Being British is a strange old game,
we moan about weather, then stand in the rain.
We’ll say “not bad” when life’s gone to shit,
put kettle on and just deal with it.
Because that’s Britain.
We wake up shattered, alarm going mad,
look at the weather and instantly sad.
Grey in July, fucking freezing in May,
then thirty degrees for one bastard day.
Everyone panics, buys fans from B&M,
Tesco sells out of ice by half past ten.
Sweating our bollocks off, losing the plot,
two days later…
“Bit chilly, innit?”
We love a queue, it’s basically law,
jump in front and you’re starting a war.
Nobody speaks, we just stare at your head,
quietly wishing that you’d drop down dead.
We say “sorry” when you walk into us,
then once you’ve gone we’ll call you a cunt.
We’re civilised people, we don’t make a scene,
we just slag you off when you’re out of earshot.
We’re British as fuck, that’s how it goes,
shorts when it’s freezing, red fucking nose.
Tea when we’re happy, tea when we’re stressed,
tea when the whole fucking country’s depressed.
We take the piss, but we mean no harm,
unless you touch someone’s pint at the bar.
We’ll moan all week, then laugh about it,
you’re fucked…
but you’re funny about it.
We’ve all got a drawer full of bags inside bags,
dead phone chargers and random price tags.
Batteries from somewhere around 2008,
but throwing them out?
Nah mate.
Might need them.
One good mug nobody else can use,
one shit frying pan we refuse to lose.
A biscuit tin containing no fucking biscuits,
just needles, receipts and elastic.
Sunday roast turns families feral,
gravy becomes something almost imperial.
“Who’s having last Yorkshire?”
Nobody speaks.
Nan’s ready to fight Grandad for keeps.
And roast potatoes?
Don’t fuck about.
If there’s only three each,
someone’s getting called out.
Going to the pub is never “just one”,
that lie’s fucked up every Sunday begun.
You leave at five for a quick little pint,
next thing it’s midnight and Gaz has lost sight.
Some bloke’s your best mate, you don’t know his name,
you’ve fixed world politics and football’s whole game.
Hugging the toilet, promising God,
“I’m never drinking again”
Bollocks.
Friday comes round,
we’re back on the job.
Six quid for lager, complain at the price,
then order another without thinking twice.
Say “cheers mate” even when service was shit,
because causing a scene?
Fuck that.
Unless someone slags off your local takeaway,
then suddenly Britain’s going to war anyway.
We’re British as fuck, miserable pride,
umbrella breaks once, gets launched to the side.
Tea when we’re skint, tea when we’re flush,
tea when somebody says,
“Can we have a quick chat?”
Oh fuck.
We take the piss, it’s basically care,
if your mates are polite then something’s not fair.
If Dave calls you handsome, check if he’s ill,
if he calls you a bellend…
he loves you still.
British small talk is weather and pain,
“Cold one today.”
“Yep, looks like rain.”
That’s friendship sorted, conversation complete,
we’ll nod again next Thursday across the street.
And goodbye on the phone takes half of your life,
“Right then”
“Right”
“Anyway”
“Nice one”
“I’ll let you go”
“Yeah, you too”
“Take care”
“Bye”
“Bye”
“You still there?”
“Yeah mate”
“For fuck’s sake”
Every British dad guards heating with pride,
thermostat watched like the Crown Jewels inside.
“Who’s touched this?”
Nobody moves.
“That heating costs money!”
Yeah Dad.
We fucking knew.
He falls asleep snoring, remote in his hand,
you change the channel and suddenly…
“Hang on, man!
I was watching that!”
Course you fucking were.
But under the moaning, the swearing and jokes,
there’s something decent about British folk.
We’re shit with feelings, awkward with praise,
but we show up quietly in proper ways.
Won’t say “I love you” every day,
we’ll call you a knobhead then help anyway.
Bring shopping round when life gets rough,
then say “it’s nowt” because feelings are tough.
We laugh at disaster,
take piss out of pain,
have barbecues standing outside in the rain.
Lose on penalties, swear we’re done,
four years later…
“IT’S FUCKING COMING HOME, SON!”
We’re British as fuck, battered but proud,
quiet in lifts but in pubs fucking loud.
We’ve mastered pretending everything’s fine,
while internally screaming and waiting in line.
Tea when it’s chaos, tea when it’s calm,
tea could probably prevent national harm.
We’ll call life shit then crack a good joke,
because somehow that’s how we bloody well cope.
Sarcastic, stubborn, emotionally blocked,
we say “could be worse” when everything’s fucked.
Give us a kettle, biscuits and wit…
We’ll survive anything.
While complaining about it.