Editor’s View: The Merry Ballad of the Batters Report
© David Simonds This week I wrapped tinsel around my keyboard, ate four mince pies and summoned my most festive spirit to deliver an editorial of seasonal verse.
In tribute to this month’s longest-running story, I present my take on the classic Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Watch the video version or read the text below.
See also: Batters’ Farm Profitability Review finally published
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the farm,
Not a creature was stirring, a picture of calm.
The yard was as clean as I’d seen it for months,
And even the Kelpie was quiet for once.
The cows in the stalls were snugly asleep,
Not one single gadget was giving a bleep.
And Bess in her overalls and I in my wellies
Were just heading in for some port in our bellies.
When over Top Field we heard six-cylinders roar,
The turbos were howling, they were going full bore.
“More protests?” said Bess, “Against that IHT crap?”
“Hardly,” says I, “they’ll have presents to wrap.”
The stars in the night sky had shone with a gleam,
But went dim against headlights set to full beam.
Going faster and faster, coming our way,
“Wow!” said the wife. “Tractors pulling a sleigh!”
But who was that lady cracking the whip,
And holding the reins with a very tight grip?
She carried a sack labelled profitability,
And her cape marked her out as being nobility.
“Now Reynolds, now Eagle, now Hardy, now Creagh,
On Starmer, on Reeves, don’t spoil my day!
Whitehall’s buried my findings, it just isn’t right,
So I’ll deliver a copy to every farmer tonight!”
She plucked from her sack two volumes stout,
And flung them towards us with a grin and a shout.
“Here’s what the rotters don’t want you to read,
Now I can’t stop to talk, I must depart here with speed.
“There’s beef farmers near Burford who are nearly asleep,
A shepherd in Shap with 28 breeds of sheep,
And I know the arable job’s on its knees,
But plenty have still crossed the Channel with skis.
“There’s down-country dwellers and those in a bothy,
And even Tom Bradshaw has not seen a copy.
There’ll be one by morning in front of each Aga,
A century from now they’ll still be telling this saga.”
Without further ado she revved to the max,
Till the Deere at the front looked fit to collapse.
The clear night air turned almost to blue,
And in the blink of an eye she’d have been out of view.
When Bess summoned a shout in a voice for the ages,
“Stop Baroness, we have no need for these pages.
There’s been a development earlier today,
Perhaps it occurred while you loaded the sleigh.”
Minette (for twas her) eyed us in confusion,
Said she: “This better not be some Labour collusion.”
“My wife is a saint,” says I, “please don’t blame her,
She’s never met Morgan McSweeney or Rayner.”
“It’s actually glad tidings,” said Bess bowing meekly.
“We saw the report published in Farmers Weekly.
They’re best for a feature and break all the big news,
And I occasionally agree with the editor’s views.
“So whether it’s the podcast, event, magazine or app,
They’ve got you covered with content free of crap.
Now come inside for a port, you’re looking half-frozen,
And we’ll tell you about the subscription we’ve chosen.”
And so that was the end of the big Batters trip,
But no doubt this issue she’ll continue to grip.
And I heard her exclaim as she came through the front door,
“Happy Christmas to all and here’s to many more!”
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