Tough at the Top

by Paul Francis

Though Paula Vennells has this business brain
she moonlights as a handmaid of the lord -
a vicar with an eagle eye for gain.
The Post Office is happy to reward
a boss who is prepared to deal out pain
through cutting costs – her terrible swift sword
keeps slicing at the staff, cuts hard and deep.
Is that God’s work? The angels watch and weep.

Horizon was the system of IT
which found discrepancies in the accounts.
To Vennells it was all too plain to see:
the staff must be embezzling huge amounts.
She will ensure these crooks do not run free.
Directors love her, watch those profits bounce.
She gets a CBE for what she did
and trousers up a cool five million quid.

Meanwhile postmasters and postmistresses
are losing friends and family, go to jail.
They try explaining these injustices
but no-one’s seen a glitch on quite this scale.
They don’t do dialogue, modern businesses.
How could an IT system simply fail?
The staff morale is at an all-time low
but who cares? Dividends are good to go.

Post Office can afford the top-rate fee
for barristers. They play it rough.
A mother doesn’t want her child to see
the handcuffs, stops them visiting. That’s tough.
Only the postmasters, it’s claimed, can see
this data, so their guilt is clear enough.
A huge amount’s been spent to back this lie
and only one reporter’s asking why.

Inside Horizon staff know things are wrong.
A whistle-blower says techies can adjust
the data – so it doesn’t just belong
to postmasters. Management say they’ll trust
an audit team, but sing a different song
when asked for files. You can’t see them for dust.
Vennells’ façade’s intact, but underneath
the record shows she’s lying through her teeth.

Each victim was assured they were unique
but there were hundreds. It’s a can of worms.
Key evidence went missing. Hide and seek.
Turns out that this most obdurate of firms
though warned by lawyers that their case was weak
still fought it out in unrelenting terms:
“Keep driving up the costs. We shoot to kill.
They need to know they can’t afford the bill.”

For twenty years, these workers’ lives were tossed
into a nightmare where they had no say -
homes vanished, dreams demolished, futures lost.
Ninety convictions have been wiped away.
Hundreds of millions it is going to cost
to put this right. Is Vennells going to pay?
No chance. Long gone, she’s smiling, out the door.
Business as usual. Rich pick on the poor.

The Comeback Kings

by Paul Francis, with image by Martin Rowson

Time for a golden oldies track -
the Tony/Peter duo’s back
to tell their fans they’re thrilled to bits
they can replay their greatest hits.
It’s leadership that matters most.
“The party” is a fading ghost;
commitments, values, Labour’s soul?
Stuff that. It’s all about control
and their determination’s clear.
They have a bot. They call him Keir

named after Hardie. Don’t be fooled.
Tradition has been overruled
so ancient loyalties are dropped.
Support for unions has stopped,
like underdogs they backed before -
the Blacks, disabled or the poor.
Back in two thousand seventeen
some saw a future, kids were keen
but that was then; right now it’s plain
there is a swamp they need to drain.

There’s infestation, they can see:
“not-Corbyn” is their USP.
An anti-semitism purge
becomes a systematic scourge
of elements they need to lose –
and quite a lot of them are Jews.
Meanwhile, the Williams report
on Windrush gathers dust; some thought
Keir’d want to know. He turns away.
Not now. Maybe another day.

Hamas attack. When there’s a war
back the US. That worked before
says Tony. Keir adopts the line
whatever Israel does is fine.
Cut off electric, water? Good.
They’ll claim he was misunderstood
but discipline is not in doubt;
vote for a ceasefire and you’re out.
Forget about lost members, please;
they’re simply shaking off the fleas.

When Braverman quotes Shelley

by Paul Francis

Our setting is celestial bliss.
“Hey, Percy, have a look at this.”
He thinks the angel’s having a laugh –
she offers him the Telegraph.
“The Tory Party Conference? No.”
For Shelley, he won’t stoop that low
but she’s insisting that he needs
to see this. So he sits and reads.

“My parents came here years ago
blown by a wind that’s soft and low
but hurricanes are on the way
of migrants claiming they are gay.
The Human Rights Act is a joke
and Labour’s desperate to be woke;
no borders, predators set free
at the expense of you and me.
If they get in they’ll give you grief
and punish you for your belief
that men and women aren’t the same,
that slave owners were not to blame.
They’ll try to stop you being free
with gender ideology.”
“There’s no such thing!” – the heckler’s shout
is swiftly drowned, he’s frogmarched out.
Suella’s calm, we understand;
he’s silly, but should not be banned.
On London council fifteen years;
“She’s stoking homophobic fears”
says Andrew Boff, who’s also blue.
A gay conservative. Who knew?

