Nick Clegg’s Conference speech Remixed.



Blue suit, blue lectern, blue backdrop, yellow tie

Two and a half years ago, I stood in this very hall

Tie is the colour of my school tie,

and it’s making my brane go funny.

Hold our nerve

Why two lapel mics?

Hold our nerve

Speaking in stereo now?

We’ve always been the face of change

All our dreams will appear

on hover powered motor scooters.

100,000 ideas on how to cut waste

Suggestion 100,001 – axe the post of Deputy PM

Still a lot of beards in the Lib Dems

I still think the war in Iraq was illegal.

Got a cheer

The difference is lawyers now get anxious when I mention it.

Packed but not yet passionate

seems some people are only interested in the past.

We will never lose our soul.

already sold it to the Devil

I can’t watch him any more,

sell it to the highest bidder

a bit like young Pike of Dad’s Army.

We have become more than the sum of our parts.

It sounds like a storm coming for bankers

It’s a drop in the ocean.

Two heads are usually better than one.

Walk the high street,

it’s invisible.

go to work, talk to your friends,

I would be LMAO if this wasn’t so serious

Would you ask your children to pay your credit card bill?

a Thatcher-style household analogy.

Don’t panic

Very keen to win over and reassure the faithful.

It’s quite tough

you have the opportunities you crave.

It must never happen again.

So the message is loud and clear:

Has anyone else lost track of the books

Labour people keep publishing?

All conning bollox to put it politely

Building, brick by brick, day by day,

Just imagine how different our country will be.

Not exactly a vision thing

Stick with us

It wasn’t a bad speech

Stick with us

Looks all so sincere

Stick with us

We’re stuck with U

Collaging by Flow Festival Poet in Residence Kate Fox;

Papal poems-from my Flow Festival Residency

Poems from the Flow Festival Residency.


Partly inspired by an article by English Pen’s Jonathan Heawood; as well as much other Pope talk today;

Pope in Law

It’s like when your Mother in Law

comes round to tea

and you’d tutted at yourself

as you wiped the skirting boards

and cut the crusts off the ham sandwiches,

but she runs her finger

along the mantelpiece collecting dust

says the country’s not what it was,

too full of coloureds and gays

and they talk some sense

in the British National Party

(but she’d happily beatify Russell Harty)

You roll your eyes

but bring more tea in

and her cup swills in sync

with her hand’s tremoring

and time passes like Sunday

until the Mail crossword’s finished

and she needs to get home

for the One Show

and you start a diversionary argument

about how her old antimacassars

are clutter you don’t need

wave her off too vigorously

a gallstone of words stuck inside you

hard and shiny as a Rosary bead.


Inspired by a mishearing by Ruth of the Arvon Foundation when I said I was writing a Papal poem;




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