The Age of The Distinctive Message


(Words: David Senior, Tune: Supercalifragelisticexpiallydocious)

Even though the sound of it is something quite atrocious,
Say it loud enough and you'll really feel quite nauseous,

'Cos I was afraid to merge in Blackpool back that Jan.,
Paddy took me to one side and told me: "Be a man."
He said, "You may not like the name or ref'rence to NATO,
The constitution you can change when t'Conference next you go."


I travelled back to Blackpool then, that September week.
Constitution to amend, that's all I did seek.
But all debate must be suppressed, in case it rocks the boat -
So scrub it from the agenda, don't put it to the vote.


So if your party's been hijacked by bunker app'ratchics,
Committees that you cannot trust and other dirty tricks,
You'd better start planning how you're going to win it back.
We'll start by closing Cowley Street and giving Dee the sack!


Twelve Days of Merger

(Tune: Twelve Days of Christmas)

On the first day of merger
The soggies gave to me,
Well, not much actually.

On the second day of merger
The soggies gave to me,
Absolutely zilch,
Well, not much actually

3. Sweet F.A.
4. A very small amount.
6. Very little really.
7. Nothing you would miss.
8. Just a meagre smidgen.
9. Nought that they would miss.
10. Not a bleeding sausage.
11. Mere peccadilloes.
12. Just a meagre helping.


(Words: Mark Taverner, Tune: Come down, O Love Divine)

Come down to Basildon,
See where the fight was won,
The Liberals, wets and lefties all defeating.
Seat of the nation's choice,
This the authentic voice
And here the heart of England proudly beating

Essex! O bold Úlite!
The country's at Liverpool Street
In search of honest John who always delivers
Bargains on Romford stalls -
Cheap hairy chests and balls -
Fresh out of bleeding hearts and lily livers.

Take up thy bed and walk,
Spare me the soft-tounged talk,
For those that cry for help are only lying.
Under the naff white socks
One sodden cardboard box,
Wherein lies gentle England, quietly dying.

Chingford skins on the piss!
Did we come here for this?
Is this what we have sunk to, Sun-reliant?
Is Chigwell then to be
The end of history?
Or do you faintly hear a voice defiant

O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon, the nation's arsehole!
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon, the nation's arsehole!

Mailing List Lament

(Words: Adrian Cruden, Tune: Keep the Home fires burning)

We'll keep the letters coming,
Tho' your subs expiring.
Raffle tickets come to you
Tho' you last paid in '82.
We'll keep the letters coming,
Computer printouts churning,
Though you died five years ago,
We're writing to you.

Song in Praise of Charles Kennedy

(Words: Harriet Smith, Tune: Molly Malone)

In Glasgow's fair city,
Where the boys are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Charles Kennedy;
As he hawked his ambition
From meeting to meeting:
"I'm a bonnie wee laddie
From the new SDP,
I'm a bonnie wee laddie.
I'm a bonnie wee laddie.
I'm a bonnie wee laddie
From the new SDP."

He was but a tiddler
From North of the Border,
And so was his father a fiddler before:
But he hawked his ambition
From meeting to meeting:
"I'm a cannie wee laddie;
Oh. please vote for me.
I'm a cannie wee laddie.
I'm a cannie wee laddie.
I'm a cannie wee laddie.
Oh please vote for me."

He won in the summer,
Oh, God, what a bummer,
And that was the end of sweet Charles Kennedy;
Now he drags his ambition
From station to station:
"I'm a famous MP,
Let me be on TV.
I'm a famous MP.
I'm a famous MP.
I'm a famous MP,
Let me be on TV.

Some Hymns

Come down at Conference time,
Leave earthly cares behind;
Forgetteth not to bring thy wallet with ye.
Six hundred thousand quid,
Or just the nearest bid,
Will buy this slightly used and shop-soiled party.

When I survey this wondrous mess
In which my party finds itself,
I seek release from my distress,
And take the Scotch from off the shelf

O Pad, out help in ages past,
Our hope for months to come.
Take thy computer in both hands
And stick it up thy ...


(Words: Mark Taverner, Tune: Your baby has gone down the plughole)

A Leader was leading his party one night,
A ragbag collection: a pitiful sight.
Its principles bare; its policies thin,
'T'was nought but a skeleton covered with skin.
So Ashdown turned round
And cried "Woe and alack!"
He was only a moment,
But when he turned back,
His party had gone and in anguish, he cried,
"Oh, where has my party gone?" The voters replied:

"Oh your party has gone down the plughole.
Your party is gone, every bit.
It has been rather low for a year or so,
And now it's face-first in the s***.
Your Party is totally knackered,
Your leadership's right down the drain.
Still no need to feel blue,
There's just one thing to do:
Bring back the Liberals again."

