Episode 4:
Song: Say No
Say no, say no
No immigration, border is closed
No, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no-o
No immigration, border is closed
No more soft touch from Great Britain
No immigration, border is closed
We’ll send you back to your Calais slums
No immigration, border is closed
What Mr Bureaucrat, Brussels won’t allow it?
We don’t care and border is closed
What Mr Bureaucrat, refugees are dying?
Not our problem, border is closed
No Afghan, Albanian, Angolan bunch
No immigration, border is closed
No Indian, Iranian, Iceland bunch
No immigration, border is closed
Say no, say no
No immigration, border is closed
No, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no-o
No immigration, border is closed
We’ll be the masters of our own invention
No immigration, border is closed
A brighter future is our intention
No immigration, border is closed
No Maltese, Mexican, Moldovan bunch
No immigration, border is closed
No Serbian, Slovak, Spaniard bunch
No immigration, border is closed
Say no, say no
No immigration, border is closed
No, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no-o
No immigration, border is closed
What Mr Bureaucrat, Brussels won’t allow it?
We don’t care and border is closed
What Mr Bureaucrat, refugees are dying?
Not our problem, border is closed
Say no, say no
No immigration, border is closed
No, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no, me say no-o
No immigration, border is closed
The former recording studio – now the communications bull pen for the United Liberation Party – fell silent. In the far corner, where the small glass mixing booth used to be, stood three oddly dressed young performers. The lead singer sported a floor length grass hula skirt, coconut bikini top and what appeared to be a tropical fruit plate on her ash-blonde head. Her backing musicians were adorned in mini hula skirts, obscenely tiny coconut bikini tops and Cleopatra-style headdresses. Fruit hat played guitar, her backing singers a drum and tambourines.
“Oh bravo!” yelled Ra’Basche, steaming over to the trio and giving each of the girls a lingering hug. “Sam… photos, quick.” Distracted by the horror show unfolding in front of her, Sam pulled a camera out before she knew what she was doing. After taking fifteen quick shots, of which five showed Ra’Basche staring inappropriately coconut-wards, she made a mental note to destroy the camera’s memory card at the earliest opportunity. Just to be on the safe side.
“Erm… that’s not quite the message we were going for was it?” chirped up Chris, who for the past five minutes had been steadfastly repressing the urge to leap up on to the conference table and make his true feelings known via the medium of crass language and insane dancing. “It’s a bit, well… borderline racist, don’t you think?”
“What happened to the ideas we brainstormed?”
“The song we wrote… the traditional song. The one that lampooned our opponents and trumpeted our strengths?”
“Daniel and I thought it needed more oooomph, Chris,” parried Ra’Basche, before turning his attention back to coconuts. “Girls, you must be freezing. Why don’t you get changed, then we can go to lunch and talk about the launch.”
As the girls shuffled out of the room, Sam, whose shock had by now turned to seethe, composed herself for the coming battle, “But this was meant to go hand in hand with your election campaign.”
“Daniel thought, and I agree, that it was all a bit time sensitive. Nobody’s going to remember unpaid tax bills come 2015. We need a bold, fresh anthem that can be trotted out at rallies for the next six months.”
“This will be our ‘Things Can Only Get Better’.”
Daniel Morrison, strategist-cum-campaign manager extraordinaire had spent the last six weeks in the States overseeing a number of Senate races, and ensuring that the Republicans were going to give Obama a damn good thrashing for the final two years of his tenure. Sam and Chris strongly suspected that, despite stupendous success over the water, his knowledge of British politics was severely lacking.
Taking a deep breath, Sam launched her rebuttal. “He’s mangled five different cultures. The girls are white, and they’re singing in West Indian accents… whilst wearing fruit. No political party could think this was a good idea. Throw in a bucket of fried chicken and we’ve got a racism bingo.”
“That’s the point Sam. It’s satirising political correctness. It’s a good old-fashioned skit and our supporters are going to love it. It’s not racist, it’s taking a stand for all the things that make Britain great, like humour, diversity and coming together. We’re making a very serious point. Immigration must be restricted… and I know you agree with me. This shows people just how unafraid we are to say it. Political correctness kills free speech. This song sets us free.”
And with that, the party leader turned on his heels and went to lunch.
“Sets us free?”
Chris had never seen Sam turn this colour before. Not quite purple, but well on the way.
“Didn’t you just spend two days ranting about 50,000 immigrants who, only this year, have disappeared into the wind after we said they couldn’t stay?”
“You’re defending this?”
“Not the execution… but maybe the principle. Do you really think we’re a racist party?”
Before Sam could give his point some serious consideration, Ra’Basche returned in a blaze of freshly applied aftershave.
“Here,” he said, turning over a slim manila folder, “Daniel put together a rough sketch for the video shoot. We’ll go through it after lunch. Remember, this song sets us free.”
In a flash of brilliant red, a huge curtain slowly parts to reveal a vast empty stage. The sound of a lone maraca gently starts up. In unison a pineapple drops down from above and bounces softly on the dark wooden boards. As the maraca speeds up, a rainbow of tropical fruit pours down on top of it. The pile grows bigger and bigger, filling the floor, until it begins to rise up towards the ceiling.
A drum and tambourine begin to pound in time to the distinctive rattle… and three powerful volcanoes of fruit rise up from the pile and begin to sway to the rhythm. The percussive beat reaches a crescendo, the juicy peaks begin to hum and fizz, then with an eruption of mouth-watering flavour, explode to reveal three white musicians resplendent in coconut bikinis, grass hula skirts and giant fruit hats. Then silence…
The performers stand centre stage, still, heads lolling to one side. Holding, holding, holding… before raising themselves up straight and staring intently at the camera. In an instant they glance down as one and a soft rhythmic whirring strikes up. In front of them a gigantic fruity sinkhole appears. Watermelons, papaya and pineapples pour in, and the maraca rattle resumes with purpose as Harry Ra’Basche slowly rises up from the hole; chest puffed, be-suited and looking distinctly regal. Fully emerged, he gazes deep into the camera, takes two steps, opens his mouth and cries, “Nooooooooooo-ooooooooh!”
Song: Swears That He’s Not a Racist
Swears that he’s not a racist
Often he’s quick to protest
Is he a racist? Sometimes I just can’t tell
And it makes me rather stressed
They call him sexist, when he’s being playful
He’s often so misunderstood
He’s been labelled a dullard
A dolt and a drunkard
But the boy behind blue eyes his heart is good
And he swears that he’s not a racist
By saving British neighbourhoods
And some of the people we’ll be turning back
Are full of Anglo-Saxon blood
I think I overreacted
I just got distracted
I’ll judge him on things I know are true
I’m sorry I doubted
Got angry and shouted
(He) can’t be a racist, or I’d be one too
Definitely not a racist
A shame he has to protest
He’s not a racist, in fact he’s quite a guy
Leader, Leader… Leader, you’re the best
I’m feeling blessed
Leader you’re the best
Riding on your crest
Leader you’re the best
I’m with your quest
Leader you’re the best
I’m feeling blessed
Leader, you’re the best
Join his quest
Leader, you’re the best
You’ll feel blessed
Leader, you’re the best
Riding on his crest
When you join his quest
First published on Searchlight Magazine Arts…
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