amazed. 

Up to this point, the poor chap hadn’t spoken.

But the door he now opened wide.

He gestured for me to enter,

So I thought I’d better go inside.

“Wait there” he said all at once.

“Before you get into more of a lather,

I’ll go and get the man that you really need –

He’s the new vicar here – my father!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2010

It's The End Of The World On Saturday

I wrote this poem last year when some US nut-case announced to the world that the life was about to come to an end.  Needless to say, it didn't happen.  He explained this by saying something about an error in his calculations - but that didn't change the fact that "we're all gonna die".  His followers continue to, er, follow him.

It's The End Of The World On Saturday

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

Can I stay up late the night before?

If we’re all getting fried on the week-end,

There’s no point being a bore. 

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

The pastor says there’ll be a Great Flood.

There’ll be fires, and earthquakes,

And boils & locusts & rivers of mud. 

Mam, it’s the end of the world on Saturday.

I want to be one of the saved.

It’s what we’ve all waited for,

The ending that we’ve all craved. 

There’ll be no time for quips,

We’ll squeak like pips.

It trips off the lips,

As our confidence dips,

When we meet our apocalypse. 

Mam, it’s the end f the world on Saturday.

The cataclysm is here.

Judgement Day is coming.

No time for trembling in fear. 

For we’ve been groomed,

Our future has loomed.

We’ll all be entombed,

The ending zoomed,

As we prepare to be doomed. 

Mam, it’s the end of the world I’m sure.

I don’t want to be one of the sinners -

I want to be lifted to heaven,

I want to be one of the winners. 

It said in Ezekiel,

There’ll be no equal,

To the terrors,

And the meek’ll

Inherit the earth.

* * * * * * *

Mam, the earth didn’t end after all;

It’s all been a terrible let-down.

I thought I’d be sitting next to Jesus,

And be one of the stars in His crown.

Mam, it seems it just wasn’t to be:

There wasn’t any of God’s wrath -

It’s all just the same old same old,

There was something wrong with the math.

I think I can tell,

All is still well.

There wasn’t a death knell,

No ringing of bells,

No fires of hell.

Mam, it seems the signs & portents were wrong.

The reasons aren’t simple to capture:

The End of Times didn’t come,

And I wasn’t lifted up in the Rapture.

If there’s no Second Coming,

If we’ve all mis-read the code,

I’ll have to take that library book back,

And pay back that fiver I owed. 

Mam, the end of the world didn’t come in the end.

There’s no point living in fear.

It’s all so – disappointing,

So Armageddon out of here.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

A New Folk Song For Modern England

This is based on an old Wiltshire goat-nadgering ballad. It shows that country pursuits may leave a lot to be desired.

A New Folk Song For Modern England

As I walked out one May morning,

My fortune for to seek,

My way was suddenly blocked,

By a Tesco trolley blocking the creek.

I started to push on with my quest,

And tried to cross over using a log,

But the wood was all slippery,

And quickly I fell into the bog. 

I came out smelling of diesel & worse,

My clothes all muddy & rank.

I was all soaking & smelly,

As I slowly crawled up the bank. 

I carried on with my walk, ever bold,

Hoping a young maiden to sight,

But I’d got twigs in my hair:

And I must have looked quite a fright. 

I then came out of those sylvan woods,

Leaving behind my rural bower,

But soon the day turned out nasty,

With gentle rain, later turning to showers. 

I pushed on through the country,

And down to the meadow that day,

For I fancied myself dancing,

All among the new-mown hay. 

Imagine my surprise when I arrived:

I suppose it was my bad fate.

Instead of the green meadow,

I found a new-built housing estate. 

I looked to the woods where I used to wander.

Fences and barbed wire now blocked the way,

And the foot-path was well diverted,

Away from where we used to go play. 

I determined not to give in so easy,

And across the valley I attempted to gaze,

But I couldn’t see nothing out there,

Due to all the pollution and haze.

But finally I spied a pretty fair maid,

A-wandering alone on the moor,

And bounding right up to her,

I said I’d walk her back to her door. 

“Nay, lad” the maid said unto me.

“It’s not going home that I’m wanting to go.

I’m running away, and I’m starving.

But you can buy me a MacDonalds, though.”

I said I hoped we could lie down in the meadow,

For it was a great day to go courtin’.

She told me to get lost and scram,

And with me she wouldn’t be sportin’.