Red Grow The Deficits - Oh!

(Words: Simon Titley, Tune: Green Grow the Rushes-Oh!)

I'll sing you one-oh!
Red grow the deficits-oh.
What is your one-oh?
One is our bureaucracy
Absorbing all our cash-oh!

First time:
Two for the parties we replaced
That were less in debt than we are.

Two, two, the parties-oh
That were less in debt than we are.

First time:
Three for the staff redundancies
We order every month-oh!

Three - more - redundancies

Four for the major clearing banks
Who turned down our account-oh.

Five for the times Sir Anthony
Has bailed the party out-oh!

First time:
Six for the months it took HQ
To work out it was in debt-oh!

And six for the months it took them

First time
Seven for the temps that Ellis hired
To cook the party's books-oh!

Seven for the temps to cook the books

Eight for the direct junk mailshots
It took to raise a pound-oh!

Nine for the High Court Bailiffs men
Who've been through Doocey's drawers-oh

Ten more years of Tory rule
Unless we sort this out-oh!

Green Papers

(Tune: Little boxes, Words: Simon Titley)

Green papers, by the truck-load,
Green papers made of glossy paper,
Green papers, Green papers,
Green papers, all the same.

They're on housing and on transport,
And there's one on prostitution,
And they're all a bit wishy-washy,
And they all look just the same.

And the experts come to Cowley Street,
And plead their special interests,
And it all gets put in papers,
Green papers, just the same.

And there's MPs and there's lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all a bit wishy-washy,
And they all sound just the same.

And the printers print the papers
and send the back to Cowley Street.
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes just the same.

And no-one wants to buy them,
And no-one wants to read them;
So they're all put in the basement,
And they all end up just the same.

And the dustmen come to Cowley Street,
And collect the green papers,
And they all get put in dustcarts,
Little dustcarts just the same.

They're on housing and on transport,
And there's one on prostitution,
And they're all a bit wishy-washy,
And they all look just the same.


(Words: Chris Young, Tune: Little Boxes)

Letterboxes on the doorfronts,
Letterboxes going snippy-snappy;
Letterboxes on the doorfronts -
Letterboxes hurt and maim.
There's a high one and a low one,
And a small one and a narrow one;
And they all stick or go snipy-snappy,
And they all hurt just the same.

And the Focus for the houses
Was written by the candidate;
But he won't touch letterboxes:
Letterboxes hurts and maim.
So I take them and I fold then,
And I try to deliver them;
But they all scrape or go snippy-snappy,
And they all hurt just the same.

Now the front flap on the letterbox
Is stiff or goes flippy-flappy
And it bruises all my fingers
And it traps them in the frame -
Which is filled with rows of bristles
Which crumple the leaflet up.
And they all jam or go scritchy-scratchy,
And they all hurt just the same.

As I bleed upon the leaflet,
It stops at the inner flap,
And I have to wedge it open
With my fingers in the frame.
Then a dog jumps at the doorfront
And tries to bite my fingers off.
And they all growl or go yippy-yappy,
And they all hurt just the same.

So the leaflet turns to dogfood
Or gets snagged in silly curtaining,
And get tangled, further mangled:
It is all part of the game.
When the owner gets the leaflet,
It must be half-illegible;
And they'll never vote Libby-Labby.
But it all hurts just the same.

Letterboxes on the doorfronts
Should be subject to regulations;
Never sideways, all at waist height,
Letterboxes just the same.
And the dogs should be sedated,
And the hinges lubricated fully.
They'd be simple and not knicky-knacky,
And they'd all work just the same.

Right, Said Beith

(Words: Simon Titley, Tune: Right said Fred)

Right, said Beith, economic spokesman
This Green Paper'll bring the voters in,
To punters up in Berwick,
He was getting nowhere
And so, we, had a cup of tea.

And right, said Beith, give a job to Charlie,
Up goes Charlie to the studio.
Not one soundbite
On Channel 4 or Newsnight.
We was getting nowhere
And so, we, had a cup of tea.

So Alan had a think, and he thought we ought
To free the Bank of England -
It'll go down well in Richmond.
But it did no good,
Well I never thought it would.

Alright said Beith, monetary system,
To join that system wouldn't take a mo.
Joined the system -
Economic bedlam -
Should have got us somewhere, but no
So Beith said, let's have another cup of tea
And we said, Righto.

Alright, said Beith, central bank of Europe -
That there bank is the end of all our woes.
Loads of Germans,
Economic sermons,
And it got us nowhere
And so, we, had a cup of tea

And Paddy had a think and he said, Look Beith
You're causing an imbroglio -
I'm changing your portfolio
In a month or two
I will think what you can do.

