To Mr David Cameron

Mr David Cameron,

Or should I call you ‘Dave’? Whatever. Like many in this land, I’ve got a ton of appropriate pseudonyms for you. But it is ‘Prime Minister’ – that leader label that I find wholly inappropriate. You wear it like a size twelve dress on a broomstick and, even if it did fit you better, it still wouldn’t suit you. No tailoring, no shaping belt, nor accessorizing scarf is going to hide that you are unsuitable for the responsibility of high office.

You are a vessel of utter neglect and incompetence.

I find the way you run the country to be so ridiculously inept as to be obscene. I’m looking at all the false economy; the division you are sowing; the forced decline in living standards; the outrageous arrogance of your ministers; your insultingly simplistic mindset; your superficial value-system and arbitrary beliefs; your ignorance that rides roughshod over nuance; your selective memory; your determination to preserve the neoconservative status quo; your obsession with growth and competition; your fixation with privatising everything. Your disingenuous attempts to dress up an entropic laissez-faire as liberty and choice while ensuring our national impoverishment are an affront to our intelligence.

You practise malfeasance on such an extraordinarily wide scale that I wonder: are you really that relentlessly useless or are you actually wicked? Either way, Call-me-Dave, you must know that you are abusing high office and serving us bunch of crap. I think historians and the social commentariat will be debating it for decades. What a legacy, eh, Dave?

Whichever it is; whether you are choreographing or surrendering, it’s grotesque. You and your party are becoming an unbearable burden on the citizens of this country. It will take an unfathomably high velocity to escape the damage you are wreaking with your ludicrous policies.

Your maladministration is toe-curling and, given your insistence on strutting your same rude, crude, feudal guff on the world stage, it is also excruciatingly embarrassing. Even would-be demigod, Tony Blair, managed to hide the full weight of his messiah-for-hire part until after he’d left office! You seem to have no such patience – nor even the sense! You’re a bloody fool and, whether you mean to be or not, a bloody dangerous fool.

If you go now, quickly and quietly, with at least an attempt at a graceful exit, perhaps the contempt, the scorn, the disrespect, the intense dislike, growing in the hearts and minds of the population: that may yet be diluted.

I suggest you leave, Mr Cameron; that you lead your neoliberal self and your party, towards your last hope at some honour and dignity. That way, Britain and her souls may recover some of theirs.

Regards, Juli

Lord Almighty, Cameron!

Lord Almighty, Cameron!

You’re a bloody joke!
It isn’t funny
It’s a farce
The sooner
You’re knocked
On your
Clumsy
Chumsy
Very pampered arse
The better.
You’re pathetic, man!

What, call yourself a leader?
Give me strength!

The lengths you’ve been to
To dispel all credibility is
Utterly outstanding.
Even poor old Gordon lacked
So much ability –
And that is no mean feat, now,
Is it?

You are just not fit
To grace the seat you’ve cheated,
Lied and spun
To take and keep
For it was never truly won
And what small right you had has
Gone

Vacate!
Vacate!
Evacuate our precious governmental space!

Go take your facile head out of
Our Face, you bleeding imbecile!
You sad disgrace!
It’s clear: you couldn’t steer
A guided missile and we’ve had it

Up to here

The only ‘British Value’ you supply is
Our acute embarrassment.
Now take your farty party and piss off
So that the rest of us can build a
Proper government.

Cameron values:

Cameron values:
Belief in Freedom – and the ability to take liberties;
Tolerance of others – so long as they are brothers
In his crony alms;
Accepting personal and social responsibility – by
Giving it to personnel who lord the harm and those
Who can’t afford not to make scapegoats just to
Plug the gap in due accountability;
Respecting and upholding the rule of law – insofar
As it does not impinge on the entropic economic,
Greed-is-to-aspire death machine.

And, too, he goes compare and sees his values
Everywhere in symbols. How the motifs and his
Motives face and bow!

