Friday 27 November 2020

If Chris Whitty may be likened unto Rasputin...


As ministers continue to dance to the tune of charlatans – excuse me, expert scientists – in their inexplicable war on the economy and quality of life, we could be forgiven for thinking that the latter’s influence over the former echoes that of a notorious mad monk over the imperial Russian court just over a hundred years ago. If we may liken the ascetic yet sanctimonious Professor Chris Whitty to Rasputin – and I think we may – there is at least some wry humour (and wishful thinking) to be gleaned from revisiting a cheesy 70s disco classic. The accompanying Boney M video is so bad it's brilliant…


There lived a certain man, in Britain here and now

He was pink of face, not much hair above his brow

Most people look at him with hatred and with fear

As he tells the pubs they must pour away their beer

He can preach statistics like a preacher

Full of doom and gloom and fire

Wielding power as Matthew Hancock’s teacher – 

“Drag them through the mire”


Chris, Chris, Chris Whitty

Slammed us under lock and key

There is a prat who really is gone

Chris, Chris, Chris Whitty

Britain’s greatest harm machine

It’s a disgrace how he’s carried on


He rules with Pat Vallance, and never mind the Queen

With their charts and slides, spreading doom that’s quite obscene

In all affairs of state, he never needs to please

He’ll just devastate with an economic squeeze

For the NHS, a propaganda squealer

Though we knew the harm he’d done

Boris still thought that he was a healer

Who’d make Covid run


[Chorus]


But when his blinking and blustering and his hunger for lockdowns

Destroyed quality of life for more and more people

The demands to do something about this outrageous man

Became louder and louder


“This man’s just go to go”, the call from some MPs

But the leaders begged, “Don’t you doubt his wisdom, please”

From lockdown fan Whitty, his doctrine of alarm

“You must find a cure, or you’ll come to too much harm”

Then one night, some men of higher standing

Found a really cunning plan

“You all need a guinea pig for treatment –

We know just the man”


Chris, Chris, Chris Whitty

Slammed us under lock and key

They fired the vaccine into his veins

Chris, Chris, Chris Whitty

Britain’s greatest harm machine

It froze him stiff and shredded his brains

Chris, Chris, Chris Whitty

Slammed us under lock and key

Upon a plate, we wanted his head

Chris, Chris, Chris Whitty

Britain’s greatest harm machine

So Boris sacked him and left him for dead



Oh, those experts

Black Friday - In Seasonal Song

Even the most ardent Americanophile will concede that not all US exports have been welcome. We only need think of school proms, rap music and political correctness. Not forgetting the worst of all, the artificial designation of a November date as a trigger for reckless expenditure, fuelled by retailers’ self serving clarion calls that seem to precede the date for weeks on end. I refer, of course, to Black Friday. It’s today, so we are informed (fancy that, I never suspected). At least it did not exist in 1973, when it might have inspired Brummie legend Roy Wood to write an entirely different festive song: -

When the salesman brings the sale

When he just wants more retail

He’s put a great big hole in your bank account today

If the shops fill you with dread

Adverts pounding through your head

Go home and lock your doors, you know the marketing whores are on their way

 

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

When we buy loads of rubbish, then we throw the lot away

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

It’s when the tills ring out for Christmas

 

When you’re skating on thin ice

At the all too tempting price

And the rosy ads help you on your reckless way -

Now the overdrafts appear

And they’ve frozen you with fear

But you’ll log on and shop and pretend you can wish them all away

 

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

When we spend too much money and regret it the next day

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

It’s when the tills ring out for Christmas

 

When the salesman brings the sale

When he just wants more retail

He’s put a great big hole in your bank account today

So if Amazon bring their sleigh

And you’ve spent your hard earned pay

You’ll kick yourself for the money that you’ve lost, ‘cause there’s sales on Christmas Day

 

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

When we’ve maxed out our credit cards in wanton disarray

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

It’s when the tills ring out for Christmas

 

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

When we know two days later it’s Send It Back Sunday

Well I wish we could abolish Black Friday

It’s when the tills ring out for Christmas

 

Why must those tills ring out for Christmas?


(The accompanying clip throws some light on the song’s creation, illustrated with Top of the Pops footage and some grim shots of 70s Birmingham.)