Alright said Beith, home affairs is better;
Family values is what I will suggest.
But video nasties
Featuring pederasty
Landed on top of his desk,
So Paddy and me had another cup of tea
And then we went home.

Don't Jump Off the Roof, John

(Words: Simon Titley, Tune: Don't jump off the Roof, Dad)

John Major came home from work tired;
The House had been driving him mad.
The kids started fighting,
The wife hit him too;
To win back his voters he hadn't a clue

I guess it was then he decided
Up to the roof-top he'd go.
He was about to jump off, when
His cabinet shouted below.


Don't jump off the roof, John.
You'll make a hole in the yard.
Heseltine's a disaster
And Clarke is a big tub of lard - tub of lard
If you must end it all John,
Won't you please give us a break -
Just take a walk to the park, John,
And then you can jump in the lake

[Repeat last verse until bored]

The Week we went to Brighton

(Words: Adrian Slade, Tune: Bangor)

Didn't we have a lovely time
The week we went to Brighton -
Voting for policy options that
Upset the Parliamentary Party.
Wasn't it fun seeing Alex Carlisle
Standing at the rostrum,
Venting his rage
On the minimum wage
To no avail.

Didn't we have a lovely time
Debating equidistance,
All being surprised at the Guardian do
When Ming and Russel favoured Labour.
Set in a whirl by Bill Roy and Shirl,
Who think the mould is broken,
We stood on our head
Not to jump into bed
With Tony Blair.

Didn't we have a lovely time
Electing Bob Maclennan,
Saying good-bye to Charlie Boy,
And not electing Martin Thomas;
Or giving much to poor young Don,
Who'd collected all those names up -
Maybe because
He was lively and new
And we can't risk that.

Didn't we have a lovely time
Discussing all out tax plans;
Changing our mind on 60 per cent
And probably changing them back again.
Because they let loose poor Malcolm Bruce
To give us a presentation.
Creating a budget in quarter'f'an'hour
Is a brave thing to do.

Didn't we have a lovely time
Upsetting Paddy Ashdown:
Making him hot at the thought of pot
Available at sweetie counters.
"No, not at all," he was able to call,
"We'll have a Royal Commission."
So wasn't he lucky
We didn't go on
To abolish the Queen!

Plonkers on the Right

(Words: Mark Taverner, Tune Strangers in the Night)

Plonkers on the Right
All Dicks and Boyson,
Festering in the night
A foetid poison,
Free to run its course
The 1980s through.

Nothing was too strong,
Or would deter them.
Nothing we did wrong
Seemed to bestir them.
Dreams we've had so long
Felt like might come true.

Plonkers on the Right,
Mad Tory people,
We were plonkers on the Right
Up to that moment on that
Night in '92.
Bound to lose, we knew,
But when it came to judgement day
They voted for us anyway;

And . . .

Now it seems that night
Will be our ruin,
The voters knew all right,
What they were doin'.
A lasting end's in sight
For plonkers on the right.

Pacts, Pacts, Glorious Pacts

(Words: Janice Turner, Tune: Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud)

A bold Liberal Democrat was drinking one day,
With his thoughts on elections afar.
Then a bottle of Bollinger he sent with great speed
To the socialist clique at the bar.
He said, "You've been buggered since '79,
And my party's still stuck at square one.
You can't lose again for that's five in a row
And I will be out on my bum."

Pact, pact, give him a pact,
He says it's the way to get Major the sack.
"I'm not being sinister, now don't be a ninny, sir,
You can make me Prime Minister
With a glorious pact."

Now Labour was rudderless 'cos Kinnock had gone,
Smith and Beckett didn't know what to do.
They said, "Darling Paddy, we can't say yes out loud"
So they whispered "Perhaps" in the loo.
The Labour dilemma was easy to see,
It was heresy to say they might lose.
But maybe with Paddy they could go further right
And drink better quality booze.

Pact, pact, give 'em a pact,
It's the last chance they've got to give Major the sack
We'll do it quite deftly, so don't be too hefty,
We'll make Paddy a leftie,
With a glorious pact.

Paddy turned to the Liberals, saying: "It sure is the thing,
An alliance is just what we need.
I'm fed up of yomping to third place again,
If you can't beat 'em join and succeed."
Big Cyril went purple, the earth shook with rage,
The right of the party went blue.
Destruction of Labour was their lifelong aim,
But Paddy went pink and said, "Poo".

Pact, pact, give him a pact
It's a last ditch attempt to get Major the sack.
So follow him follow, your pride you must swallow,
And there let us wallow
With a glorious pact.