Shelley complains he’s had enough;
“Why should I bother with this stuff.
It’s Braverman, I know her well,
notorious minister from hell
who’s spreading hate. That’s nothing new.”
“What’s new is that she’s quoting you”.

“You what?” “The Masque of Anarchy.
Your dream that sets the people free
to set aside the rulers’ yoke.
She quotes from it.” “Is this a joke?”

“’Fraid not. Where is it? Here we go.
I tell it like it is. I know
the luxury belief brigade
in ivory towers, they’ve got it made.
They know they’re safe, their jobs aren’t lost
when migrants come. We pay the cost.
We victims, ordinary folk
who don’t believe in being woke,
don’t want net zero, crooks set free,
those boats arriving. You’re like me.
They say I lie, you know it’s true
‘cos we are many, they are few.”

Swearing in Heaven’s out of place
but this is such a special case
the angel thinks she’ll let it slide.
She waits for Shelley to subside
as he, eventually, replies.
“I’m gobsmacked. Can’t believe my eyes –
she’s got the power, she’s in control,
it’s her fault we are in this hole.
She’s plotting headlines, never stops
preparing soundbites, photo opps
but when it comes to actual work
the Home Office is going berserk.
The backlog is a massive queue
because she doesn’t have a clue.
She’s pressing buttons all the time
that lead to cruelty and crime
and now she has the nerve to claim
that she’s a victim. No. No shame.

Applause at conference is a thrill,
a tribute to her power and skill.
She has to calculate which lies
will gain most traction, help her rise.
But like she says, there is a cost –
in families split and futures lost.
The casualties, so far below
there’s no way she would ever know
those desperate husbands, anxious wives.
She’s only looking up; she thrives
on climbing ladders as she strives
to stake her claim through ruined lives.”

The Mandelson Masterclass

by Paul Francis

You ready, Keir? The die is cast.
Embrace the future, ditch the past.
You, Rayner, Nandy were a team
but solidarity’s a dream
and figureheads must stand alone.
You have to do this on your own.

Borrow ideas, like being green,
devolving power from the machine;
this stuff from Miliband and Brown
can be picked up – and then put down.
I’m saying you need to travel light.
They can be useful, but I’m right.

Momentum, back in ‘17
had hordes of canvassers, dead keen
to spread the word that something new
was on the way – could that be true?
Enthusiasm on the streets
won’t compensate for past defeats.
So clear the slate; they have to see
“Not Corbyn” is your USP.

Now anti-semitism’s the test
of true believers, who scores best.
That’s where you showed your Midas touch.
Racism? Windrush? Not so much
but pledges, manifestoes, vows
are just a line of sacred cows
you need to slaughter. Say again
- what matters? “Me, in Number Ten.”

No truck with other parties, deals;
ignore the offers and appeals.
Collaboration, compromise
are a distraction from the prize.
You’ll need a safety first approach -
no sharing platforms with Ken Loach,
no independent stroppy mayors
with local loyalties. Who cares?
The Brexit lesson – sell your soul
and then you’re free to take control.

One disembodied, male mind
is all it takes to leave behind
the women, strikers, kids and blacks
who’ve had the Tories on their backs
for years. They’re not the votes you need.
Losers won’t help you to succeed.
Austere detachment. That’s the way
to prove that you’re above the fray.
No angry quotes on Palestine
or chatting up the picket line.
I am the guru, and I know
you’re Blair on steroids: Go, Keir, go!

Narcissus in the dock

by Paul Francis, with image above by Martin Gollan

We held no parties, broke no rules.
Did Johnson take them all for fools
when four times he told Parliament
his government was innocent?
Today a few MPs will hear
the case that could end his career.
Supporters mount a fierce campaign -
“kangaroo court” is their refrain.
So does he share that jaundiced view?
I’m undecided. It is true
my case was prejudged by the chair.
Whether this hearing’s really fair
depends upon their final say.
If I get off, it’s all OK.

