Elton Don

The President made quite the splash this week in Helsinki.

With all due apologies to Elton John and Bernie Taupin, here’s my starry-eyed tribute to the POTUS.

putin trump


(To Vlad, with love, always, Donnie xxxxx)

It’s a little bit funny
This President thing
But I’m one those guys who can
Do anything

I have so much money
Though not all of it’s mine,
I live in a big White House
So everything’s fine

If I was a golfer
I’d play every day
With a girl on each arm for all those
Difficult lays
I know it costs money but, hey,
It’s the best I can do,
They sign non-disclosures:
Here’s one’s for you.

And you can tell everybody
Vlad is my pal,
I may be quite simple but,
Like Steven Seagal,
I really don’t mind,
I really don’t mind
What I put down in words,

As long as Vlad pays me, I’ll screw the whole world.

I went to the summit and hacked off the press
And quite a few of my colleagues, but frankly I could care less,
And Sean Hannity’s been quite kind, said I did nothing wrong
It’s for people like him that I keep Fox News turned on

So excuse me forgetting

That word I misused,

You see I keep getting

“Would” and “wouldn’t” very confused,

Anyway, the thing is,

What I really mean,

Vlad is the coolest dude

I’ve ever seen!

And you can tell everybody
Vlad is my pal,
I may be quite simple but,
Like Steven Seagal,
I really don’t mind,
I really don’t mind
What I put down in words,

As long as Vlad pays me, I’ll screw the whole world.


I really don’t mind,
I really don’t mind
What I put down in words,

As long as Vlad pays me, I’ll screw the whole world.

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The Long and Grinding Road

News broke yesterday that caused much weeping and gnashing of teeth among Salisbury residents.

From Salisbury Journal online:

Milford Mill Report

In an idle moment of whimsy I tweeted, in a reply to Salisbury Journal’s Rebecca Hudson, a parody chorus based on “Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road”

MMR Tweet

Later, it was picked up and mentioned by Pat Sissons, evening DJ on on our local radio station, Spire FM. He even sang it, which was brave. I had tried earlier and nearly busted my larynx trying to vault over the high bits.

pat sissons

Today I felt it was my duty to complete the whole song.

So here it is. You’re welcome.


Goodbye, Milford Mill Road

When are you gonna be done?
When will the gas flow again?
I shouldn’t have stayed in my car
I should have listened to Spire FM

You know you can’t stay closed forever,
We didn’t sign up for that news;
Twenty five weeks now until you re-open
That’s way too long and we’re singing the blues.

So goodbye, Milford Mill Road,
Where the gasworks are starting again,
You can’t get straight through to Tesco
And the A36 is a pain,

Back to the joys of the Park’n’Ride bus,
Back to the route overflowed,
Oh, I’ve finally found what the future holds
Along the Milford Mill Road.

What do you think we’ll do then?
Would anyone care to explain?
It’ll take much more than a vodka and tonic
To get me on a bike again

Maybe I’ll use a replacement
Take Shady Bower in towards town,
Hang a left at Fowler’s Hill turnoff?
No – sod it! – hi Waitrose, I’m on my way down

So goodbye Milford Mill Road
Where the gasworks are starting again
You can’t get straight through to Tesco
And the A36 is a pain

Back to the joys of the Park’n’Ride bus
Back to the route overflowed
Oh I’ve finally found what the future holds
Along the Milford Mill Road

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Return of the Japanese Knotweed

Every now and then an apparently harmless Twitter exchange can act as inspiration for the strangest of ideas. Genesis once wrote a song about a Giant Hogweed and, as you can see, @janh1 commented that it was somewhat weird subject matter.


Hogweed Tweet


“Well, why not?” I thought.

Here’s the Japanese Knotwood rap. Be careful what you wish for!

(Caution: contains a naughty M word. Twice)


Fallopia japonica,

That motherfucka killed your dupontia!

Fallopia japonica,

Got its greedy eyes on your macedonica ~

You know it’s gonna be wrongin’ ya.

Fallopia japonica.

Call the police or a priest,

Mista Fleeceflower is lookin to strangle ya;

He wants to entangle ya!


Ties that bind,

He’s a vine,

Shoots a line

Like some Spiderman danglin’ ya;

When he’s gotcha

He’s gonna garotte ya

In your vegetable plot, yeah!

He’s a knotweed, he’ll make you knock-kneed,

He’ll make your eyes bleed,

He grows at lightning speed,

He’s like a lightning seed

(Without Skinner or Baddiel)





There’s no hope for ya!

It’s dystopia!



