Qatar tells Budweiser to hide their drinking problem at the World Cup.

Left High And Dry.

If you've hauled ass to fabled and far off Qatar
There to feast your eyes on the Football World Cup,
Don't think you'll breeze into some friendly corner bar
Replete with some foamy sudsy Buds on which to sup.

Qatar authorities don't condone public drinking here,
They frown on out-of-towner's downing a cool beverage,
It doesn't matter if it's merely Budweiser's sLitest beer-
Stay way up in your hotel and clean out the mini-fridge.

No, do not go out once you're boozed in the bag,
And if you're a woman, don't dare show bare skin,
But then don't wrap yourself up in a rainbow flag,
Dressing gayly here appears to be a mortal sin.

Tourists flock to Qatar to watch the beautiful game,
Most used to emitting loud cheers and drinking freely,
Now some who were glad to come feel sad they came,
And is getting a skinful of Bud Lite all that sinful, really?
Kicking 'round the desert sure does build up a thirst-
What madness, sweating it out 'neath a swoonday sun!
My excitement over seeing the World Cup's already burst,
Druther be chillin' at home, knockin' back 'nother cold one.

 'Way more than feeling half empty'

Song for this dry and dusty post is 'Super 8' by Jason Isbell.


Blink and you’ll miss Miz Liz. (A few flitting words on Liz Truss’s well overdue departure.)

Number Ten And Counting.

Which latter day Tory leader ranks worst?
Big Party-goer Boris's bubble soon burst,
But for three crazy years he'd partied on,
Aren't those left Rightly glad he's gone?

Liz Truss lasted barely a month and a half?
One doesn't know if one should cry or laugh,
Liz bit the dust and quit in six sad weeks;
How the tears roll merrily down my cheeks.

Three scant years seems the average tenure
Before for your Tory PM it all turns to manure.

So Truss packs it in after a bolloc rollicking 45 days-
An ingloriously shorter stay than Theresa Mays,
Whoever the f- fickle Tories pick cannot be worse!
Pluck some worthy to put the Clown Car in reverse!

Blimey, whose slimy grimy hand arrises, unbidden
From the Conservatives festering unholy midden?*
Could it- is it Boris Johnson, come back for more?
Before you go Liz, lock and bar Number 10's door.

*Midden- British term for a junk yard, rubbish tip, a compost heap where old tools or past their use-by date heads of cabbages etc are abandoned to decompose; discarded, unwanted and mostly unlamented. Like Johnson and Trump best left dumped, NEVER to be disinterred.

‘And for Miz Truss, Number 10’s ever revolving door goes ’round and ’round’

(Theme song for this debacle just has to be the Beatles ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzy.’)


News and views skewed while you watch! See reality being checked!

Channel Hate.

Remember Hillary's insecure e-mail server?
Remember Fox and Friends patriotic fervour?
How they pitched forth every wild-eyed reason
To get 'that b witch' locked up for High Treason?

Burn her at the stake!
Pitch her in the lake!
Dip her in the Ducking Stool!
Sitting punishment, cold and cruel!
Give her Chinese water torture!
Troll that devils daughter!
Remind her of Bill's affair!
Give her the 'lectric chair!
Shoot her at dawn!
On the White House lawn!
By the NRA Volunteer Artillery!
Fox say 'pillory Hillary!'
Ready to pile on the hurt!
Ready to dish the dirt!
To positively relish it!
Polish and embelishit!

But as Don's damning document trail is unfolding,
Since Don has been found to be secretly withholding
Flippin' Fox hope the Right-thinking man understands
All our Tip-Top secrets are safe in his basement hands.

Security issues have rebounded!
Fox say 'Don's being hounded!'
It's a Presidential affront!
It's an FBI witch hunt!
Don holds a Privileged Position!
Don's above common inquisition!
Where's their shredded evidence??!!
Don Declassified them documents!
On Don's word, his solemn bond!
Donny waived his Magic Wand!
Totally Deep Statedly unjust!
In Don alone we trust!
Believe him- or not!
Support 'Mericas Great despot!
Ignore fifteen toxic hot boxes!
No view is crazier than Foxes.

           'Little White Mistruths and no big Consequences.'
(I'm aiming to steer away from political comments, but c'mon, I couldn't let this lot lie.) 

© Obbverse.

Presenting Scott Morrison, previous Aussie Prime Minister; Talk about a job of work.

(ScoMo explains why he secretly made himself the Minister of Everything.)

Only One Of The Team.

Let's stand and applaud stout Scott Morrison
For the power of work he has so selflessly done,
Overseeing not only his Prime duties, but everyone's,
The unheralded effort he's put in both shocks and stuns.

ScoMo believes he is God's gift, precious and rare,
Willingly able to shoulder more than his fair share
While leaving his five trusting Ministers cluelessly unawares-
Aw, poor Health, Finance, Treasury, Industry and Home Affairs.