She said she was allergic to rape-seed,

And other farm pesticides:

It was sprayed all over the place,

And I looked such a mess, besides. 

We couldn’t walk no farther that way,

We’d have to take different directions.

The fields were all fenced off now,

Due to Health & Safety restrictions.

In the end I gave up on my conquest,

For the day had turned out to be crap

It may be the early bird catches the worm

But the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap! 

This folk-song lark’s not all it’s cracked up to be;

My nerves are all knotted & frayed.

Whatever the merits of Olde England,

There must be easier ways to get laid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

I Suppose I Should Be Sorry

This is a poem I wrote when Steve Jobs passed away.  Whilst I was sorry that the world had lost a creative & business genius, I was a bit put out by the way his faithful followers managed to get his demise out of all proportion to its real significance.

iSuppose

iSuppose i should be sorry,

About the passing of an iCon,

But i didn’t know the man,

When all is said and done. 

My eyes are an eyesore (iSore) from crying,

Eyeball (iBall) my eyes out,

Eyelash (iLash) myself with grief,

And in my gloom,

Mournful iTunes never end.

iPad -- about the room,

iPhone -- my friend.

iMac -- i say to him,

Can this be right?

Steve’s no longer with us,

Passed from our eyesight (iSight).

While on earth,

He did us proud,

He’ll be up there now,

On his iCloud. 

Is there an App for Grief?

I search the Net,

It should be free,

But it’s not, i’ll bet. 

iShuffle my life around,

i try to carry on.

iPod the peas,

Eyepatch (iPatch) things up,

iTouch my knees,

Eyewash (iWash) myself,

Eye-witness (iWitness) the tears of others.

His death has been an eye-opener (iOpener) for me,

There’s been a lot of eye-wash (iWash) said.

The headlines have been eye-catching (iCatching).

All of this for just one man dead.

Now here’s a thought that’s deep:

One man dies and millions weep.

Yet in Africa millions die,

And still no-one seems to cry.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

Poem for Pancake Day

Somebody had to do it, so it might as well be me.  Have you noticed that they've had eggs, flour & milk in the supermarkets for WEEKS now? - when did Pancake Day become so commercialised?  Hope you like my eggcellent poem!  More a tale of domestic violence really.

The Flip Side

What did I ever do to you,

That you should batter me this way?

You’ve got me all stirred and mixed up –

Is there something special about the day? 

You started by egging me on,

With your sweet, floury words,

You milked it for all it was worth,

Well, save it for the birds! 

You really bowled me over,

But I took it with a pinch of salt,

So you just let me stand around -

I’m sure it wasn’t my fault!

Then things started getting heated,

You charmed me as if butter

Wouldn’t melt in your mouth -

I thought you must be some sort of nutter. 

You pushed me across the work-top,

I wondered what was my fate?

Out of the fire, into the frying pan,

What a desperate state! 

You tipped me right over the edge,

I felt completely beaten,

Getting me all hot and bothered,

I felt so flat, with rage I was eaten. 

You attacked me with that spatula,

And soon I became set in my ways,

Underneath, I became quite browned off,

The atmosphere was a haze. 

You just threw me up in the air,

Tossed like any play-thing,

But when I came down so suddenly,

I nearly hit the ceiling! 

By now, I’d completely flipped,

And I landed back in the same place.

You just carried on regardless,

As if you couldn’t lose face. 

I felt as if I was now ready,

I thought I was going to crack,

But you just pushed me to one side,

And said I’d have to wait in the stack.

You said you had other things cooking,

You started to mutter and chirrup,

Then you came over all sugary,

Giving me the usual syrup. 

Then you couldn’t get enough of me,

Your appetite  I just couldn’t sate.

You said that you really loved me -

But that you had an awful lot on your plate. 

Of course, I just soaked it all up,

Everything you decided to say,

But I don’t think I can do this again,

Find somebody else next Shrove Tuesday!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

That Sinking Feeling

This is a poem about yet another 2012 special date - in fact a centenary.  I won't say what it is - you need to read the poem to find out!

That Sinking Feeling

What a fine April morning to travel:

At last I’m my own master,

But the thing that’s worrying me

Is, can’t this train go any faster? 

I’m already hungry & thirsty,

But those problems must wait.

If we don’t get there pretty smartish,

I’m afraid I’m going to be late.

