Screen All Calls, Neil. The fine folk of Teviton and Hoviton, down in Devon Thought they lived in a slice of pure Southern heaven, A quiet place where the salt of the earth simply dwell- Now Neil Parish has blown the sweet illusion all to Hell. For twelve years he'd toiled in the House to little regard, A
hackback bencher doing House work but doin' it hard, Few call on him, rare are the times Neil's moved to stand, He's usually left to ruminate on his phone, rapt in his hand. He was found out in the House of Commons, watching porn, Not alone, in the Roxy, in the dark with a box of hot popcorn?
Why, once again we see another Tory sat sad and contrite, Offering up the best rushed apology he had time to write, He knows he must live with this act for the rest of his life... Which mightn't be long, once he's in the grip of his wife. Once hubby is resigned and restrained within her four walls Wifey might whip him a flip-top so he can answer his calls, For hubby now a no-frills no-thrills Nokia surely suffices; Not-so-smart Neil cannot be left to his phone (de)vices. Come the Election, if Boris's Party Time culminates in a rout Will House breeches help to get Blue members tossed out?