It would have been insane to lie…
…believe, until the day I die…
…but hand on heart…” The rhetoric
moved some to tears, made others sick.
Sometimes, you almost have to laugh.
There wouldn’t have been a photograph
if I’d have thought that I’d done wrong…
My wife’s designer came along
although it was a work event...
I can’t believe I ever meant
to call the gathering in hand
‘least socially distanced in the land.’

My job’s to motivate the staff,
to raise a glass and have a laugh.
Because the pressure is insane
relaxing helps to ease the strain
and in this country, we hold do’s
for colleagues that we’re due to lose.
Party for x, party for y…
oh, sorry, can’t identify
the individuals concerned.
But though these functions may have turned
more rowdy as the night went on
that happened after I had gone.

When I found out, it was too late.
Why didn’t I put the record straight?
First the police, and then Sue Gray
had their enquiries under way.
I made things clear to everyone
the minute that their work was done.
And yes, it took five months. I guess
ideally it would take less.

Next up, the pass-the-parcel game.
Sunak was there, he shares the blame.
“Not me, sir. What about the rest?”
You think, would Churchill be impressed?
The mood is tense, their tempers taut.
They make him keep his answers short
won’t let him ramble or repeat
and still the case is not complete.
Nearly four hours since they begin
but Johnson’s charm is wearing thin.

It’s nonsense, this. I take my cue
from those who tell me what to do.
I’m not allowed to give the name
but he’s the one who takes the blame.
It wasn’t Doyle, it wasn’t Case.
Each made it clear it’s not his face
that fits the frame. And Reynolds says
that “guidance has been followed” phrase
was taken out from one reply
at PMQs. You wonder why.
He didn’t ask a lawyer’s view
or civil servants. Johnson knew
what matters is the politics;
his fixers got him in this fix.

In retrospect, it’s quite absurd
this hangs on someone else’s word.
He was supposed to be in charge.
He briefed the populace at large
on what they could and couldn’t do.
He can’t pretend he never knew.
Thousands were stopped from saying goodbye
to relatives about to die.
In hospitals the rules were kept;
the line was held elsewhere, except
10 Downing Street. That’s Johnson’s place.
He thought he was a special case,
and gambled he could hold the line
that everything he did was fine.
Don’t own mistakes, apologise
- just keep insisting on those lies.
That coin, so casually tossed
could now exert a heavy cost.
The Lion of Kyiv’s become a mouse,
the statesman who deceived the House.

New Broom

by Paul Francis

Who could they get to sort the Windrush mess?
Ex-cop inspector Wendy Williams
opened the can of worms, filed a report.
Two hundred and seventy pages full
of thirty measures to be carried out.
It would take time and work to put this right.

How could this outfit ditch hostility?
The vans went round, swept up the trash.
White staff turned down black migrants
lost their paperwork
condemned their lack of paperwork
ignored the fear and trauma that creates.

She builds in safeguards, other people’s views,
correctives to this insular contempt.
They’ll need to know colonial history.
They’ll run events to reconcile, connect
officials with the migrants, bridge the void.
Commissioner for migrants, to express
the impact of decisions on their lives.
An independent chief, who’s free to check
Home Office immigration policy.

Priti Patel, no pushover,
accepted this, agreed to implement
all thirty recommendations, get it done.
Progress was slow. Twenty-three people died
before their compensation could be paid.
She still insisted lessons would be learned.

But that was then. Suella Braverman
is now, the wicked witch who turns back boats.
No way will she be hogtied by the past;
her judgement is the only guide she needs.
“The Williams findings can’t be set in stone”
an aide confides, and sure enough
she’s ditching all the safeguards, one by one.
Don’t want to learn, to listen, put this right;
just clear the decks, and send them on their way.

Migration policy has been outsourced
but Sunak, Starmer and the media guess
that we won’t want to know.
D’you think they’re right?

Party Animals

by Paul Francis

Liz Truss is raving on the floor
as Tory members yell for more.
She beams in triumph. She’s so keen
she’ll hit the ground. What can she mean?
Full steam ahead, no ifs no buts.
Splash out the cash, but make no cuts
except for taxes on the rich.
Raise benefits? No. Life’s a bitch.
Among the pundits there’s some doubt
about how this will balance out
but Liz refers them to the man
who’s helped her draft this cunning plan.