For that steamer sure won’t delay,

If I don’t get there in time.

She’ll be departing in two hours,

Sailing across the Atlantic rime. 

All that I possess is in this suitcase,

For I’m alone now, with no wife,

To try my luck in America,

And to try to start a new life.

For there’s nothing for me here now,

England’s become nowt but a cage.

There’s no work & no social,

And no way to make a living wage.

So I’ve decided to strike out for the new:

Got to do something to lick it,

And I’ve saved and I’ve borrowed,

Just to afford my third-class ticket.

At last – here we are at Southampton,

As the train shudders & rocks.

I hope it’s not far I’ve got to go,

To find my ship moored up in the docks. 

It’s been a long journey, my case is so heavy,

I don’t want to be walking around,

But there’s bands playing and a great crowd -

After all, my ship is easily found.

She’s just over there, not far to walk.

There’s three different gang-planks,

Going right up into the ship:

A different one for every rank. 

But what’s this? My ticket is lost!

I’ve searched myself all around,

In my jacket & coat pockets,

But the thing is nowhere to be found!

I can’t come all of this way,

Only to fail at the last minute.

Oh, where’s that blasted ticket

Where had I last seen it?

Then, Thank God, the panic is over -

I needn’t have been in a stew.

I had it all along I was sure,

I’d tucked it into my shoe! 

So finally up the gangplank:

I’m only travelling steerage.

I’d love to go into First Class,

But that would require a peerage! 

The ship is crowded & busy.

My below-decks cabin is cramped.

So I’ve stowed my gear quickly

And up the staircases I’ve tramped. 

Then onto the deck & join in the cheering.

I need not have been in such a panic.

There’s even time to gaze down at the nameplate.

My new life starts here – on the SS Titanic!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

News From Bromham - Headlines on Sunday 19th February

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 19^th February 2012

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

·         Yesterday saw the three hour-long funeral of Britney Usedonce, at Bromham Parish Church, in the very chapel where she used to sing as a junior chorister.  Having discovered her amazing vocal talents, Britney left the parish several years ago to pursue a glittering career in Chippenham, the Hollywood of Wiltshire.  She had not been seen here since, having found better things to do.  She is rumoured to have sold more than 170 records during her roller-coaster career, blighted by drink and drugs.  Asked once whether she drank simply to forget, she responded: “I dunno – I forget.”

·         Strong diplomatic representations have been made to Seend in Middle-Eastern Wiltshire about their attempts to bring a gas supply to the village.  Seend leaders insist that this is for purely peaceful purposes, such as domestic heating & cooking.  However, Bromham’s Foreign Minister, William Vague, expressed his concern about the potential for heating proliferation in the region, hoping that economic sanctions could be avoided.

·         Disgraced Bromham PC Councillor, Chris Who, appeared at Bromham Crown Court, together with his ex-wife Vicky Whatsmyprice, both charged with perverting the course of justice.  Whatsmyprice had claimed that she had been driving the tractor which had been abandoned in the Upper Field two years ago, in order to take the opprobrium of villagers and to salvage the career of her then-husband Who on the parish council.  It subsequently emerged that Who had been driving the tractor all along, explaining why (like all politicians) he was incapable of maintaining a straight li(n)e.

·         For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Apple Core (Beatles For Sale)

Apple Core (Apple Corp?)

It’s no secret that I was born in the Fifties,

And I grew up with the beginnings of pop.

We listened to singles and LPs,

And we used to dance till we’d drop. 

Top Of The Pops was on weekly:

To miss it just wasn’t on.

The music charts were something we’d watch,

To see who’d make Number One. 

In the Sixties the music became groovy & fab,

And the record industry went really mad.

We spent all our money in shops to buy records,

Forty-fives and albums was all that they had. 

Then, as we got older, it all started to change:

Cassettes became all the rage – what a pain!

But by then we’d lost all our vinyl,

So we had to replace it again.

So we re-bought all our favourites on CD,

And thought that we’d done very well,

But then came digital downloads -

When will we be released from this formatting hell? 

But now there’s a new craziness abroad,

That’s going to suit all of the loons,

Cos I hear they’ve signed an agreement,

To let us get Beatles from bloody i-Tunes.
 

Now I’ve always been a fan of the mop-tops,

Or, as they were known then, the Fab Four,

But I’m buggered if I’m happy

About this cleverness by Apple Corp. 

