Well, howzabout that then, guys and gals?
Sir Jimmy Savile spent every New Year’s Eve at Chequers,
For eleven years running, with Mrs. Thatcher.
Might they have swapped stories about child abuse –
The fluorescent DJ and the Tory Milk Snatcher?
“This is Sir Jim’ll Fix It,” Thatcher would say to her guests,
Proudly announcing him in her strident voice –
Sir Jimmy who’d just fixed it for a fearful thirteen-year-old
In the back of his golden Rolls Royce –
Sir Jimmy, who’d tell his victims he’d fix it for them to meet Cilla Black,
And his close friends, John, Paul, George and Ringo,
If his unwitting target was nice to “our pal” in his track suit bottoms
While he’d pant and jabber in his non-stop pop lingo.
“Ooh yes, you’d like Prince Charles, and he’d like you –
Goodness gracious. What they put up with – him and Di.
Who’d be royal, eh? But who do they come to for marital advice? Yours truly.
‘Cos they all trust in your Uncle Jim, the Royals. Would I lie?’
‘Now, if you’d just let me put my tongue down your throat –
My way, you see, of telling you not to say a word.
“Cos little girls”, as my dad, who was a wise old bird, used to say,
“Little girls should be seen and not heard.”’
“Now, seeing as how you’ve been so super good, guess what? As it ‘appens,
I could fix it for you to meet our lovely Queen!
Cos I’m SIR Jimmy Savile, you see, so I’ve to kneel down in front of Her Majesty,
Just like what you’ve been. Now, little Tracy, let’s do that again.”
He told a nine year old cub scout with a Jim’ll Fix It badge
That he’d “have to earn it”, then how – then to keep quiet.
“I know your house. Noone’d believe you. I’m King Jimmy.”
“I was petrified. I just sat there thinking, ‘Why me?'”.
Sir Jimmy Savile fucked up the future of over three hundred kids
And he’s deservedly vilified, yet his New Year’s Eve host
Fucked up the future of millions more kids than the vile Savile
And instead Margaret Thatcher is the Tory party’s toast.
It’s emerged that Savile had the keys to a hospital mortuary
And relished fondling corpses as a nocturnal hobby;
Equally his Tory soul mate killed off a more caring society:
She profited from its corpse, then called it progress.
Illustration: Claire Palmer
Read by Alan Cox