For how he loves his Union Flag
As much as all the striver/skiver tags;
He relishes his fish and chips – though maybe not
As much as people rummaging for food in skips.
And how his football quips attest to his devotion to
All patriotic notions! Under Cameron Mao, now
Kettling is protest sport – and cannons in the street
Are bought as easily as vested interest.

With a zest, he loves to love an institution with
Established constitution – Magna Carta: eat your heart out!
Call-me-Dave’s solicitations pale the knaves of old as
Honest, altruistic scolds.

One heart, one mind, one view, or not at all
Not you
Not you
And, no: not you
Are ‘British values’ under Cameron’s petty, mindless gall.

Evangelical Dave

Evangelical Dave
comes to save the day
armed with special liturgy
and political expedience

He trumpets
the threshold of
Helical descent
with theoretical
proclamations of
permanent lent

Oh,
render unto Cameron
thy rent. For he is the
Landlord Profiteering
and the sour power,
boldly clearing
from the glory tower
of the greatest
crony story ever told

Behold!
He rises on surmises
and the shoulders of a
Kingdom rehypothecated
since the days of old.

Dear Dyno-Rod

It’s really sweet of you to want
To come and save the world.
I see you’ve really hurled yourself
Wholeheartedly into the role and
Read among your pearls you’re
Even putting out requests for
Volunteers – oh, by the way: down
Here, they’re simply called ‘apostles’

Oh, and speaking of the words of
Gloss and sleazy preaching profit:
Is that muppet, IDS, upset to find
He’s now competing for the title
‘Best Messiah Hired’ yet?

And ‘Dyno-Rod’? You silly sod!
Your ‘saviour’ said he wants you for
A sunbeam, not he wants the drains
Cleaned. (Metaphorically, of course,
That’s needed too but not by you –
Your ilk is the pollutant) You’ve
Confused, by your Self-magnitude,
The end of that Beatitude – It isn’t

Blessed are the meek,
For they shall inherit the dirt..

You leeching, wondrous berk! It isn’t
Actually your Earth, no matter how
You prey. You’ve merely raised a
Sermon to utopian-strength hypocrisy
– a helmsman in the realms of the
Ironically absurd. You’d need an eye
As big as Arizona skies to pass the
Double-thinking prayers you’d mount
Upon the herds

Come off it, Call-me-Dave! It’s rank –
You’re killing me. Remove your plank
And get down from the mountain top.
You ain’t no bleeding Prophet – just a
Feeder at the trough

You really aren’t the Light and you are
Definitely not the Truth. You wouldn’t
Recognise that if it bit. Your Way is
Merely proof that Life has brought
You many mansions. Hey, they say
That where there’s muck, there’s brass
And you, m’lud, are rolling in the shit.

Lord of the Chance

I danced since the dawning of the feudal drum
I pranced on the hopes in the lives of everyone
I came down from Nanny and parental gifts
My privilege is my benefit

Prance, then, if you are just like me
I am a Lord of the Chance, said he
And I’ll bleed you all, whoever you may be
Unless you’re better at the dance than me

I pranced from nurs’ry to the Bullingdon
I danced to the tune that despises everyone
I thrashed and trashed whatever took my eye
I’ll feel entitled ’til the day I die

Chance, then, is what happened to me
For I am a real lucky S.O.B.
And I’ll fleece you all, wherever you may be
You’re a dancer now for mine and me

I danced myself into a government
By feigned integrity and common sense
Now I’ll cut you down so I can leap up high
A thieving zombie living on a lie

Glance, then, look askance all you please
I and my chums are enhanced with ease
As we bleed you dry, for our prosperity
We’re the DJs now of your mobility

We prance with the City and the CEOs
We dance with the lobbyists and sovereign crows
We glance at the citizens and give no toss
We’re busy building your serfdom cross

Dance, then, for patriarchal glee
Preserving the wealth of the First Degree
And we’ll lead you all, with Tory homilies
For we’re the Lords of the Chance, said he.