I can now get Lady Madonna,

Or Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band,

In MP3 digital format,

If I put yet more money into their hand.

“Beatles For Sale”, I hear them cry,

“We’ve provided the full pack”.

I may be a Nowhere Man as I Drive My Car,

But, Hey Jude, you can just Get Back!’ 

It’s been a Magical Mystery Tour,

And a very Long & Winding Road,

Just for me to get I Am The Walrus,

As a new digital download.

For this Revolution has taken some time,

And I’m sure the Taxman nearly cried,

When he found out that we punters,

Have bought another Ticket to Ride.

When Michelle was my girlfriend,

We had a Good Day, Sunshine,

But then I found that She’s Leaving,

And no longer do I Feel Fine. 

She said “You Can’t Buy Me, Love”,

And “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away”,

But now she’s Back In The USSR,

And I’m living in Blue Jay Way.

Now I’m Here, There & Everywhere,

And loneliness into my heart creeps.

I’m just working Eight Days A Week,

While My Guitar Gently Weeps. 

In My Life I’ve loved all of these tracks,

And for the Things We Said Today,

They’ll surely Please Please Me,

As I think back to Yesterday. 

With A Little Help From My Friends,

I’ll walk again down Penny Lane,

But “You Never Give Me Your Money”

Really can’t be Apple’s refrain. 

For you know that When I’m Sixty-Four

We’ll all Come Together you’ll see

And Something, Across The Universe,

Will Help us all to Let It Be. 

They say that All You Need Is Love:

I’m sure I can hear you sigh,

But if you don’t all Love Me Do,

Then I’m afraid it’s Hello, Goodbye. 

Well, it’s been A Hard Day’s Night,

For all of you out there listening still.

It’s up Abbey Road that you’ll find me –

You know me – The Fool On The Hill.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

Faster Baby, Faster

The Government is still considering proposals for an increase in speed limits on our motorways.  I can't see the point myself.  Near where I live the Council is looking, quite rightly, at proposals to LOWER the speed limit on various bits of A-road, particularly where there was a multiple fatality about a year ago.

That's The Limit

As the country slowly goes down the tubes,

And of economic melt-down we read,

The government’s spotted the problem:

Yes - what we’re all lacking is speed. 

Along the arteries of our country,

Of great distances we must be master.

We have to cut down long journey times:

We need to get from A to B faster. 

The Minister for Transport in London,

Has given this some thought quite weighty:

He wants us all to pick up the pace,

And rattle round the network at eighty. 

Roads are the life-blood of the nation,

And it’s slowly bleeding away.

If we can get our hearts pumping faster,

Well - we might just save the day.

We’ve got the green light for the idea,

To use our cars with every function.

We can hit the gas peddle harder,

And scream up to the next junction. 

Personally I can’t see the point:

If I do the same as they all do,

I’ll be just going faster and faster,

To reach the back of the next queue. 

And in the usual round-about way,

There’s surely a down-side that looms:

More unwanted emissions,

More pollution, carbon and fumes. 

But there’s more to this than meets the eye,

The Government’s being quite cute, you know:

It’s about economic stimulus -

The benefits will soon start to flow. 

With so many more deaths and injuries,

And casualties of every grade,

We’ll need more doctors and nurses -

The hospitals will do a roaring trade. 

Insurers will make bigger profits,

Something we need I’m sure you’ll agree,

And the crash-repair garages,

Will be much busier, you’ll see.

The rozzers will rushed off their feet,

Trying their best to enforce the new law,

Rushing around in their jam sandwiches,

Singing their theme-tune: “Nee-naw, nee-naw”.

And when they arrive on the scene,

To find a pile-up that’s still fresh,

With mangled bodies all over the road,

They’ll know what to do with the tangled flesh. 

They’ll call in the experts to deal with it,

To dispose of the guts and blood.

Men dressed in black, with a hearse,

Funeral directors will never have it so good.

And the extra speed burns up the fuel,

So we’ll spend more with Shell and BP.

More profits for the oil giants:

That’s good – I’m sure you’ll agree. 

So, you see, the Government’s removing red tape,

Boosting both Health Service and Police Force,

Providing work for the private sector,

And doing it cheaply, of course! 

That means it’s not a policy that’s green,

But I think they’ve made a good bet.

I can almost hear a voice from the back seat,

Saying: “Are We Nearly There Yet?”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011