Bleak cheap interview
Pool cue fancy pants
Chic Bates apricot
Short term sweat
Hamstring monument
Shark shit welterweight
Topsoil Chapterhouse
Christ-like mince

Four Skinny Indie Kids
Four Skinny Indie Kids
Drinking weak lager in a Camden boozer

And in the corridors of fear I would shed a lonely tear
And ridicule flew at me from both sides
And they mocked me in my mocks and embroidered in my socks
The bastard son of Dean Friedman

Unemployment’s rising in the Chigley end of town
It’s spreading like pneumonia
Doesn’t look like going down
There’s trouble at the fire station someone’s had the sack
And the lads are going to launch a scheme to get rid of Captain Flack

The wonderful dexterity of Hannu Mikkola
Makes me want to shake hands with the whole of Finland
But the horrible sincerity of Miriam Stoppard
Makes me want to go out and commit mass murder

I said “Let’s head Winchester way”, she said “Been yesterday”
Twenty-seven yards of dental floss, and she still won’t give me a smile

Cos even men with steel hearts love to see a dog on the pitch
Even men with steel hearts love to see a dog on the pitch
It generates a warmth around the ground that augurs well for mankind
And that’s what life’s about

All tickets sold, I head for the wardrobe
St John or ShowSec, which is it to be?
I’ve got a triple-A dangling from my lanyard
Wimbledon and WOMAD, Ryder Cup and V

(I don’t pay) I am the King of Hi-Vis
(Walk on through) Powered by bright waistcoats and bibs

Indicate then you stupid bastard
How was I supposed to know
That you intended to go left
I’m not a mind reader

You shall be cast away into the fiery pit
And in the fiery pit there are
Eternal sleeping policemen

Let’s trash
The murder mystery weekend
Lets stage a couldn’t-give-a-thon
Summertime’s here
And I’ve got no hassle
I could be a goth
On a bouncy castle
Wouldn’t it be nice
To call off the barn dance?
Wouldn’t it be nice
To sabotage the
hot pot supper?

The three men I admire most
The Father, Son and Mickie Most
Took the last train for the coast
And rendezvoused with Peter Glaze
To kill Don Maclean

If I had agoraphobia
And if I had claustrophobia
Trapped inside my porch
Things would be bleak
Especially midweek

Shite Day
My birthday! On National Shite Day
No bogroll, it’s National Shite Day
Cue drumroll, it’s National Shite Day