He’s a knotweed, he’ll make you knock-kneed,

He’ll make your eyes bleed,

He grows at lightning speed

He’s a knotweed, he’ll make your eyes bleed!



That motherfucka killed your dupontia!




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‘Tails of the New Fronteer’ by Nigel Molesworth


With my customary apologies to Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle

Welcome back gentle reeder. The last time we spoke you may recall st. custards was on the virge of a SINISTER hostel takeover by Americans becos of a deel struck with HM gvt. by an orange fule with ridikulus hair who had been elected presidant of the United Staits. Our old Head had been carted off to the funy farm after attacking fotherington tomas with flowerpots and the masters were aprehensiv about the prospect of being rooled by some sort of Yanky Poodle Dandy expereminting with new ways of making we noble lads miserible. This resulted in larger than ushual consumpshun of beer and cigs, except for the Relig. Ed. Master who coudn’t wait to burn all the books about evolution and who now stride about the place like a mad beerded old testament profit saying “i told you so!” to anyone who will listen. Even the skool dog avoid him.

Well, as they sa, the plot thickens. Much hav happen since then. Now reed on…

Our new Head (or ‘principle’ as he insists we sa) is Ralph N. Geigerhammer the 3rd. Noone kno what the N stand for but it is a fare bet it isn’t “Normal” becos trust me he is from another plannet. He hav a massiv head like the mitey Mekon and he speak like someone who hav had a spaner thrown in his voicebox to slow it down: “how arrrrrrrrrrr y’alllllllllll doin todaaaaaay, baaaaahhhhhh?” Mi mate Peason reckon he is from alabbama, tho how he woud kno is open to debait. Peason hav never been abroad unless you count the Isle of White, which noone does.

There hav been many changes since the principle took charge. For a start he do not understand crickit. We found him digging up the skool playing field to make what he call “a mound” rite on a legnth down middle and leg at the oak tree end. When gillibrand saw it he nearly cry. “How can i make it turn like a boomerengue out of that?” he wale, weeping and nashing his teeth “this is sackrilige! sackrilige!”

Also every morning at asembley we hav to pledge aliegence to the flag. Noone kno which flag exactly. We hav the union jack and the stars and stripes and the st custards standard all draiped from the principles lectern like we are atending some sort of leage of nations. The masters all stand miseribly behind the principle, a motly bunch of asorted drips and weeds if ever i saw one.

[The Relig. Ed Master thump the piano keys with vim and vigger and a tune that mite or mite not be ‘glory, glory, aliluya’ revertebrate around the halowed skool hall. Ralph N. Geigerhammer the 3rd stride up the isle, his mitey nogin gleeming britely in the suns erly golden rays (POETRY). He reech the lectern and waves airily at the masters who gurn back at him gaimly like a shole of trout suprised by a suden pirana. He tern to face we brave lads and i sware you can see his eyes glow red like the very coles of hell.

PRINCIPLE: Welllllllllllll baaaaahhhhhhhhhs. the tarmmmm fer penitaaaaaance is naaaaaaaaaah! you baaaaaaahhhhhhhhhs muss repent yahhhhhhhhhhh sins! Fer who amaarrrnnnnggggg uzzzz izzzz witharrrrrrrt sin?

[FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS puts his hand up. The principle stare at him as he mite inspeckt a hare he found in his skool soup. He hav fallen for this before and he kno he must ignore fotherington-tomas or be lost in ernest debate about new born baby lambs and such. He roll his demon eyes and cary on]

PRINCIPLE: It ezzzzzzzzz taaaarrrmmmmm to swaaaaarrrrrrrrre aleeeeeeeeeeganzzzzzzzzz. Hannnnnzzz on chezzzzts baaaahhhhhhhhhhs! HAAAAANNNZZZZ ARNNNNN CHEZZZZZTS!

[Cut to exterior shot of the skool dog chasing a newborn baby lamb across the skool playground while our asembley mutter the pledge uninteligably (METAPHOR)]

The word on the skool grapevine (mi mate peason as ushual) is that the orange ignoramouse and head honcho in the staits has now decided that certain masters should be given guns just in case someone like mi bro, molesworth 2, run amuck (if anyone mite it would be mi bro. He is quiet beyond the pail as i have noted before in these missivs). Now i don’t want to pore cold water on the presidants brilliant skeeme but you have to wonder if he thort it through properly. Masters and guns are not naturel bedfellows:

Me [to the Philososphy Master]: i see you have a gun, sir!

Philososphy Master [dreamily]: Ah, molesworth! But is it a gun? How do you kno it is a gun? What if ceci n’est pas une gun? Can a consealed gun actaully be said to exist if there is no observer to note its existents?

