The Parliament of Fouls, or The Foulest of Parliaments. Being an indictment of the Politickal Classes &c. The Prologue
A writer looking at the coming Poll Might feel despair. But we (Byronically Inspired) associates of St Edmund Hall Have made a Canto, a bionically Collaborative affair, sick in our soul, Expressing our disgust laconically. With candidates becoming so moronic No wonder that our comments are sardonic.
The Byronic Verses: The Chorus: Again it's nigh the cycle draws around, And tricksters' faces flicker in the halflight. Again the fairground's rolling into town All starry eyed with promises and foresight; And whitewashed cheeks adorn a leering clown And palms and silver cross by shade of midnight. And later in the empty light of morning A samey view across the landscape's dawning. The sick and disabled: The UK needs a leader: that is clear. Last time it was Condemned to take a Blue one, But that mistake has cost the country dear; And now the time has come to find a new one Who can heal the Tories' savage cuts, and steer A juster course. Another way, a true one Quickly found, for it would be a Pity To leave the people governed by the City. The working man: We don't still want leaders, that's evident, Like the ones we have now, who smarm and lie, And we don't want false smiles dipped in Steradent. What we do want is sensible policy: From sharing our riches (hoarded, unspent) To accountable actions, transparency; And time in jail for the powerful, the rich When they do things that make the rest of us retch.
The disillusioned student: The Liberals are a goner; that's a fact Clegg's treachery was just for personal gain. 'Sic transit gloria mundi' when he's sacked Will be the students' jubilant refrain As betrayal and the cruelties he backed Come home to haunt, along with all the pain. Instead of being moderate and mellow He was content to stay himself: just yellow. Swift: He once set fire to cacti for a laugh A young man's misdemeanour, if you like Destroying life at twenty? Reading Plath Was more my thing. Death to plants, nice big hike In taxes, Clegg! The students: shroud their path From here to there in ashes, burn the tyke No trust fund can support. Cremate the meek, The poor, disabled, disenfranchised, weak. The shop steward: Labour have no Balls; they've lost their way. Afraid to rock the City they have missed it Despite the hopes that it would be their Day. If there were any Justice they'd have pissed it Against the likes of Cameron's foul play and IDS and Gove. As Gideon hissed it: "Milliband's too terrified to make a stir Castrated by the ghost of Tory Blur". Keir Hardie: Two centuries of socialism down the drain, Forgot in the blare of city excess; And Tories, like tyrants entrenched in their reign, Still with us, still touting the joys of success For the favoured few on their gravy train But not for the ones left to clear up their mess. And the axis of evil of Blair and of Brown Replaced with a 'malgam of malice and clown.
Byron returned to ‘Albion’s isle’: Where are the voices now that once would boom With moral strength Foot, Benn, or Glenda Jackson, Their eyes ablaze, their tongues like crack of doom? Justice is gone: a light we turned our backs on. The days are dark with inspissated gloom. Hell opes her gates, and shrill Time whines her claxon. Don’t trust a weaselword the leaders say: It’s venal trash and soundbites, all the way.
The working woman: Last night we met The Ukips on TV, And now I'm tired. I shouted myself hoarse, Despairing at the ignorance, and glee With which the ignorance is flaunted. Worse, The thought this shower could be our destiny, A plague, a slow and painful death, our curse. There's smiling faces on their battle bus; We can't keep quiet, or else they'll come for us. The gay serviceman: The conference has started with a cock And bull farrago; BRITAIN FIRST are here, Intelligence discarded, CAPS ON LOCK And knackered "ARMORED LAND ROVER'S" which steer Towards the queers, or anyone of stock THATS NOT FROM BRITIAN (sic) SHOULD NOT BE HEAR. While Nigel sits and sups his pint, the scamp, His militia kill an Easternlooking tramp. The social historian: This pamphlet's full of madness of the type Not seen since dark old Bedlam closed for good. "The gays recruit young blood" what hateful tripe, But Ukips lap it up. For them it's food For what, for thought? my arse I'll gladly wipe On this. Of course, they'd say I've misconstrued. This is no time for "I'll not vote" and "fuck it" Unless you want your own head in a bucket.
The armchair hippy: I relish all things green: Chartreuse, an English field, My mistress’ eyes, and once I even ate a salad. The Greens too are what? Nice. Middle classappeal ing, almost holy well, holier than thou, my lad. Their promise: elect us and our planet’s healed. But, dammit, is it costed? Sadly not, Milud: This manifesto’s mere wishful thinking bin it, Crying out not Natalie but Gordon Bennett!
The incumbent politician: The citizens deserve a living wage, Our energy should be renewable. But in interviews we're not exactly sage Our words a mess, entirely skewable. We're green with envy; in this media age The unpolished can't win it's not doable! (If housing prices have an upward creep, We'll build them out of plywood on the cheap.) The Spin Doctor: Now we've Nationalists from half creation Standing. (Yes! They too want a finger in The pie). Voters, struck with some vague notion, Drawn to their cant and “old bag” lingering Ideals. They talk “Democracy and Nation” Poor fools like that. A little tinkering Will quickly fixit. A simple thing to do To'ensure there is no triumph of the New.
The political commentator: The candidates line up for the election: Weirdos; nonentities; no rarity Of takers or demanders for selection. For some the thrill of power's (oh spare it me) A turnon tantamount to an erection. Others, thinking only of posterity Stand nobly “to rid Politics of Vice,”, And in expenses hide their avarice.