The Conservatives are so clearly unfit to govern

The Conservatives are so clearly unfit to govern that it would surely be a kindness to them as much as to us if we threw them out now. It’s become an embarrassing situation for everyone. Toe curling. Why should we be made to wait another eighteen months just because Cameron et al decided, seemingly out of the blue, to fix the term of a Parliament. This was framed as a rational reform, designed to relieve politicians of strategic advantage. And rational it is except for the fact that a government could, traditionally be forced to call an election because public and media outcry demanded it. But this public advantage has evidently disappeared, too. It would have been a more palatable change had something like a People’s Veto for the dissolution of Parliament also been written in – well, some mechanism by which the balance of power can be sought, anyway. But, of course it wasn’t. Incompetence or wilful neglect? Hard to tell.

This is a big deal. Time is a funny old concept. It can rush along or crawl within relative space. In some respects, the General Election is fast approaching but the campaigning has started in earnest and it’s going to seem an interminably long way away on occasion. A government can do a whole heap of damage in eighteen months. Look at the carnage of the last three and half years and imagine what the Coalition will get up to, in front of our faces and behind the scenes, now they see an almost inevitable defeat looming – barring unforeseen catastrophe, of course. They will now redouble their already considerable efforts to grab what national assets/treasures they can for themselves. They will insure their own futures and ensure that Labour has such a quagmire of shit to untangle that we will likely all be complaining again within the same year. Obviously we might anyway: Labour is not wholly convincing, after all. See how quickly the panic erupted last week over benefits and the under-25s. The fact that everyone demanded clarification over whether Labour may not – or not yet – have any intention of adopting the IPPR’s advice is testimony to the experience of an electorate which feels terrified by ‘Modern’ Conservatism and justifiably, deeply suspicious of Labour, the only viable electoral alternative. This was an understandable panic.

But Compassionate Conservatism in the 21st Century is all about twinned Santas and win-win-for-self methodology. Modern (read neoliberal) Conservatives have little appreciation for history or ‘national interest’. They understand how to do favours for themselves. For all the harping on about traditional values, they have little capacity – or inclination – for recognising that history should not predict but should merely inform the future. We are only slaves to our past if we keep repeating it. And they do. They are a one-, or, at most, a two-trick pony. They think a continuum is a compulsory blueprint rather than a thread of choices linked to consequences. They think making connections means networking at parties and, while there is – was – whatever – undoubtedly an element of this in Labour, it has not been maintained as the actual ethos with which to actively drive the Party. Ed is appearing to make inroads into a more ethical style. He has at least noticed that TINA is a bunch of crap; that the road has forks. We can take this at face value or with a big, healthy grain of salt but, even if it turns out to be short-term cynical popularism more than an honest effort, we certainly can’t afford another year and a half of callous, self-serving cretinism, let alone a whole other fixed Parliamentary term. And yes: that is a cold comfort.

Eighteen months of rabid messiahs, mouthpiece ostriches, don’t-give-a-shitters and all their opportunist hangers-on. All either colluding with or being bullied by the corporate organ grinders. Eighteen months of shady deals that shaft the populace. Eighteen months of meaningless promises, empty rhetoric, emotional blackmail and missing the point. Eighteen concerted months of disparagement: immigrants, ethnic minorities, the disabled, the poor, the young, the left-leaning thinker – anyone that’s considered politically expedient. If a week is a long time in politics, then what is the potential in a year and a half?

On one level, I look forward to observing the antics. That’s the bit of me that relishes satire. On another, I am bored already with the Right-wing Media’s and the Tories’ tediously predictable tactics. I endured Thatcher: I’ve seen the show; it’s shallow, bitchy, dirty and deliberately obfuscating. And, it is rarely very witty – yet another act of criminal incompetence to add to the list.

Vote Blue, Get Screwed

Vote Blue, get crap
They know that
Fat cats piggy back
Freaky flashback

Now with added
Liberal Democrat.

Vote Blue, go green
Light admitting
Laissez-faire
Permitting
Those with means

And those without:
Despair

Vote Blue, choose greed
Overfill with overkill
Spilling into cold neglect
Until the Neo-conning
Vomit is the only diet left

Vote Blue, buy spin
Steal a win
Cheaters’ creed
By your leave
Feed moar
Monetise and bleed
The Poor.

