MUSIC BUILT FROM REAL LIFE
Original words, Northern grit and sixty second previews before you choose where to listen.
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Right, apparently Britain needed part two,
because there’s loads more stupid shit we do.
We covered the weather, the tea and the queue,
but somehow that barely scratched through.
So what else makes us British?
First sunny day and the nation goes mad,
fourteen degrees and shirts off with Dad.
Some bloke called Kev with a gut like a drum,
socks, sliders, Stella and half burnt bum.
Barbecue dragged from the shed full of rust,
Dad says, “Give it a clean”
Then blows off the dust.
Sausages black but the chicken looks raw,
“Just eat round pink bit”
What fucking for?
Neighbours smell smoke and appear at the gate,
people you’ve not spoken to since 2008.
“You having a barbecue?”
Nah mate.
House is on fire.
Want a burger?
We’re Proper British, here comes part two,
more stupid bollocks we somehow all do.
We’re awkward as fuck but consider it class,
say “excuse me” politely then call you an arse.
We’re tight when we’re skint, tight when we’re rich,
keep broken shit because “might need that switch.”
We’re strange little bastards, but here’s the best bit,
Britain would be boring if we weren’t full of shit.
Every house has the legendary chair,
you know the one, no fucker can sit there.
Jeans from Monday, hoodie from June,
clean washing that’ll be put away…
soon.
There’s a kitchen drawer that barely shuts,
batteries, old menus and random nuts.
Six Allen keys, string and Blu Tack,
plus one mystery key nobody dares fucking sack.
“What’s that key for?”
“No idea”
“Bin it?”
Are you fucking mental?
That could be important.
Then there’s Aldi.
You went in for bread,
came out twenty minutes later financially dead.
Milk, eggs, ham, bananas and cheese,
plus welding gloves and some skis.
Never skied once.
Doesn’t fucking matter.
They were £7.99.
Self checkout starts accusing you again,
“Unexpected item in bagging area”
It’s a fucking cucumber, mate.
Calm down.
Then staff come over with that suspicious face,
like Interpol finally cracked the case.
Press one button, machine works fine.
Cheers.
Made me look a cunt in front of queue nine.
We’re Proper British, here comes part two,
more stupid bollocks we somehow all do.
We say “you alright?” while walking away,
because please don’t actually tell me about your day.
“That’s interesting” means something is shit,
“with all due respect” means you’re a prick.
And “I’ll bear that in mind” means one thing, my friend…
I’m ignoring everything you said till the end.
Unexpected knock at the front fucking door.
Everyone freezes.
“Who’s that?”
“Dunno”
“Well fucking look!”
Curtain moves half a millimetre,
suddenly Dad’s working for MI5.
“Can you see them?”
“No”
“Can they see you?”
“SHUT UP!”
Dog’s going mental, telly turned low,
all because someone knocked twenty seconds ago.
Turns out it’s Evri.
Parcel delivered.
Apparently.
Photo shows a wheelie bin somewhere in Britain.
Brilliant.
It’s fucking GeoGuessr with my new trainers.
British driving deserves medical research,
one missed thank you and we’re ready to burst.
You let someone through.
No wave.
Nothing.
Instantly…
“YOU’RE FUCKING WELCOME!”
They can’t hear you.
Windows are shut.
But justice has been served.
Then someone’s doing thirty in a sixty,
“Come on Grandad!”
Finally get past, look across…
little old woman gripping the wheel.
“Oh bless her”
Still could’ve fucking sped up though.
And parking?
Someone parks slightly over the line,
we don’t confront them.
Fuck no.
Photo straight to family WhatsApp.
“Look at this cunt”
And we’re fucking terrible at compliments.
“You look nice”
“What do you want?”
“I like your haircut”
“Fuck off, what’s wrong with it?”
Tell your mate you love him,
he’ll think you’re dying.
So instead we say,
“You’re alright, you knobhead”
And somehow…
that means more.
Because Britain isn’t normal.
Never has been.
We’ve got village fêtes,
meal deals,
car boot sales,
pub carpets older than civilisation,
and people pressing crossing buttons
fifteen fucking times.
It heard you first time, mate.
We’re Proper British, part fucking two,
still doing bollocks we swear everyone does too.
We apologise when someone stands on OUR feet,
then spend ten minutes calling them a prick.
Fix anything broken with tape and a swear,
keep Christmas tubs because they’re “useful somewhere”
Life gets expensive, stressful and shit,
so we laugh at ourselves and take piss out of it.
Remember…
“Not bad” means good.
“Could be worse” means fucking awful.
“I’ll think about it” means no.
“I’ll see what I’m doing” means absolutely not.
And…
“We should definitely meet up soon”
We both know we’re never arranging that.
Right.
I’ll let you go.
Bye.
Why are you still fucking here?