Neil Hudson (neilhudson) wrote,
Neil Hudson

Neil's Christmas message to the nation

Neil will not be sending Christmas cards this year.



Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the flat
All the creatures had been
Disembowelled by the cat

But there lurked in the darkness
A sinister figure,
A gun in his hand
As he pushed at the trigger.

He frowned and he snarled
And he looked like a wrong ‘un
And this was the truth,
For his name was Kim Jong-un.

He said, “western fools!
When you’re pulling your crackers
You’ll see they’re invaded
by North Korean hackers,

With Kim Jong-un jokes
And a Kim Jong-un hat
And a Kim Jong-un bang
(I’ve had sanctions for that).

And there won’t be a fairy
On top of the tree
Or an angel, or star,
But a statue of me.

And the money you raised
From your carol collections
I’ll put in my coffers
For rigging elections

And rather than hang
Decorations this season
Of goodwill, I’m hanging
My uncle for treason.

So let children sing
And let angels exult
Not in Jesus‘, but my
Personality cult.”

And so Christmas was stolen
By Kim Jong-un’s action,
But victory still gave him
No satisfaction

For darkness had conquered
The heart of Jong-un -
He had power and glory,
But didn’t have fun.


Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the home
All the creatures had nothing
To do with this poem.

But then down the chimney
Came Christmas’s saviour,
Albeit indulging
In racist behaviour.

“That snow on the ground
Has been caused by gay marriage!”
He spluttered. Then Kim knew
He was Nigel Farage.

“You pronounce it Far-age.
That’s my name you disparage!
Now say it correctly!”
Exclaimed Nigel Farage.

“I’m warning you! That’s just
A blatant miscarriage
Of justice! I’ll give you
One last chance!” said Farage.

So angry was he at
Pronouncing his name wrong
He sent Kim Jong back
Where he bloody well came from.

And then he threw out
All the migrants and claimants
Who put up his taxes
With benefit payments

He threw out the mothers
Who breastfeed in Claridge’s
(That’s a particular
Bugbear of Farage’s)

Then all the people
Who weren’t just like him
Then the people who were
(Though those numbers were slim).

But then he was alone,
And forlorn, and bereft
Of companions, for he
Was the only one left.

And he hadn’t learnt carols
While leading Ukip, so
He sat by the tree
Singing Mike Read’s Calypso

And sat up alone
In a candlelit vigil.
“At least they won’t get
My first name wrong,” said Nigel.


Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the mansion
Some of the creatures were stirring
And buggered the scansion

But then from the heavens
An angel descended,
And Nigel and Kim’s
Hate and sadness were ended

For nothing can act
As a spirit detox
Like the smile on the face
Of Professor Brian Cox.

“When I think of the cold
Lonely darkness of space,”
Said the Prof, “I’ve a big
Cheeky grin on my face.

When I think of the years
That will never come back, it
Arranges my face
In a colon close bracket.

The universe ends
After trillions of years,
But the thought turns my mouth up
To join up my ears

And I smile with delight
At the Earth’s final days
(And the travel allowance
The BBC pays).

So my message for Christmas
(And after, in fact)
Is, if life gets you down,
And you can’t cope, don’t act

Like a xenophobe hack
Or Korean agressor,
But be like your legally high
Mad professor.”


My trite platitude
Is delivered, so now
I let Brian and Nigel
And Kim take a bow,

And explain, “you might not
Think it terribly hard
To write somebody’s name
On a meaningless card,

But the bastard’s forgotten
Again, and so we’ll
Have to say to his friends,
Merry Christmas, from Neil.”

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