Cue Kwasi, claiming his reward.
He’s worked out what we can afford
but check it with the OBR?
No way, he says. A step too far.
A TV star he’ll have you know;
he hit the buzzer like a pro
but still there has to come a day
when we hear what the experts say.
He holds his cards close to his chest;
he’s heard inscrutable is best.
Maybe November 23rd?
His critics say that that’s absurd.
OK. October 31st,
and let the markets do their worst.
Sadly, they’re not prepared to wait
and their unease will seal his fate.

The music’s loud, the lights are dim,
the future forecast’s looking grim
but still Liz parties to the end
and with delight she greets her friend.
“The poor”, says Coffey, plied with drink,
“are not as poor as you might think.
You want some pills to ease your cares?
Forget the doctor. I’ve got spares.”

The king’s next door. Liz took the oath
but her allegiance is to growth.
So all the governments she was in
get trashed; their work goes in the bin.
Around the world they watched, aghast
as everything unravelled, fast.
They see the carnage that ensued:
if you’ve a mortgage then you’re screwed.
Low wages now will buy you less
and as for energy – a mess.
You want to cry, you want to scream;
that press conference – was that a dream?
King Charles witnesses this farce,
the mounting debris, broken glass.
He speaks for all of us, it’s clear.
“Oh dear”, he says. “Oh dear. Oh dear.”

Blind Spot

by Paul Francis

She’s had to ditch that school job, which she loved;
some supermarket shifts will pay the bills.
She’s haunted by the story of a kid
who mimes that he is eating, every day,
taking an empty lunchbox into school.
And on the news, this big man in a suit
says he’ll be cutting taxes on the rich.

He thinks he sees it all. He can’t see her
because he’s focussed on the nods and smiles
as donors pat his back, congratulate
their protégé, and top up his champagne.
There will be turbulence, but he’ll maintain
this course. He tells them what they want to hear.
“It’s just the start. There will be more to come.”

Ode to Autumn, 2022

by Paul Francis

Season of mists. Unregulated Truss
lights up the gloom of this autumnal fog,
concocts a brew designed to cause a fuss
- a shot of Coffey, sprinkled with Rees-Mogg.
First sack that Treasury mandarin, who’s slow.
Ignore the windfalls. Pruning. Cut right back.
Remember DEFRA, sewage? Cut away,
and most of all the green stuff. Exit Zac.
Above all, let the Civil Service know
that bloody Oxford comma has to go.
The cost of living? No. Some other day.

Who hath not seen the aging Tory few
seething with anger at their man betrayed?
They fix on Liz, to start the charge anew
and build upon foundations he has laid.
No levelling down. Be clear it’s not a crime
to be in business. Peasants should give thanks.
And while for some this winter will be cruel
she will pay more to those who run the banks.
The harvest’s in, so watch those profits climb.
There will be bills for which there won’t be time –
environment, obesity, and fuel.

Where are the songs of Spring? You may well ask.
There’s nothing here that offers any hope
to youngsters, who confront a massive task.
Your average superhero couldn’t cope.
But in a wailful choir the MPs drone
unthinking loyalty, vote through each act
- whatever Liz is, she is surely Right –
and now, before we know it, we’ve been fracked.
She knows that she can do this on her own;
she’ll stride ahead, imperious, alone
and send the trolls atwitter with delight.

The Hurdle Race

by Paul Francis

The Guru says that every kid
should run the same race that he did.
He wants lanes narrow, hurdles tall.
A course where most contestants fall
may not be sensitive or just;
what matters is that it’s robust.
So many ways to be assessed -
the Guru knows that his is best.

One lesson’s clear, in viral gloom:
think food, devices, gardens, room.
The Covid axe has split apart
those deep divisions at our heart.
“Just like before” ’s not good enough.
Time to acknowledge other stuff –
the poor decisions, lack of thought,
the failure to provide support.

 Now, maybe, is the time and place
to rethink. Organise the race
by asking those with expertise
in training kids. Such heresies
are rife abroad, where rebels try
to work outside the box, defy
the timetable, set brainwaves free
with teamwork, creativity.

 It’s tough for kids in any case
but with new pressures that they face
they need the chance to draw a breath.
They’ve had the daily news of death;
they’ve felt frustration, boredom, pain
and need to feel free again,
to get their networks up to speed
build the resilience that they need.

 The Guru’s gang say all it takes
is longer sessions, shorter breaks.
They’ve put the hurdles back in place.
Rehearsals start tomorrow. Race!
But kids aren’t ready, good to go.
They may be young, but they still know
their future’s not this narrow track,
these ancient hurdles. Don’t look back.