Why they got tellies in pubs?
Keep us munched on second-hand grub
Second-hand tales, I'm fired up
Two pints for a fiver, drunk
Watch me: am I a tortoise or a cuddly bear?
When life isn't anything 'til you start drinkin' there
No truce, just a selection of memories in bars you knew
I'm glad I was born when I was
I get to see the Right once again look like nobs
Like what? It's not hard is it, you token jock
Freeze-wrap, nine for a quid in Bejams, the lot
Royal Dutch lines
You fat bastard
You English climes
You fat bastards
You fat bastards
You fat bastards
You fat bastards
Carlton touts
The angel of the midlands has flown away
Probably south
You can't blame her
When the future is a flag pissed on
And a king-sized bag of quavers
Carlton touts
The angel of the midlands has flown away
Probably south
You can't blame her
When the future is a flag pissed on
And a king-sized bag of quavers
I stroke a roll-up outside
Tryin' to put a memory to the face that has just said "hi"
Clouds are low, like the general mood
Tempers cookin' up from the inside
We are the microwave food
I'm not in the mood
The Labour Party is a three-quid tube of vending machine smarties
At the airport, where check-in could be check-out
What the fuck is happening'?
Bring back the neolibs, I'm sorry
Didn't fuckin' mean to pray for anarchy
They're all gaggin' for a bit o' fame
So course they're fuckin' off
You don't become a toff by going against the toff
Where's the anti-toff?
We ain't got none
Have you recognized the needle in your own arm, cunt?
I have, but so what?
You can't beam me up, I'm not Captain Spock
You can't sell me stuff on the rotten rot
I've got a store-card, bastard
On this month Top Shop
Carlton touts
The angel of the midlands has flown away
Probably south
You can't blame her
When the future is a flag pissed on
And a king-sized bag of quavers
Carlton touts
The angel of the midlands has flown away
Probably south
You can't blame her
When the future is a flag pissed on
And a king-sized bag of quavers