Some say 'twas a power grab, carefully planned,
But what those of little mind failed to understand
There's a few too many Ministers who mightn't do as I demanded,
And I take pleasure in my solitary secret vice; being underhanded.

In times of Covid there's no time for Democracy!
ScoMo can't wait for his Cabinet to sit and agree!
He must take drastic action to arrest this dread disease!
As your duly elected Leader he felt he had to take liberties.

Now the sitting cocksure member for Cook*
Is getting a worse grilling than a rotisserie chook,
His old Cabinet stand, simmering, casting him incendiary looks,
Looks held for ill-bred sheep rustlers, thieves and common crooks.

Seems the one-man band's played his last gig,
His lies are less likely to fly than a bewinged pig,
He proves there is a real Right-wing shadowy Government figure,
Want a dumb Big Brother? Great Scott, they don't come much bigger.
*The Division Of Cook, ScoMo being its sitting MP for years. His seat is hotting up now!

'It disgusts me my people don't trust me to do the right thing. They should be more like me.' 


Boris holds back on his retirement party. C’mon Boris, there’s no better time than the present.

Can't Take A Hint.

Boris Johnson may be much maligned
But he has confirmed he's all set to go,
But whoa, hey, hold fire- not yet though;
Boris did stand up and say he is resigned
To go, but one thing we've come to know
Is this ditzy blonde can act a little... slow.

So, now he's not going till early September!?!? 
Yep, he's holding on, Boris is hanging tough,
Standing firm by sitting on his ample chuff;*
We're stuck with you, you (dis)honourable Member?
Be like May, walk away, you dishevelled scruff-
Yesterday could not be soon enough.

Oh no, so we're lumbered with Bo all Summer long?
Given time, might even his conscience be stirred?
Perhaps admit, with shame, it is he who's erred?
Or... Trump-like, think 'I am right, so can do no wrong?'
For the oh-so special ones, 'sorry' is the hardest word-
Our boy's sad apology is there to be seen, not heard.

Two more long months his lies have bought him;
Why flush rush off when you can sit and stall?
September is going to be a long hard haul.
We're lumbered with bloody Boris until Autumn?
That prick procrastinator won't leave till fall?
His sheepish mob and he have learnt f^(k all.

*Old British slang for bottom. Or in Bo's case, arse.

              'The Boris Johnson Time Management Method.'


Bye, bye Bonehead; Boris the Malingerer finally gets the hint.

Oh, Boo Hoo Bozo.

Hallelujah, praise be Sweet Jesus, and thank the Lord!
Let the whole country's church bells clamour and ring!
The prayers of thy long suffering flock Thou hast not ignored,
Join in the chorus of 'Swing Low,' and sing, Brother- sing!

God, whatever is the cause of this outpouring of relief?
From whence does this sense of joy and hope spring?
'Tis this welcome message from Boris, ere our High Chief,
Glory be, he's resigned, finally Bozo's done the right thing.

‘There is nothing quite as sad as the tears of a clown. Still, some enjoy seeing a pratt fall.’


Boris boldly clings on, as few have clung on before.

Uneasy Lies The Big Head.

Young Johnson, he of fair tousled hair and trusted face
Left Public School after learning of diplomacy and grace,
Boris knew he was destined to ascend to the highest place,
Those who then knew Bo agreed too- he is a special case.

Boris went off to London, to be seen near the Queen,
He became Mayor of London, as friends had foreseen-
To be fair, he kept a high profile and kept the streets clean,
Then, as luck May have it, he became Tory leader in 2019.

So, 'twas mid-December Boris faced the first of his tests,
'Back Britain Out Of Europe' became the noblest of quests,
Instantly old foreign friends felt like his unwanted guests,
Forget moral dilemma- Bo left,  since it serves his interests.

The blue Tory tide not only sweeps Boris into power
The tsunami left Labour looking at their darkest hour,
The blue bloods sweeping away that Socialist shower-
For Comrade Corbyn abject defeat tastes bitterly sour.

Boris has won the peoples mandate!
Boris alone has made Britain again Great!
That Bo is the Golden Boy is beyond debate!
Now it's party time, pop the corks and celebrate!

Surely Boris could now look forward to a long easy reign?
Logically 'twould be ages before Labour threatened again,
A prescient few thought the wooly-haired one smug and vain
But the idea of Boris being bested for decades- simply insane.

Oh, but poor Boris did not know of the tribulations to come-
Whereupon, after contracting Covid, being glad to not succumb
Boris clamped down hard on his precious people; (well, some,)
In hindsight, he had made an ass of some decisions acted dumb.