Physysics Master: Now, lionel, stop filling molesworths head with your nonsence. If i were to shoot him now with my shiny new Remington repeater wood you claim the gun did not exist? i hav only to point it LIKE SO and he is but a haresbreath from certain death.

Philososphy Master: i see yore point, victor. But would that be the end for molesworth? He mite leave the corporale plane but whence is he bound? Wither mite he be?

Biolergy Master: He’d be dead, lionel. His lifeblud seeping from him in a crimson pool, his hart stopped, his bodilly functions seased.

Philososphy Master: But wood he be missed? i, for one, cannot stand the litel blister!

Me: i sa! i AM here you kno!

Physysics Master: It wood only take a moment. A sqeueze of the trigger, like THIS.

[a shot ring out. The English Master fall to the ground in a crumpled heep across the other side of the playground]

Eng. Master: But soft! What bullet hath my fragile body burst? i goe! i goe! Alack! Alas! i GOE! [he goes]

Philososphy Master: Poor Benedick! Still, it’s the way he wood want to hav gone…

[The Eng. Master shake abruptly] Chiz chiz. i goe agane! [He goes agane]

You see what i meen? It wood never work in a gazillion yeres. st custards wood be a waistland in no time at all. so back to the drawing bored mister trump. Back to the drawing bored.

Thats all for now. Nigel Molesworth singing off until the next thriling instorlment.

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The Dead President Sketch

Following Donald Trump’s glowing and, frankly, somewhat unlikely medical report, I began to wonder if there isn’t a more straightforward explanation for the President’s weird behaviour.

With apologies to the Monty Python team.

dead parrot


A voter enters the White House.

Voter: Ello, I wish to register a complaint.

(Sarah Huckabee Sanders does not respond.)

Voter: Ello, Miss?

Sanders: What do you mean “miss”?

Customer: I’m sorry, I’m from Alabama. I wish to make a complaint!

Sanders: We’re closed for Executive Time.

Voter: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this President what I voted, not a year and a bit ago, into this very office.

Sanders: Oh yes, the German Orange. What’s wrong with it?

Voter: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, my lad. E’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with it!

Sanders: No, no, e’s resting. With a cheeseburger and Fox News.

Voter: Look, matey, I know a dead president when I see one, and I’m looking at one right now.

Sanders: No no he’s not dead, he’s…he’s restin’! Remarkable billionaire, the German Orange. Beautiful privilege!

Voter: The privilege don’t enter into it. It’s stone dead.

Sanders: No, no, no, no, no, no! E’s resting!

Voter: All right then, if he’s restin’, I’ll wake him up! (shouting at the bedroom door) Ello, Mister Donny Dotard! I’ve got two lovely fresh scoops of ice cream for you if you come out of the room…

(Sanders throws her voice): “Go away! I’m bigly busy!”

Sanders: There, he spoke!

Voter: No, he didn’t, that was you throwin’ your voice!

Sanders: I never!!

Voter: Yes, you did!

Sanders: I never! Never did anything!

Voter(shouting and knocking loudly on the bedroom door) ELLO, DONNY!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o’clock alarm call!

(He opens the door, drags the limp President out into the corridor, thumps Trump’s head on the bust of Winston Churchill on a nearby table. Leans the lifeless bloatard up against the wall and watches it slide ungracefully to the floor.)

Voter: Now that’s what I call a dead president!

Sanders: No, no, no, e’s stunned!


Sanders: Yeah! You stunned him, just as he was wakin’ up! German Oranges stun easily.

Voter: Now look, mate, I’ve definitely had enough of this. That president is definitely deceased, and when I voted for it a year and a bit ago, you assured me that its total lack of usefulness was due to it bein’ tired and shagged out following a prolonged tax strategy planning session with the Republicans.

Sanders: Well, he’s…he’s, er…probably pining for the wall.

Voter: Pinin’ for the wall? PININ’ for the WALL? What kind of talk is that? Why did he do fuck all the moment I voted him in?

Sanders: The German Orange prefers a low profile! Remarkable billionaire, isn’t it, squire? Lovely privilege!

Voter: Look, I took the liberty of examining that president on mainstream media and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting in the Oval Office in the first place was that it had been NAILED there by Paul Ryan.

Sanders: Well, of course it was nailed there! If we hadn’t nailed that billionaire down, it would have nuzzled up to the Democrats, savaged them all with its teeth and VOOM!