Vote Blue, for the few
Just for you!
Hoard wealth
Help yourself!

Vote Blue, get real
Craven ravens
Seeking havens
Shoring
Hedging,
Empty zeal
Against the turning
Of the wheel.

Vote Blue, get screwed
How they roll
What they do
Chew
Or be chewed
What will you?

Vote Blue, get crap
Haze and trap
We know that.

‘Kunstlied’

Call-me-Dave displays
Sincerity as a front
For he is a knave

His craving to serve
Is nought but a PR stunt
That speaks agenda

*Kunstlied in concrete
To hypnotise a country
Into stupid fright

Left, Right and Centre
Dance on a shifting carpet
While he prances round

Accessorising
Like a kleptomaniac
In a stolen crown

Striking down the weak
To feast is but to narrow
The needle’s sharp eye

Big Society
Means fitting out the fattest
With bells and whistles

Little is the mind
That seeks to bind us merely
To gild a lily.

Silly is the man
Who willingly leads flatworms
For all tides do turn

*An ‘art song’, especially as distinguished from a folk song.
Origin: German, equivalent to Kunst: art (Old High German: skill, ability) + Lied: song

David Cameron, Soothsayer

Three and a half years into this thing and I think you’ll agree, we’re beginning to see all that profit we need. And in fact I am proud to announce – thank you George – that the surplus this year will see us well rewarded for all of the difficult, painful decisions we’ve taken from our non-mandated position. Our mission is right on track; you’re in the black and though it wasn’t easy, we fixed the economy. 

We have rescued our agenda and austerity is helpfully supporting our recovery – I told you fiscal discipline would save our pampered skin and constant repetition of the mess that Labour left – don’t you just love that word ‘inherit’..? So much merit in it, gentlemen.

(Cripes! Not that many women in the hall, at all..)

Well, anyway, what was I saying…

Oh.. we’ve turned hard working people into symbols of The British Dream. The beauty of it is, is that the moral duty, so integral to our bold regime, is built into our aspiration model as oppressive guilt. Yes, we are turning things around and so, to show you that I’ve listened to the hedge funds and back benches, I will regulate the foodbanks; cap the spending on the trenches. They will thank us in the end, make no mistake. We, happy band of brothers – are there any mothers here and did I say, the other day I met one..? Gosh! Small island, eh?

Well, anyway, we have a natural mandate; we’re the landlords, after all. It’s not the small this Party needs but corporate community that feeds our private wealth – this is our septic isle: our freehold in The Land of Opportunity. 

We’ll fight this war on poverty from everywhere – no matter what the cost may be. And bless you, Iain, yes: of course we’ll fight it on the beaches, in the fields and in the streets. Their shameful and ungrateful feet won’t touch the ground with you around to champion lost causes. But we also have to get our claws in at a younger age, to set the stage, so thank you, Michael. Oh, and Boris: on your bicycle. My nepotism, sorry, my Compassionate Conservatism only goes so far you know, old boy. You clown! The only Baker in this town is me and I will not stand idly by.

No, gentlemen – (Theresa! Didn’t see you! Oh thank God! Compose and wait for camera, Dave..)

Though I may be a small island in the rough ocean of life, I have the history and the body and the heart of – (Look! My wife! That’s two. Take that Farage!)

I know we can outsmart that UPIK bastard but it’s hard to juggle what we are with what I had to say to get us here. However, if we exercise our blue-veined grip, the prodigals may yet return. It’s clear: we are the true Establishment round here. No, it is Labour we must really fear and so we’ll asset strip before the evil would-be socialists can stop us. With our brand of propaganda

– thank you, Daily Mail

and repetition: “Red Ed! Red Ed! Red!”

we’ll recycle every loony superstition. We will build – no, no, not houses! Please don’t panic: your gross income’s safe in our rent-loving hands – this is our ‘Land of Opportunity’ remember? We are better than them all.

Never surrender! We are Rich; we are Righteous. We are Right: it’s our island to inherit! We’re Conservatives, God Damn it!