So now, as he stands before the Lords, Ladies and his Peers
About him his rock solid loyal following ghostily disappears,
Being cut off short in his powerful prime's what the big man fears,
And it's all down to his own work- in less than three short years.



Boris Johnson- still telling it like it isn’t.

Trotting Out The Twisted Pig Tales.

Still Boris Johnson keeps on clinging on,
It's a high wire he's sweatily swinging on,
It's quite the parlous position he is in;
Why or whoever could be the reason?

He has apologised for the crass behaviour,
He's cravenly asked Sue to do him a favour,
Even gone where a Johnson rarely ventures-
He's had to front up to his lowly back benchers.

This time, he swears, the lesson has truly stuck,
This time, he hopes, with an ounce of dumb luck
Just enough fools will believe he is rightly contrite-
And that's worth celebrating come Friday night.

For apologies from Number 10 are ten a penny-
So what's another broken promise, after so many?
Lessons learned from Public School still ring true,
'If you believe a word Boris says- more fool you.'

It's not as if Boris has seen a sign from on High,
That there are consequences for retelling a lie,
And people may well call Bo the consummate liar
But it matters not a jot till his pantaloons catch fire.

The Left wing's working to toss him out of the joint-
No need for mutineers to Rightly belabour the point.
Boris does not appreciate criticism from his betters,
He needs to survive all those no-confidence letters.

So Bo hopes to navigate his way past Partygate,
To again scoff caviar canapés off of a silver plate,
A carafe of Cabernet slugged back from a pint glass;
Don't believe anything emitted by that windbag ass.


Somehow slick-as-a-greased-pig Bo has survived the cut,
His thick-as pigshi pals all mucked in to save his sorry butt,
So he's putting on a Party for the loyal swine who saved his bacon,
They can stomach his pisswater and pork pies? I'd put the stake in. 

'The Boris Johnson patented and well-practiced thumbs-up .'


How can we fail to progress with people of such selfless character and calibre governing us?

Holding My Piece.

I'm a staunch red-blooded Second Amendment defender,
That Right is a Right I solemnly swear I'll never surrender,
Though I do sometimes wonder if morally I've lost my way
Any scruples fly in the face of my kickback from the NRA.

On that rare day, in the wake of another mass shootout
I put on my best sad pious face and lay my black suit out,
Clasp hands and pray for the souls of the sadly departed;
Though lately I'm well practiced at looking broken hearted.

I'll happily blame some loony lone gunman, patently insane-
It's a rationale I've trotted out patiently time and time again,
So why get so mad If I coldly kill your latest Gun Control Bill?
If I don't take the NRA's cash inducement another bastard will.

Some may say I'm silently aiding and abetting a mortal sin
While offering up thoughts and prayers to the bereaved kin,
Hey, but for the likes of me this crazy ol' world keeps a'turning-
And there's this deep hole in my soul  pocket that keeps a'burning.

Once the funeral's done- and they're gettin' uncomfortable, I confess-
I'm right back to the business of gun control- no, not more, but less!
For my cronies and I toil tirelessly away for the NRA, working hellbent
Convening down at our Club, all in the interest of those we represent.

Our business is all to do with improving shooting on the golf course,
It's this kind of business our Right-thinking sponsor can endorse,
And whether it's rounds out on the golf course or the rifle range
So long as we keep getting paid our dues nothing will change.

                                    - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The NRA aims to free you to freely roam 'round this grand old land
Armed to the teeth, like Rambo, an AR15 propped in either hand, 
No, no; no; know all denials of gun rights the NRA roundly rejects,
But they aren't unbalanced enough to deny your donation checks.  

                                     'Now, who's red-handed?'


Boris Johnson is resigned to have to apologise. A simple resignation would be… just better.

Party Time.

Boris knows he has to admit to his mistake,
Never been a thing he felt obligated  to make,
But given there's principles a PM's future at stake
He'll make his sad and sorry apology, for pity's sake.

Though well practiced,  Bo knows sincerity's hard to fake.

Oh, Boris Johnson, why don't you just resign?
Your blithe denials about 'a quick birthday wine'
Have resulted in the cops slapping you with a fine-
For you breaking your own rules, you pompous swine.

Your gullible public can't swallow that fatuous lie line.

See Boris front up and 'fess up to a minor mistake,
(Though Bo believes rules are made for him to break)
As a clear and transparent apology his is muddily opaque,
A strained 'sorry' comes as hard for him to say as us to take.

This steamin' hot mess Bo aims to pile on us is no birthday cake. 

Oh, Bonehead Johnson, you know it is just to resign,
Surely, even you must see your star has lost its shine?
Boris, dare you consider- God forbid- you are not divine?
There's talk of you and coups coming down the grapevine.

So go Bo- your Party contains more pricks than a porcupine.

‘Oi, polloi!- Boris Johnson, at your bumbling humble service.’