MUSIC BUILT FROM REAL LIFE
Original words, Northern grit and sixty second previews before you choose where to listen.
Ready to preview
We drank from hoses, climbed dodgy trees,
rode bikes down hills with bloodied knees.
No helmets, pads or parental guide,
just “bet you can’t”…
then nearly fucking died.
Kerby for hours in middle of roads,
dodging Ford Escorts carrying shopping loads.
Knock off ginger was Olympic sport,
till some angry bloke chased us halfway to court.
White dog shit was part of the view,
nobody questioned why it was fucking white too.
We came home bleeding, covered in muck,
Mum said “what happened?”
“Dunno”
GOOD LUCK.
WE WERE RAISED BEFORE WIFI,
AND SOMEHOW WE’RE ALIVE!
A childhood full of stupid shit
that kids today wouldn’t survive.
No apps, no maps,
no fucking GPS.
Twenty pence, a BMX,
and “DON’T COME BACK A MESS!”
Friday night, Blockbuster, choosing a tape,
forty minutes arguing what we should take.
Then some bastard hadn’t rewound the thing…
Straight to prison.
Fuck forgiving.
The Argos catalogue was our Amazon Prime,
circling Christmas presents one at a time.
Page folded over, biro round ten,
knowing full well Mum had said…
“YOU’RE NOT GETTING THEM”
Woolworths pick and mix, tactical raid,
four sweets weighed, thirty somehow unpaid.
Don’t act shocked, Britain knows it’s true,
half our childhood crime was nicking a chew.
Four telly channels.
FOUR.
And we coped.
If nothing was on,
you went outside.
Imagine that, folks.
Fun House, Gladiators, ChuckleVision too,
“TO ME!”
“TO YOU!”
Top of the Pops, finger ready on record,
DJ talks through the intro…
YOU ABSOLUTE BELLEND!
Cassette gets chewed, pencil goes in,
ten minutes winding the bastard again.
Kids see that now and call it bizarre,
we performed minor surgery
on Now That’s What I Call Music in the car.
WE WERE RAISED BEFORE WIFI,
when boredom made you brave.
We built bike ramps out of rotten wood
then launched at the pavement.
No tutorials.
No safety checks.
No adult standing near.
Just one mate shouting…
“GO ON THEN!”
And six little dickheads cheer.
School was survival, let’s tell it straight,
forgot your PE kit?
“PANTS AND VEST, MATE.”
Plimsolls so thin you could feel each stone,
cross country running while frozen to bone.
Then teacher wheeled the big telly through…
OOOOOOOOHHHHHH!
Nobody cared what lesson we’d do.
Video day meant education was dead,
stick Pingu on,
we’re fucking set.
Pink custard, sponge and mystery meat,
chips somehow counted as vegetables to eat.
Turkey dinosaurs, beans on trays,
Jamie Oliver would’ve fucking fainted for days.
Pogs in pockets, Tamagotchi dead,
forgot to feed it, little bastard’s gone to bed.
Pokémon cards ruled playground law,
one shiny Charizard and you owned year four.
Nokia three three one zero, absolute tank,
dropped down stairs and the staircase cracked.
Snake was gaming, pixels on screen,
and we played that shit like eSports kings.
Dial up screamed from under the stairs…
EEEE AAAAA KRRRRR PSSSSHHHH!
Then Mum picked up the phone upstairs.
“GET OFF THE INTERNET!”
MSN romance…
fucking finished.
Ten pence Freddos!
Panda Pops!
Space Raiders by the stack!
Sunny Delight so fucking orange
it probably glowed out your back.
Kappa poppers!
Shell suits!
Tracksuits tucked in socks!
Copied PlayStation games
from somebody’s uncle Dave in a box.
Privacy didn’t exist.
One family computer.
In the living room.
With your mum behind you.
Trying to flirt on MSN
while she’s folding towels.
Absolutely fucking traumatising.
WE WERE RAISED BEFORE WIFI,
when childhood was insane.
We got chased by dogs, fell out of trees,
then went and did it all again.
No group chats.
No Snap Maps.
No “share your location, mate”
If your mate vanished for six hours…
you assumed he’d be back by eight.
We had scraped knees, VHS,
dial up tones and bikes with pegs.
We blew inside PlayStation discs
like that somehow fixed the fucking thing.
And if the telly lost its picture,
Dad knew exactly what to do…
SMACK THE SIDE OF THE BASTARD.
Picture’s back.
BE HOME WHEN THE STREET LIGHTS COME ON!