The Fat Boy and the Olympics
A Ballad

There's a fat boy in the papers,
Eight years old and fourteen stone.
He lives on chips and Yorkshire puds,
And he knows how to moan.

His mother's on the tablets
And his Nana is depressed.
They say he has to gorge himself
Or he's liable to get stressed.

The experts offer vegetables;
The fat boy shouts,”No good!”
And throws an epic wobbly
Until he gets his pud.

An important Minister puts on
His face of grave concern.
He cries, “We'll fight obesity!”
In tones extremely stern.

He tells his civil servants,
“Find out the causes, please.”
In time his underlings report:
“The causes, sir, are these:

“Junk food, and dim parents,
And the lack of playing spaces.
And children's fear of walking
Past the gangs in public places.”

On hearing this, the minister groaned,
As though upon the rack:
“To tackle those needs cash and nerve -
The both of which I lack.”

“Is there no cheaper option
To which we can resort?
“Yes,” says a man in a lovely suit.
“Put money into sport.

“Show you're on the side of fitness;
Avoid the taint that shames.
For a measly couple of billion quid
You can host the Olympic Games.”

Oh how contractors laughed and sang
When the government took that bait!
In boardrooms up and down the land
The merriment was great.

When the first cash was invested,
That's when the fun began,
For the budgets bubbled over,
And the schedules over-ran.

Oh the fat boy in the papers
Thought he could guzzle and moan,
But the men who ran the Olympics
Were in a class of their own.

Their budget soon quadrupled
(Not including V.A.T.)
“Give us more!” cried the man in the lovely suit,
"Or we'll fail disgracefully!”

They raided the lottery charities
And ate all the culture budget.
“But it's so worthwhile,” said the man in the suit,
“I'm sure no one could grudge it.”

All the fine contractors
Made millions of lovely cash,
And the fat boy stuffed his face as he watched
The hundred-metre dash.

The Games were a lively fortnight
But soon they were forgotten.
The fat boy got much fatter,
And England got more rotten.

There is now less money for public parks,
Or improving meals in schools,
And parents are no less stupid,
(Though their wheedling kids aren't fools.)

And cars clog every highway,
Polluting English air,
And children don't walk on the streets
Because they do not dare.

And the fat boy sprawls on his sofa,
(Which is now reinforced with steel)
And he still won't eat a vegetable,
But gobbles three pies each meal.

Still, the lovely chap in the lovely suit
Has now been made a knight,
And the Minister's been promoted,
So that's all right.
Last week among the NewsLite FactBites autozapped to my PodFone were these two headlines:

Huge Boy May be Taken into Care
Cost of Olympics Tops Nine Billion

I have combined both stories into one ballad.


Linda Sharon Crespi

If you've any comment on this poem, Linda Sharon Crespi would be pleased to hear from you.