'Twas the fortnight before Christmas, when on Little Green Street
No developer stirred, nor contractors meet;
Submissions all sent to the Council with care,
In hope that good sense and kind reason were there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of big trucks danced in their heads;
And folks in their cottages, designer ‘omes too
Had just settled down for a long winter's snooze,

When on Highgate Road there arose such a clatter,
We all sprang from our beds to see what was the matter.
Away to the window we flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But a bloody great dump truck, and eight men with picks,
With a little old architect, so lively and swell,
I knew in a moment it must be Patel.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Euro! Investments! Now! Highways! Come here! Now! Planning! Environment! Housing! All here!”

We called back "On, Camden! New Journal! Gazette! Ham & High! On radio, TV, online, in the sky!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
When they meet with an obstacle, we blog it on high,
No chance could he dig up his car park so foul

Fill trucks full of spoil, and the railway club, too.
So he sprang to his Merc, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

Did I hear him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night?"

Thought not.