The moral philosopher: They offer scandal, war, and cashforhonours, They conjure prejudice and debtor laws, Building up Babylon to crash upon us While smoothly talking of a better cause They sell this mad, careerist dash for goners That drains our pens of spleen and metaphors, And when we vote we're aiding and abetting, Voting for years spent bitterly regretting. The party leader: Do vote for us; we’ll promise you the earth! The heavens too just vote for us! We’ll steer You safely through these choppy seas; your berth Awaits both safe and sound; the channel’s clear Our pilot’s steady/ready/able, worth Your trust. Ignore the siren calls don’t hear The Jeremiahs! The past? – Best not to dwell. The slate is clean – our hands of course as well. The MP with something to hide: O halt th'enquiry! But halt th'enquiry! We are feculent In fact, but details must be hid away 'Till jobs are safe for five more years. Repent Our sins we will, the sins of Savile's day And our day too; the miscreants will be sent Away, but not just yet. Oh, nay, twice nay, Betray the children? Never. No retreats From justice. But we'd like to keep our seats. The aristocratic parliamentarian: “Voting doesn't matter, it's dispensable But counting does; the system's skewed awry. What if the Greens (Quite indefensible!) Start taking seats; even worse the Reds!! Why What if people hope for something sensible And end th' entitlement of those on High? Change and decay in all around I see. So what! as long as votes still count for me.”
The conspiracy theorist: Now's the time for flap and filibuster, And polished manifestos; it's all play To make us sick and tired of all their bluster, So we'll retire and let them have their way. It's just as well the police force doesn't trust her Or else a coup'd be staged by Witchy May. The nasty party could get nastier still, Vampiric Duncan Smith is out to kill. Edgar Allen Poe: He rises from his crypt at eveningfall, Coughing as he dons his silken cape That trails among the wiggly things that crawl Around him, and the boots of steel that scrape The ground and grind the poor to dust withal. The bedroom tax was such a jolly jape: "O leeches, come! we've blood to let! You hounds, Come, rip apart their sofas! Find their pounds!" The Private Eye journalist: Christ! Boris! Barrel of lard and weird albino, Liar, champ of the art of bloviation (Bullshitting) and of shagging el supremo, They tell me now your plan’s to fuck the nation. God give me strength (and, boy, another pinot!). Reader, forgive the “fuck” it’s sheer frustration When politics becomes pure egomania The time has come to migrate to Australia. His colleague: And who's our voice of protest? Russell Brand! That bookywooky, womanizing lout, Who hopes the dumbocratic fuss'll land Plumb in his corner (or his bank account) If he can loose his moronmuzzle, stand Posturing in front of RBS and shout. Is he the best who steps forward as a leader, That fakeasscockney clueless bottomfeeder?
Anon: It’s time, now, for an epic simile Something witty, longdrawn out, digressive, Arch and selfknowing, neither crass nor silly – In which we liken this drab, unimpressive Lineup of wankers to a useless filly Or some other rhymeword, more aggressive: "We’re nought but flotsam, tossed on a rambling thread By sightless captains, steered by the undead..." Milton: Measureless and toxic as the oil that seeps Darkly, wastefully, and out of sight From a cracked vessel, and then creeps From shore to shore, a devastating blight On all that stirs within the bounteous deeps Still onward, still hushed up, all through the night Spills the insidious abuse of power By smooth careerists till the final hour. The cynical voter: Opinion polls give comfort to the dim Their names a joke upon the ballot paper. Polls designed by cunning stunts upon a whim Of friendly sponsors. What a jolly caper ! And yet their chances really are as slim, As that of crap left on a carpet scraper Or should be if the voters knew the truth Before they set foot in the polling booth. Everyman: I couldn't care less. I don't give a fuck Who wins, so long as Lucre drives our cars From bank to wank, from lottery to luck. The ballot paper's boxes are a farce. With such a choice, between such shit and muck, I dare not grace their parchment with my arse. Go mark your man! Go pick your petty faction! For me, this turd Election's just distraction.
The abstentionist: Voters desert the polls. They know their luck's Right out. Whichever party wins, it's clear The country will be ruled by selfish fucks And crass commercialism. We will pay dear Their lack of vision. So moral eunuchs Triumph. Is it surprising that when mere Clowns and crooks demand to be elected The population is so disaffected? The firsttime voters: The older generations press their views, But firsttime voters don't know who to trust. They're told each day by pundits on the news That vote they really should, and vote they must. 'Twixt bad and worse, how are they meant to choose? The system needs an overall adjust. On polling day the youths will be befuddled Seeking ideals, not policies all muddled. Forum poet : I set out to write in Ottava Rima, But realised I was only a dreamer. My mistake: that blue, red, orange, or green Could ever deliver strawberries and cream. Someone once said "pick the one who will win Remember the government always gets in". Nothing will change, we’re all at a loss. (I wake up recalling I don't give a toss.) The voice of reason: The time draws near to make your final call. We’d not presume to tell you what to do. Whoever wins the writing’s on the wall! At least be heard! so other folk like you will use their common sense. Ignore Whitehall, whose bromides pall, like every other hue. Consider well, lest later you repent a rash decision made with good intent.
The Chorus: Again it's nigh the cycle draws around And tricksters' faces flicker in the halflight. Again the fairground's rolling into town All starry eyed with promises and foresight; And whitewashed cheeks adorn a leering clown And palms and silver cross by shade of midnight. And later in the empty light of morning A samey view across the landscape's dawning.
In February 2015 Brian Smith invited members of the Hall Writers' Forum to collaborate with him in producing a Canto of Stanzas “in Ottavo Rima after Byron”, on the subject of the forthcoming General Election. 11 writers contributed, some producing several stanzas; and there was a collaborative process of revision and re-shaping, led by Brian and James Whelan. [Contributors: Stuart Estell, David Braund, John Hearn, Lucy Newlyn, James Whelan, Tom White, Tony Hufton, Tom Clucas, Ian Cumpstey, Anon, and Carol Atherton's 'Write Group'.]