Voter: “VOOM”? Mate, this president wouldn’t “voom” if you put four million volts through it! E’s bleedin’ demised!

Sanders: No, no! E’s pining!

Voter: E’s not pinin’! E’s passed on! This president is no more! He has ceased to be! E’s expired and gone to meet his Mercer! E’s a stiff! Bereft of life, e rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed ‘im to the chair e’d be pushing up the daisies! ‘Is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! E’s off the twig! E’s kicked the bucket, e’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-PRESIDENT!

Sanders: Well, we’d better replace it, then.  How do you fancy a Mike Pence? Or I’ve got a slug.

Voter: I’ll take the slug.

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January to November 2017

With apologies to Walt Whitman

liberty submerged


O Country! my Country! the White House trick is done,

The GOP is right on track, the prize it sought is won,

The Don is in, beside him Flynn, the alt Right all excited,

The Russian meetings buried deep, the treason grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where in this land Democracy,

Is fallen, nearly dead.



My Country does not answer, its lips are pale and still,

Democracy feels not my arm, it has no pulse nor will,

The US founders day by day, its lifeblood nearly gone,

And on its neck the vampires feed, their treachery near done;

So tweet your tweets, proclaim your hate!

While we with mournful dread,

Observe the Land of Liberty,

Fallen cold and dead.


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Hate in Your Heart


Updated 23/10/17

I bought a new iPad recently, as my old one was showing signs of distress. I was thrilled to discover that my new toy came equipped with GarageBand, and that I could record stuff quite easily.

I’m gradually getting to grips with it, so production is still a bit rough around the edges, but it is such an intuitive app that I’ve recorded three songs in a week  (compared with my previous best of two in 40 years). They’re all Trump related: he must be the most odious Muse ever, but he’s a great source of material.

Here’s the latest, which is hot off the press today. Exciting times!

Gave Me Everything

Man came down from NYC,

Said he stood for you and me.

Blind to his hypocrisy,

We gave him everything.


Man sat up upon his hill

Dispensing all his bitter pills

And making all the people ill

Who gave him everything.


Man went to the Treasury

Demanded he should have the key

He said “I’ll have to charge a fee”,

While taking everything.


Man said everyone would win

He’d make the country great again,

Then watched as all the storms rolled in

Destroying everything.


Man he fans the flame of hate

He loves the disunited States

It means more billions for his mates

Who covet everything


Man spends time in Twitter fights

He gives away your human rights

You’d best be rich and best be white

If you want anything.


Man he waves his little hands

“Capitulate to my demands

Or find you don’t have any chance

Of being anything!


‘Cause when you listened to my lies

And bought them all, surprise, surprise,

You brought about your own demise,

You gave me everything!”


Here’s another:

Racist Fuckwit

PARENTAL ADVISORY: As you may be able to tell from the title this one has sweary bits from the beginning. Keep away from young ears…

While you are here, you might also enjoy this music video reflecting on Donald Trump’s current obsession with footballers and kneeling. By coincidence it includes the words “mentally” and “deranged”:

Son of a Bitch


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In Hannity

gravity“Good evening, America. Welcome at the top of the hour to “In Hannity”, our weekly Fox News look at the latest twisted lies by libtard supporters of Crooked Hillary. I’m Sean Hannity…”

“…and I’m Tucker Carlson…”

“…and together we’re Harlson…”

“Wait, Sean. I thought we agreed ‘Sucker’?”

“Harlson. The producers insisted.”


“Dunno, Tucker. They just didn’t like ‘Sucker’.”

“Maybe because it sounded like ‘Fucker’?”

“Casual liberal elite snowflake sweariness, Tucker: sickos like Oliver, they’re all going to Hell, I tell ya!”

“Roger that, Sean!” [They explode a fistbump]

“So, Tucker. What pile-of-horseshit DNC narrative are we dismantling tonight?”

“Interesting you should ask that, Sean. Tonight, we’re focusing on the bleeding-heart scientists.”

“Those sons of bitches!”

“Yes, Sean. Those sons of bitches who are holding America back from greatness with their intellectual dishonesty and their constant whining about the environment and so-called climate change. But tonight we can reveal that they have been wrong for years about GRAVITY!”

“If that’s true, Tucker, then WOW! Just WOW!”

“I know, Sean. In the studio tonight we have assembled a SUPER-INTELLIGENT panel who will be reacting to claims by none other than Alex Jones that gravity is a liberal left myth perpetuated by a metropolitan elite with a vested interest in keeping us all from being able to fly without mechanical aids.”

