Wednesday, March 21, 2007

There's No One Quite Like Macavity...

I feel duty bound to bring you a new version of Macavity, as told to Conservative MP Paul Goodman...

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Clunking Paw--
For he's the ten-year Chancellor who taxes more and more.
He's the bafflement of Tyneside North, he’s Darlington’s despair:
For when they’re sacked or briefed against --Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity
He's broken every golden rule - he breaks the law of amity.
His off balance sheet accounting would make Robert Maxell stare,
But when you open up the books --Macavity's not there!
You may search the whole Smith Institute, or the Cash-for-Honours affair --
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
Macavity's a peculiar cat - he's full of tricks and wiles.
He mutters and he mumbles and he hardly ever smiles.
He scarcely talks to colleagues…his head is highly domed
His suit is dusty from neglect, his hair is all uncombed.
He juts his jaw from side to side; he never can relax.
Except when he is planning to impose his hundredth tax.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a grudge in human form, a monster of depravity.
He won’t support tuition fees; he won’t back Tony Blair.
And as for foundation hospitals – well, Macavity's not there!

The Cabinet is stuck with him. (It’s said they live in fear.)
And he gives his Budget to the House exactly once a year.
But when defence is looted, or the pension funds are rifled,
Or the tax credits go missing, or John Hutton is found stifled,
Or a greenhouse gas is rising, and Lord Turnbull in despair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!
And if he doesn’t like you, then you know that, without fail
You’ll wake up to nasty briefings printed in the Daily Mail.

There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair
But it's useless to investigate--Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the civil service say:
"It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him brooding, or a-chewing of his hand
As he works out how exactly to get rid of Miliband.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
He’s doesn’t care for social grace; he’s short on charm and suavity.
He always has an alibi, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the leak took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all his colleagues who hold his name in dread
(I might mention Norwich South; I might mention Birkenhead.)
Are nothing more than ciphers for the Cat who never lacks
An excuse to raise some revenue: the Napoleon of Tax!


Anonymous said...

Shouldnt he get on with his job???

Anonymous said...

10 out of 10 - THIS MUST get into the MSM somehow Iain + a Doughty Street rendition please posted on U Tube.

Also a press release to all Conservative MP's / candidates, the Queen, Margaret Thatcher. Winston Churchill ......

Anonymous said...

Excellent! I agree! Ten out of 10 and I'll bet he would have endorsed TS Elliot himself!

I know this is a silly question, but is there a British actor who is a Tory and might read this over YouTube?


Alan Douglas said...

Funny, about 7 years ago I wrote a spoof McCavity all about TB, not GB.

GB was as I recall Rumbletaxer !

This is very good indeed, barring a few typos !


Anonymous said...

Paul Goodman may look like Mr Bean, and he may have been a monk in a former life, but he's still a genius!!!

UKIP@HOME said...

A young man named Gordon bought a donkey from an old farmer for £100.00.

The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day, but when the farmer drove up he said, "Sorry son, but I have some bad news... the donkey is on my truck, but unfortunately he's dead."

Gordon replied, "Well then, just give me my money back."

The farmer said, "I can't do that, because I've spent it already."

Gordon said, "OK then, well just unload the donkey anyway."

The farmer asked, "What are you going to do with him?"

Gordon answered, "I'm going to raffle him off."

To which the farmer exclaimed, "Surely you can't raffle off a dead donkey!"

But Gordon, with a wicked smile on his face said, "Of course I can, you watch me. I just won't bother to tell anybody that he's dead."

A month later the farmer met up with Gordon and asked, "What happened with that dead donkey?"

Gordon said, "I raffled him off, sold 500 tickets at two pounds a piece, and made a huge, fat profit!!"

Totally amazed, the farmer asked, "Didn't anyone complain that you had stolen their money because you lied about the donkey being dead?"

To which Gordon replied, "The only guy who found out about the donkey being dead was the raffle winner when he came to claim his prize. So I gave him his £2 raffle ticket money back plus an extra £200, which as you know is double the going rate for a donkey, so he thought I was a great guy!!"

Gordon grew up and eventually became the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and no matter how many times he lied, or how much money he stole from the British voters, as long as he gave them back some of the stolen money, most of them, unfortunately, still thought he was a great guy ***

The moral of this story is that, if you think Gordon is about to play fair and do something for the everyday people of the country for once in his miserable, lying life, think again my friend, because you'll be better off flogging a dead donkey!

Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

An adaptation of a tune once posted to webcameron - with apologies to The Road To The Isles

Mr Broon's song

It's a far croonin' is pullin' Broon away
As he runs off wi' our money for the road.
The far Coolins, he'd even tax them, eh?
As he takes off wi' our taxes for his load.

Oh it's our taxes that are puttin' love on Broon
As he takes off wi' our money for the road.

Sure as Cameron is coming
Our revenge will taste sae sweet
Broon, can make all the big fists that he please
For we're thinking of him dangling by his sporan from the ropes
Then we'll ne'r more smell the tangle of his fees!

It's a far croonin' that's pulling Broon away
As he follows Mr Blair to the isles
A fair Cameron will beat you lad that day
And we'll ne'r more smell the tangle of your wiles!

Oh it's our taxes that we're taking back from Broon
As we send him empty tax bagged to the isles.

Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch we'll have gatsos watching Broon
On the heather tracks that lead back to the isles.
For we all know in our inner hearts there's braggart in his step
and we'll ne'r more smell the tangle o' his wiles!

Auntie Flo'