The kids of today wouldn’t last round our way,
growing up in old Hull on a wet Saturday.
No WiFi, no Uber, no tracking your phone,
just your mam shouting, “Tea!” and hoping you’d come home.
We had white phone boxes nobody else had,
usually freezing, stinking, or smashed up by some lad.
You’d ring home collect and shout your name fast,
before the operator charged you and your two pence had passed.
We lived down the tenfoot, climbed garages for fun,
got chased by a bloke because his greenhouse got done.
A football hit windows, then everyone fled,
leaving the slowest little bastard to carry the blame instead.
Your bike had one pedal, the brakes didn’t exist,
the handlebars turned but the wheel somehow missed.
No helmet or kneepads, just skin left on roads,
and a carrier bag tied round your seat carrying loads.
Hull Fair came round and robbed every last quid,
while your mam said, “Those rides aren’t safe for a kid.”
We still climbed straight on some rusty machine,
built by a bloke smoking fags while tightening it with his knee.
We ate pattie and chips with enough spice to choke,
then argued with outsiders who thought patties were a joke.
No, it’s not bloody fishcake, don’t start that debate,
you’ll get launched off the Humber Bridge at this rate.
East Park in summer was basically Spain,
until five minutes later it pissed down with rain.
We’d sit by the lake with an ice cream in hand,
while a goose nicked your dinner and chased your mam.
Boothferry Park had us dreaming out loud,
wooden seats, muddy pitch and a proper rough crowd.
City might lose, but we’d still proudly sing,
because blind optimism was a Hull childhood thing.
Then rugby divided your whole family tree,
FC or Rovers, choose carefully.
Red and white, black and white, friendships were tested,
Christmas dinner depended on who got arrested.
Bransholme, Orchard Park, Bev Road at night,
every estate had a kid who claimed they could fight.
Every street had a hard lad, feared near and far,
until his mam leaned outside and shouted, “Get in the car!”
We had Hull Daily Mail stuffed through the door,
with someone you knew on page three or four.
Usually smiling for charity, football or school,
or appearing in court for behaving a fool.
The Humber wind cut through your coat and your vest,
it entered your bones then set up a nest.
You’d walk into town with your hair looking smart,
arrive looking like you’d been dragged by a cart.
But we knew every shortcut, each tenfoot and street,
which shops sold single fags and the cheapest sweets.
We knew which doors had a scary big dog,
and which older lad would buy you cheap cider and grog.
We weren’t online filming each stupid mistake,
thank Christ, because the evidence trail would be great.
No cloud storing proof of the daft shit we did,
just rumours, bad memories and one grassing kid.
Growing up Hull wasn’t polished or pretty,
it smelled like the docks and took pride in the city.
We got soaked, got chased, got grounded, got told,
but somehow those rough days still feel like gold.
The kids now have everything straight in their hand,
but only old Hull kids will truly understand.
We had fuck all, bad weather, and streets painted grey,
but give us a bike and we’d vanish all day.