“That’s right, Tucker. We’ve got Seb Gorka, who, it turns out, isn’t just an expert on terrorism but was once also a degree-educated Anglo-Hungarian astronaut at the height of the British Empire’s space program.”

“You mean ‘nadir’, right, Sean?”

“I’m sorry, Tucker?”

“Nadir. It’s the scientific word for ‘height’, Sean.”

“I knew that, Tucker. I asked on behalf of our audience.”

“Roger THAT, Sean!” [They high five]

“We’ve also got Ann Coulter, who is here to tell us about her embarrassment at 31,000 feet. Which would never have happened if Obama had just told the truth about gravity.”

“No swear words, Sean! You’re referring to ‘the O-hole’, right?”

“You got that right, Tucker. A first class O-hole!”

“The only thing he graduated in. O-hology.”

“O-hology at the University of Bongo Bongo, Kenya, Tucker. I’ve seen the certificate.”

“Finally, because we’re all about the balance, we have a very special guest here tonight to put the wholly erroneous scientific perspective. A big Fox News welcome to Ken Ham, Professor of Creationism at Harvard and Yale. And the other one.”

“Yes, Sean. Let’s start with you, Ken. For years, so-called scientists have been telling us about gravity. Now it seems the whole theory is beginning to fall apart. What can you tell us, speaking as an expert?”

“Well, Tucker. I can tell you that until mankind invented the concept of gravity, things used to float in midair the way God intended. It was only when Adam saw an apple fall from a tree, under supernatural influence from Satan, that he put two and two together and made six. Ever since then, we humans have been literally GROUNDED by God as a punishment for our lack of faith.”

“So, Ken. If I can interrupt Tucker’s questions for a minute.  I have a quote here from an eminent scientist who says that gravity is ‘a consequence of the curvature of space-time’. You seem to be disagreeing.”

“Scientists get things wrong all the time, Sean.”

“They do indeed, Ken. They do indeed. Sebastian Gorka, what are your thoughts on that bombshell revelation by Ken?”

“I am not at all surprised, Sean. When I was in space I saw zero evidence that space-time was curved. Let me ask you this: if space-time were curved, how is it that we can draw straight lines?”

“Good point, Seb. What’s the President’s take on this startling new approach to gravity.”

“I think it’s clear that the President has thought that gravity is suspect all along. He is a highly successful billionaire construction magnate and you don’t get to be that without questioning basic science. I can reveal that he has been defying gravity for years in private, something that Obama was never able to do throughout his entire, despicable tenure.”

“Thanks, Seb. Good to have that on record. [Turns to camera] Join us after the break for some more pictures taken by our guest Ann Coulter, showing liberal elites celebrating gravity by enjoying her seat at 31,000 feet…”

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A Vision in a Dream. A Figment

Following the spat at yesterday’s White House press briefing, I can’t help feeling that this blog has turned out to be even more prescient than I feared.

Kind of Lime

My spirit guide, Bob, has been knocking urgently on my astral door ever since the inauguration. Seems Samuel Taylor Coleridge was on the Ethereal Blower with this report from the Other Side.

dsc00024Millions of people thronged the Capitol  last Friday. And a Christmas tree.

In Washington did Donald Trump

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

And Ralph, the White House dresser, ran

Through swatches to complete the plan

   Downtown in old DC.

With twice five miles of plate gold found,

The walls and rooms were gilded round;

And there were toilets bright with auric frills,

The toilet rolls were golden filigree;

And here were Donald’s photos, flattering stills

Staring down at whomsoever had a pee.


But oh! that cool reflecting pool which slanted

Across the green Mall beside the Lincoln shrine!

Trump hated it! The whole thing left him haunted

As e’er because his self-esteem was taunted

By great deeds of the past…

View original post 243 more words

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Presidential Kinks


We are the Donald Trump Appreciation Society
God bless made-up facts, in all their different varieties!
We are the Ku Klux Klan Preservation Society
God save David Duke, our guiding light of propriety.
Preserving the old ways from being abused
Promoting the fake news for me and for you,
What more can we do?
We are the Bowling Green Condemnation Affiliate
God save Kelly Anne from all the newsroom idiots.
We are the EPA Elimination Consortium
God save the pipeline deals and all those who were awarded them.
We are the Michael Flynn Russian Sanctions Cooperative
God save his private calls from snooping FBI operatives
We are the Kremlin-backed Election Hacking Artillery
God bless everyone who voted down Crooked Hillary.
We are the Fox News Redneck-loving majority
God help anyone who challenges Trump’s authority.
Preserving our borders from being abused
Deporting illegals for me and for you,
What more can we do?
God save America.

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