My country right or wrong? I don’t think so.

“Buller, buller, buller” is reportedly the Bullingdon Club rallying cry with which Boris Johnson greeted fellow ex-members before the reputation of the club became so toxic that even he claimed to regret it.

“Little Britain” is less a reference to a TV show that I’ve never actually seen than to the myth of “plucky little Britain” standing alone against its enemies during two World Wars.

Thames House and Vauxhall Cross are the headquarters of MI5 and MI6 respectively. I don’t believe that either organization is unequivocally evil, but clearly both are tainted by political pragmatisim. Sanctions against Russia since the invasion of Ukraine have been selective, and the UK government is even more selective when it comes to criticizing the activities of political allies.

I prefer not to go into detail about the unspeakable far-right agitators and politicians, or the so-called patriots who seized upon the deaths of innocent children in Southport as an excuse for rioting and looting.

‘Perfidious Albion’ is a term that’s been used to describe Britain’s duplicitous political behaviour at least as far back as the 19th century.

Anyway, I’m too old and feeble to be much of an activist nowadays, but at least I can still vent my spleen in song. At least, I don’t think it’s illegal yet, though another four years of Tory repression might have changed that.

This song was finished today, so it’s obviously an imperfect performance (and one word has already been changed since this recording). ‘Castles’ is now ‘apartments’.

Or:

Little-Minded Britain

The flags are out in Downing Street to show that we’re the best

The Buller Buller Bullies take it all, and sod the rest

The greedy ones unmasked in the corridors of power

Still claim they’re just like us, in their apartments and their towers

Please don’t make me live in Little Britain

With the bullies and the liars without shame

I don’t want to end my days with those who say that it’s OK

To spit on anyone who’s not like them

Thames House is taking tea, and so is Vauxhall Cross

With the traitors and the ones who pull their strings

The oligarchs still thrive, money still has the last word

Whichever way the pendulum swings

Don’t make me live in Little-Minded Britain

Where the racists pose as patriots and devils pose as saints

Please don’t let me die in Little Britain

Among the hopeless victims of the rage that knows no shame

Don’t make me live in Little-minded Britain

Albion still perfidious is no safe place to be

Please don’t let me die in Little Britain

This is no place to meet eternity

 

Words and music (c) David Harley

I landed badly from a leap of Faith
And Faith no longer talks to me
Though I tried rewriting history
Her story won’t let me be

Cash to ashes, rust to dust
Go for broke and end up bust
The devil drives, where needing must
Dream of love, and fall in lust

Maybe I don’t have the jealousy gene
Maybe Jean’s just not the one
To paint my world a lighter blue
And continue what’s begun

Cash to ashes, rust to dust
Go for broke and end up bust
The devil drives, where needing must
Dream of love, and fall in lust

I was happy with the crumbs from her table
With no dough of my own
But lately I’ve been begging for Mercy
Only Mercy doesn’t want to know

Cash to ashes, rust to dust
Go for broke and end up bust
The devil drives, where needing must
Dream of love, and fall in lust

OR:

Words and music by David Harley.

Still needing work, but now with a fuller guitar accompaniment, and an instrumental improvisation that may find its way into the final version. (But only if I decide to speed up the song.)

There are many stories about Wild Eadric or Edric, his defiance toward the Norman invaders and eventual capitulation (seemingly historical fact); his marriage to a fairy princess; his imprisonment in the Shropshire Hills, emerging when England is in peril, and his association with the Wild Hunt. The Devil has long been associated with Shropshire, too, the Devil’s Chair being a rock formation on the Stiperstones.

The lyric arose from a sour conviction that in the 21st century we are in as much danger from the misdeeds of politicians and oligarchs, the rise of social media misinformation, and a badly broken electoral system, as we are from dictators in other countries. Like the witches and demons who select their king before the Devil’s Chair on the longest night of the year, it sometimes seems we are only allowed bad electoral choices.

The words have changed slightly since the original recording, as I wanted to make them less UK-centric. I’d like to think that in an age of incoming global catastrophe (and I don’t only mean Trump’s promise to abolish voting), Aedric’s remit might have widened.

In stately halls the dreams are bought and sold
The promises will melt like fairy gold,
While high up there among the Shropshire Hills
Wild Eadric sleeps, his bride beside him still:
Satan sits upon his midnight throne
In judgement on their archaic flesh and bone

The spirits summoned to the Devil’s Chair
Elect their leaders for the coming years.
The Devil surely looks on with a grin
As we condone the enemies within:
The conmen and their masters far and near,
Still feed upon our misery and fear.

Where is the Wild Hunt now? What will it take
To rid this world of devilry and hate?

The song:

or:

 

The improvisation:

or:

Words and music by David Harley.

Now with a basic guitar accompaniment. (The eventual version will be more ambitious, but needs work.)

There are many stories about Wild Eadric or Edric, his defiance toward the Norman invaders and eventual capitulation (seemingly historical fact); his marriage to a fairy princess; his imprisonment in the Shropshire Hills, emerging when England is in peril, and his association with the Wild Hunt. The Devil has long been associated with Shropshire, too, the Devil’s Chair being a rock formation on the Stiperstones.

The lyric arose from a sour conviction that in the 21st century we are in as much danger from the misdeeds of politicians and oligarchs, the rise of social media misinformation, and a badly broken electoral system, as we are from dictators in other countries. Like the witches and demons who select their king before the Devil’s Chair on the longest night of the year, it sometimes seems we are only allowed bad electoral choices.

The words have changed slightly since the original recording, as I wanted to make them less UK-centric. I’d like to think that in an age of incoming global catastrophe (and I don’t only mean Trump’s promise to abolish voting), Aedric’s remit might have widened.

In stately halls the dreams are bought and sold
The promises will melt like fairy gold,
While high up there among the Shropshire Hills
Wild Eadric sleeps, his bride beside him still:
Satan sits upon his midnight throne
In judgement on their archaic flesh and bone

The spirits summoned to the Devil’s Chair
Elect their leaders for the coming years.
The Devil surely looks on with a grin
As we condone the enemies within:
The conmen and their masters far and near,
Still feed upon our misery and fear.

Where is the Wild Hunt now? What will it take
To rid this world of devilry and hate?

or: