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Wednesday, May 29, 2024
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Christmas Day in the Commons

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IT WAS Christmas Day in the Commons
And hungover MPs in a blur
Took their seats for a special Yule sitting
And mightily peed off they were.  

Sunak had recalled them from recess
But not for the sake of their souls
It was simply a desperate gesture
To claw back some points in the polls.   

He’d warned his MPs to be bright-eyed
Well-briefed, pin-sharp, on the ball,
But the rabble he saw on the benches
Had partied too well, one and all.   

One Tory was already snoring,
Paper-hatted, prone and half-canned,
Covered in crumbs, stains and streamers
A bottle of Bolly in hand.  

On the front bench things were no better
Wallace woeful, and sulky Suella,
While Coffey was obviously gasping
To light up a Royal Dutch panatella.  

Cleverly wasn’t looking too clever
(He flies out tomorrow to Yemen)
And Gove gave a fair imitation
Of a guinea pig sucking a lemon.  

Hunt though was smart, spright and sparky,
Exuding eloquence and erudition
But Sunak took only cold comfort there
(He recognised naked ambition).  

Keir Starmer sat ever so smugly
Surveying the Tory mob with a sneer
While ignoring the whiff from his own lot
Of wind-breaking, fag smoke and stale beer.  

And so the Yule session started
With both sides incessantly yapping
Their gifts were propaganda and lies
Repackaged in cheap Christmas wrapping.  

Said Sunak: ‘I bring you glad tidings
At this special time of the year
Thanks to Tory good governance
Great Britain has nothing to fear.  

‘From Covid we’ve rescued the nation
Greenhouse gases we’re daily repelling,
The NHS is safe in our hands
More migrants we’ll soon be expelling.  

‘In plucky Ukraine I can vouchsafe
We’re giving Mad Vlad a good kicking
So you’ve got to agree, bar the odd cock-up or three,
All the right boxes we’re ticking.’  

Said Starmer: ‘O come all ye faithful
Follow Labour’s star shining bright
We’ll make a socialist stable
Where you’ll be safe and secure from the Right.  

‘We’ll tax the rich till the pips squeak
Rein in the capitalist hordes
There’ll be a chicken in every working-class pot
And we might even abolish the Lords.’  

And so they droned on in the same vein
Self-serving, mendacious by turn
Until at last Speaker Hoyle bellowed:
‘To the Strangers’ Bar let’s adjourn!’  

But as MPs rushed for the exits
At a speed to outpace any streaker
A booming voice rattled the rafters:
‘A point of order I raise, Mr Speaker!’  

They turned goggle-eyed to the Dispatch Box
And there, in stern and stiff pose,
Stood a white-collared bloke in a pointy hat
With long hair and a big bulbous nose.  

‘And who the hell might you be?’
Cried Hoyle, eyes bulging like Hannibal Lecter
Then his jaw fell as the figure replied:
‘I’m Oliver Cromwell, sir, Lord Protector.’  

‘You mean Cromwell from the Civil War?
Roundheads and Cavaliers?’
‘The very same, sir,’ came the reply
‘Now you MPs, lend me your ears!  

‘I’ve come to wash Westminster’s Augean stables
Disgraced and defiled by your sins
To cleanse and to purge, to scour and to scourge
(And to get Rayner to stop showing her pins).  

‘Ye are all grown intolerably odious
To me and the nation as well
You’re beyond condemnation, doomed to damnation
In plain words, you’re going to Hell.  

‘Foul creatures, repent and do penance
For bringing this proud country down
Confess to your misdeeds on Twitter
Wear hair shirts and be whipped though the town.
   

‘Too long you’ve sat sullying these benches
With morals disgracefully low
Depart, I say, and let us have done
In God’s holy name, all just go!’  

Some MPs froze in horror
Some scrambled for the door
Others cowered, begging for mercy
And abased themselves on the floor.  

Sunak, spine turned to jelly,
Cried: ‘Lord Cromwell, our ways we’ll amend
We’ll swop political partition for a Grand Coalition

God, truth and right we’ll defend.’  

A trembling Starmer said: ‘I agree,
Oh Lord Protector mighteous
We’ll build a new Jerusalem
And walk in the ways of the righteous.’  

But the Speaker yelled: ‘Just hang on a bit,
This bloke may have rhetoric that conquers
But I’m willing to bet that it’s just Jacob Rees-Mogg
And the daft sod is pulling our plonkers. 

‘We all know Mogg’s a history nut
And we’ve been well and truly pranked
Well, nice one Rees-Mogg, you had us agog
But now we’re off to the bar to get tanked.’  

As MPs trooped out of the chamber
Sunak and Starmer both hedged
Desperately covering their craven collapse
They retracted all that they’d pledged.  

Sunak: ‘Forget what I said a while back
We don’t want a Grand Coalition.’  

Starmer: ‘I likewise was speaking in theory,
Righteousness is just an ambition.’  

Cromwell was left in the chamber
Things hadn’t gone as intended
Then from near the back wall came a languid posh drawl:
‘I say, has the Yule session ended?’  

It was Jacob Rees-Mogg, all dishevelled
Combing his hair and brushing his coat.
He said: ‘Oh dear, I must have dozed off
Did I miss any happenings of note?  

‘I say! Aren’t you Oliver Cromwell
Who in power once here did abide?
But if I remember my history correctly
It’s 364 years since you died.  

‘There’s a statue of you outside this building
Holding a sword and with military togs
But you’ve only been given a place on that plinth
Because you so long ago popped your clogs.’  

Said Cromwell: ‘The Almighty has sent me
Back from beyond, warts and all
And as for that bloody statue
It doesn’t catch my best side at all.  

‘I came here to purge godless wretches
Who to depths once unplumbed have now sunk
But instead of heeding my warning words
They’ve all just sloped off to get drunk.  

‘So, Master Mogg, I give you fair warning
And I speak not with jest or caprice
When next you enter the Commons
Wear a breastplate and armoured codpiece.  

‘You see, I’ve got to change tactics
I’ve been far too polite and genteel
So I’ll be back with my New Model Army
To give MPs a taste of cold steel.’  

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Weaver Sheridan
Weaver Sheridan
Weaver Sheridan is a wannabe best-selling novelist, one of his efforts being the Fifties Franny series, available on Amazon Kindle books.

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