Bless me reader for I have sinned
It has been five years since my last confession and since then I have done practically nothing.
So here is a true act of contrition. A bus ride and a half’s worth of insightful (or should that be inspiteful) rhetoric.
Don’t you think it’s funny that it takes the prospect of the end of the world to realise that the world has been spinning upside down from time immemorial.
I will give you an example:
I am the custodian of the public fund and we are in the shit. I’ve got sixty odd million people to look after and have decided that the fairest way to distribute the fund is roughly as follows:
1. You are a Prince or a Princess and Princes and Princesses live in fairy tales, untouched by earthly considerations. So it’s as you were. No change. A King’s ransom and a tug of the collective forelock.
2. You have 300 million pounds and in order to ensure that you still have 300 million pounds when this crisis is over I’m going to award you hundreds of thousands in aid.
3. You earn approximately 50 grand a year selling grossly inflated insurance policies to a captive market. I can’t quite match that, but to ensure you maintain a lifestyle to which you are accustomed, I can give you two and a half a month tax free. You must admit that this is not too shabby and as there’s not much to spend it on at the moment, it should stack up quite nicely for when the flights to the Caribbean resume.
4. You are still working, albeit risking your life and your family’s life every second of every day. You may be a National Health worker, a care worker, a shop worker or a bus driver. I can see the fear and trepidation in your eyes but you carry on regardless. I award some of you a round of applause.
5. You are on a zero hours, minimum wage contract and I award you 80% of what is considered to be less than enough to live on. This is to ensure that when this is over, you will still be hungry, debt ridden and desperate enough to carry on grafting for next to nothing.
6. And finally you have fuck-all and to ensure that you can also maintain a lifestyle to which you are accustomed, I’m going to award you fuck-all.
Ah, you may say, but in the long run who is going to have to pay for all this?
Simple, I say, just turn the list upside down and start from the top.
You may also ask doesn’t the public fund belong to everybody equally?
You’d think so wouldn’t you.
Anyway here’s a poem
The Middle Class Pandemic
It’s a middle class pandemic
And excuse the bitter polemic
But if you’ve got some cash you’ll get some more
If you’ve got fuck all you’re staying poor
We need to uphold the status quo
And you’ll get paid if you can show
That somehow you may be losing out
But it doesn’t apply to people with nowt
Again please forgive the invective
But who has the right to make funds so selective
And is this where selection will actually finish
If the supply of oxygen starts to diminish
Who will be at the front of the line
The homeless or Duncan Bannatyne
Don’t worry about it stay at home
Face time friends on the latest phone
If you’ve got a cough or feeling hot
Get yourself an Ocado slot
They’ll bring the goodies to your house
With the flash of a card and click of a mouse
But if you live from day to day
You’ll have to find another way
Wrap an old headscarf around your chops
And take your chances down the shops
And if you’re ethnic or indigenous poor
It won’t be Tescos at your door
It’s an evens bet from most bookmakers
For the bailiff or the undertaker
And if at night you get down to pray
To your God for giving you another day
Don’t mention Boris or the Labourites
Or sanctimonious privileged shites
Take a deep breath dry your tears
And thank the Lord for volunteers
Looking at You Tube videos
Of minor celebs doing dancing shows
But daddy you said all the parks were closed
I’m so sorry darling I do beg your pardon
But that’s not a park it’s what’s known as a garden
Sat here coughing and covered in sores
Watching the self publicity whores
The world has reached a perilous junction
And though many perform no useful function
They should maintain their status and wealth
By just repeating National Health
Don’t think me a cynic for pointing out
That I’ve got other things to think about
Like being stuck in some corner on my own
Where I slowly but almost certainly drown
So who gives a fuck about Becks and Posh
More likely to drown in a sea of dosh
And other prominent tax creatives
Pontificate to beleaguered natives
What would you consider a step too far
A benefit gig from Jimmy Carr
We need real stars like from times forgotten
Such as Elizabeth Taylor and Johnny Rotten
And now the liberal metro elites
Are trying to reclaim the streets
Exaggerating non-stories to the point of lying
While people all around are dying
They’re trying their best it’s all hands to the loom
But let’s get someone in on zoom
Expert or not I don’t mind
Just make sure they’ve got an axe to grind
I’m not saying these stories don’t want telling
I just accuse them of overselling
The views of narcissistic complainers
Preferably from some diehard remainer
And now N.H.S staff with a valid complaint
Get covered in anti-government paint
It must have been about ten to eight
I was watching the Secretary of State
Probably rightly taking flak
Just one wrong answer from the sack
Then a thought occurred just minutes later
About hordes of directors and administrators
Super-annuated business boffins
Between Matt Hancock and a pine wood coffin
Every week we stand and we applaud
The girls and boys on the covid wards
Risking their lives twenty-four-seven
And pledges to pay what they’re worth
I fear that they’ll get their reward up in heaven
Before they get it on earth
That’s that then